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Eagle’s Nest

Freedom is the possibility of isolation. You are free if you can withdraw from people, not having to seek them out for the sake of money, company, love, glory or curiosity, none of which can thrive in silence and solitude. If you can’t live alone, you were born a slave.” Fernando Pessoa

 

My inspiration to create here is to intimately and emotionally share my poems, writings, experiences, insights, visual and textual drifts and tectonic motions, nomadic captures of space and frozen moments of time of my overheated initiation wanderings in solitude or fame, in sadness or glory, in love or detachment. Hence, I also wish to invite you to explore my dwellings and layered homeness thereto.

My first blog post draws on my journey to Santorini, because it deeply refers to my notion of freedom: in the heights of a volcanic rocks each morning brings taste of glory, rejuvenating oxygen, that tenderly opens and cherish my nose, makes me inhale the eternal Prana, as food for soul, the infinite grasp of the horizon, shifting beyond time and space, beyond any possible knowledge we might have; that is, purifying consciousness, deploying our inner self, nourishing the internal interzone dimension of mind: the liquid fire, the melting sky shapes, the burning sun, the blurred lines of the horizon, the hidden lights within the water.

In this place I felt the strength of the solitude and the freedom within, the powerful shimmering lights of the space I inhabit, the pureness of the inhalation at its best, the smooth tactile space, the vital palpitation and shining of Santorini blueness and whiteness.

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Santorini is fully one of those places that help you reconnect yourself with your inner self. A place where you find what you have lost on your way. Once you go there, you never be the same-kinda of a place. Its strong cosmic energy remain forever imprinted in your soul.

A morning rich with silence: for breakfast I consume local cherry tomato impregnated with volcanic minerals, fig pastry and fresh squeezed oranges from the Crete island, on a tiny little balcony from my hotel room opposite the caldera; I realize, therefore, I am all that, nothing and everything, space and time, nonce, I deploy myself within the space I dwell and smell. Moments of bliss and irradiating joy.

Here a poem I wrote in French, called:

FIRE OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN

Déterminer les directions des veines

au delà du déchirement

 Pâle

Digital

Liquide

C’est difficile

Une vibration du serpent

Frappée contre le mur de la chambre droite

à crier les sécrètes de la peau blanche

une haute race

une autre groupe sanguine

trace l’aveuglement inférieur

au degré de l’invasion virale

C’est dans ce crime

– commis à cause d’une mauvaise lecture des lignes

et des organes létales

(ou vitales – ) –

que Tu

Es

Venu

pour poser

la transversal

la voix

glaciale

sur ce carnaval

transcendantal.

 La révélation rebelle des fleurs

 Tendres

Fertiles

Carnivores

 

With love, truly yours,

Natasha

 

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The voice of the stone

Vortex of subtle sounds of words and words of sounds.

Vortex of sadness and danger. Whirlpool of sun and the impossibility to hold the sun.

Borders. Boundaries. Thresholds. Gates.

None of them is mine. None of them is me.

We struggle within ourselves. We struggle against the others.

All of our life we walk and walk relentlessly.

We often do not understand the lesson that has to be learnt.

Jerusalem. I was whipping. I was crying. For you.

My body ceased to be a body.

My soul overwhelmed me.

In the Holy Sepulchre I touched a stone.

It spoke to me.

Then, I become a river

floating beyond my course.  A river

in which my Father used to swim. As a child.

 

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Nataša Sardžoska, Attesa

Poetarum Silva

Nataša Sardžoska
Attesa

alla stazione Bellaterra al bar Bonaparte
ti aspetterò ogni giorno dalle 17 alle 19
dopo il nuoto
con un calice di vino
scavato dal vulcano della tua terra
e un dolce secco che nessuno ha comprato
senza tacchi senza trucco
senza ironia senza rimproveri
con i capelli ancora bagnati
sfidando il vento
sfidando il raffreddore
sfidando te

[da me ti porteranno le linee S2 e S6 che partono
dalla piazza Catalonia
collegata all’aeroporto El Prat
collegato a Fiumicino
con vari voli al giorno:
Roma e Barcellona sono davvero lontane]

in questa città ostile
non ho voglia degli ambienti letterari né di quei tangheri
né di connessioni wifi [tanto so che non ci sei]
sono una pianta e solo voglio respirare
sono un pesce in via d’estinzione
e solo voglio nuotare nell’acqua
sprofondare fino a non poter più
sopportare la pressione dell’aria:
l’aria che non respiri più tu

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MURO DE LOS LAMENTOS | Natasha Sardzoska

BAP

Natasha Sardzoska (1979) es una poeta, autora, intérprete y traductora (FR, ES, IT, EN, PT, CA) macedonia. Con un doctorado en antropología por las universidades Eberhard Karls de Tubinga, Sorbonne Nouvelle de Paris y de Bérgamo, Natasha ha publicado 5 libros de poesía: Habitación Azul, Piel, Él me haló con un hilo invisible, Agua viva y Coxis, muchos ensayos, novelas y cuentos. Su libro Piel está publicado en los Estados Unidos y en Italia. En el Festival de Poesía de Génova participó con una lectura en vivo, acompañada por jazz y body-painting. También leyó su poesía en el Modoars Festival for Contemporary Music. En el festival de Berlín participó improvisación de jazz y poesía. Participó también a los Festivales de poesía de Struga, Tel Aviv, Bratislava y Rijeka. Su poesía entreteje reminiscencias carnales y hace evidente un dolor interior, revelando al mismo tiempo una gran…

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Impregnated Space

There is a space within me. A space which is homeless. Borderless. A space which is mute. Cellular space. Conflicted space. It overwhelms me. It obsesses me. It disturbs me. It disrupts me. A space that I cannot hear but I can feel it. The cells are impregnated with memory that I cannot tell. I write poetry to tell. I write to give meaning to those spasmodic voids. I write to interconnect those spaces in my mind. The process is subtle. I cut off the detail, the microscopic fragment, the zero level of the knowing and I float. I shift in between the words. I reveal the subliminal drift. The tectonic motion of the word.

The chamber character of my poetry reflects that space that I have communicated with in distinguished fashion. But that space has no words. I had no words when experiencing that space. That space is absorbing spatial memory which is speechless. I give mouth and tongue to that space within my verses and that is the distorted, the bewildered, the unprecedented, the allusive experience. The poems become agents of traces that have accumulated my senses and sensations. A hotel room, an airport gate, a lobby, a train station, deserted port, marine bay, ground control, border crossing, empty restaurants, old-school bar, crowded streets, immense cities. A silenced space of corporal and sentimental memory.

There is nothing else I can do when I face the white page. I want to see myself inside. I want to tell the world to the world. I want to see. The white page is a mirror. I cannot lie. I cannot hide. I walk on the cadmium textile. I would not be able to write if I was not honest and sincere in my relation to that whiteness, to what I write. I write to calm my nerves. My mood shifts. My despairs. My desires. I write to fill in the abysses. I write to suffocate my abysses above which I levitate. I defy gravity. I write to save myself from choking. From burning out. From drowning. Writing poetry gives direction to my nervous contortion. In extreme conditions, often, I feel the urgent need to write as if there will be some emotional breakdowns in my inner room if I did not write.

What else can a poet do when (left) alone?

What else when anything else falls apart?

Which space can a poet dwell in?

Yet, I never defined myself as poet, for being a poet, writer consists only in the very action of writing. Only in that moment we give sense to that side of our existence. Outside that moment I execute other everyday dimensions or other dimensions of my ontological Being. In the process of (poetry) making I am cutting off the reality to produce another sensational reality. I translate the language. This language can be sometimes obsessive, exuberant, exaggerated or exhilarated, but sometimes it can be mute or even aphasic.

Writing poetry to me is like walking in a tunnel in which I lose myself in darkness to find myself in darkness. I face in my poetic experience a lyric subject and I dialogue with with You, or with Myself. I translate the erotic and the dramatic intercourse in lines of meta-corporal and meta-physical words. I break up with structures. I deconstruct the rhythm. I decompose feelings. I shred answers to the frictions inside myself. I compose images which are terrifying. I capture liminal zones, overheated or frozen moments of space. I close the text but still I leave it open. I tackle sensations that are rarely experienced (at the end of the poem) and I disturb.  I question the word, I analyze the word, I appeal the word. I tie it in a text.

Then, this text becomes living organism that I need to feed. A living resurrecting text which proceeds per inner nexus, per consequent analogical illuminations, synthetic aberrations, broken fragments, unreal details, sections, intersections, interconnectedness without any need or urge to give an explanation or a logical form.

I write poetry because I do not need to give explanations.

Those interconnections are implicit even though often rough, spasmodic and cruel for they reveal cellular wound. Therefore, I need to understand if the word is true or false, and then to enact the word in the nexus. Still, how I feel about it all is very strange: I never re-read what I write. I do not want to experience twice the same itinerary. I do not want to repeat myself.

The creation is very organic as littoral with broken coasts, stones and bays without any possible road or connection in between them.

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The meaning sometimes arises in the moment of the creation. But sometimes afterwards. It is shifting and slippery yet very assertive. I offer statements which exist in the nostalgia of the space. Space exists in the memory of an accomplished initiation. This is a process of a transfer, or rather translation, that I intimately enjoy, of abstract sensations and revelations and abstract and ungrammatical language into a palpable, tactile, real, grammatical language. The metaphorical nexus is gnostical or frather cognitive: I guide the reader to a journey and an encounter with the process. The purpose is to interconnect and to offer a meaning to the reader or together with the reader to myself. I want to touch the heart and this is why I write from the heart. It is the only axis and it is the place where I pivot. Yes, I pivot in the text.  I expose inner pain, draw on spiritual freshness, play with the body, depict the organs, build upon tactile brutality, push forward the emotional, reflect oddity and intertwin sensuality and reminiscence of the flesh. My poetic memory arises from an acute traumatic intercourse, with somewhat performative character, disarming the horror in this world, capturing the extreme dramaturgy inside the chamber space of the human existence.

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Cartografía del fuego | Natasha Sardzoska

BAP

Natasha Sardzoska (1979) es una poeta, autora, intérprete y traductora (FR, ES, IT, EN, PT, CA) macedonia. Con un doctorado en antropología por las universidades Eberhard Karls de Tubinga, Sorbonne Nouvelle de Paris y de Bérgamo, Natasha ha publicado 4 libros de poesía: Habitación Azul, Piel, Él me haló con un hilo invisible y Agua viva. En el Festival de Poesía de Génova participó con una lectura en vivo, acompañada por la cantante de jazz francesa Charlène Puyguiraud y el artista italiano de body-painting Cosimo Frezzolini. También leyó su poesía en el Modoars Festival for Contemporary Music, al lado de la soprano montenegrina Milica Dobaj y la soprano italian Rosalba Colosimo, junto a la pianista macedonia Ema Popivoda. En el festival de Berlín participó con el compositor y el guitarrista Georgi Sareski en improvisación de jazz y poesía. Participó también a los Festivales de poesía…

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Pourquoi j’aime Paris

CHÂTEAU D’EAU

L’espace me déchire

Je m’égare dans le trompe-l’oeil

De la lumière qui se casse dans mes yeux

Je regarde cet homme et cette femme

Se diffondre dans l’abyme du mouvement muet

Je ne les écoute pas

Car je tue leur histoire qui coule

Dans le château rouge

 

PARC MONCEAU

Le ciel de Paris cache les dentelles des volets d’Haussmann

une jupe voile sur l’humidité grise

plonge sa langue rose

Et je marche sur les pavés imprégnée du sang des corps aimés, étranglés,

telle que la langue de mon amant

Sous une orangerie humble je rêve des cheveux d’arbres solitaires dans ma poitrine

Je pleure je flâne je cours

et je m’ouvre telle qu’une cible vers leur fenêtres erronées

Ils sont où ? Comment je pourrais les voir ?

Leur visages

Leur sang

Leur paroles envolées avec le vent

Des mots furieux obscènes cassés dans un moment d’absence

Et alors je vois cet homme qui marche envers moi mais qui ne me cherche pas

Et à ces côtés des maîtres des arts martiaux se plongent se courbent et se jettent par terre devant femme grosses femme enceintes des mères des filles de la chair qui a faim

Faim de la chair de l’amour

Et alors le cercle magique de ce Royaume se casse

Ma fuite aussi

Je cours nue

De l’eau vivante

 

Наташа Сарџоска – Картографија на огнот

#100TPC - Macedonia

за никаде сме
никаде нè заминуваме
од никаде и не доаѓаме
долги цртежи сме по перони
испуштаме здив на аеродромски излези
слушаме глуви разговор со автопати
зјапаме во прозорци на запрени метроа
возовите на тишината доцнат
летовите се презакажани
деновите одложени
за никогаш повеќе

вино зоврива на здивените усни
по рабовите на нашиот ум
очите облаци замрзнати
нашите грла дини раздувани в пустина
степа ни вирее по јазикот
влажна џунгла во половите
провалии немеат в градите
горешти траги под дождот
под кристалното небо кое не покрива
ниедна земја

зариваме зад нашите сенки
стапала во жив песок
одежди пурпурни раскинати од бегалци без трага
жезла отфрлени од секое кралство сме
нокти и заби и очи ископани од историјата
изгубени во непрегледните сртови на нашата плот
искинати мапи на нашите колена
копна кои гризат гребени и приморја
по рабовите на нашиот клеточен копнеж
по бреговите на мртвите нации
гориме само за тој…

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