I
GOR ISAKOVSKI 1970 - 2014
Very, very sad news. Igor Isakovski died yesterday at the age of 44.
take lots of water,
as if you are taking me,
and go to bed full of us
Igor Isakovski, poet, prose writer, translator, editor. Born 19.09.1970, in Skopje, Macedonia. BA in World and Comparative Literature, Sts. Cyril and Methodius University, Skopje, Macedonia. MA in Gender and Culture, CEU, Budapest, Hungary. Currently on doctoral studies at the Sts. Cyril and Methodius University. He is founder and director of the Cultural Institution Blesok (www.blesok.mk), where he works as editor-in-chief since 1998.
Published books: Letters (1991, novel), Black Sun (1992, poetry), Explosions, Pregnant Moon, Eruptions... (1993, short stories), Vulcan – Earth – (1995, poetry), – Sky (1996, 2000, poetry), Blues Phone Booth (2001, prose etchings), Sandglass (2002, short stories), Way Down in the Hole (poetry, 2004), Swimming in the Dust (2005, 2010, novel, award Prose Masters 2005), Blues Phone Booth II (2006, prose etchings, awarded 2007 annual prize for best visual-graphic design of a printed book), Interning for a Saint (2008, poetry), The Night Is Darkest Before the Dawn (2009, poetry, unique award winner of the 4th Belgrade Poetry and Book Festival in 2010) Vulcan – Earth – Sky (2010, poetry), Love (2011, poetry), Death Has Seaweed Hair (poetry, 2013).
Selections and book translations in other languages: – Sky (poetry in English, 1996, 2000), Sejanje smeha / Сеење на смеата (Sowing the Laughter[…]'
Note from: 'The Light Awaits You at Reception'.
Me and Tom Waits
well, he’s been coming here for few years now,
as if he lives here
(and sometimes I think it’s for real)
and he tells about women and we are both gulping
and smoking, sometimes he rolls a joint
then his thoughts are completely disconnected and quick.
“I’m tired of all the applause”, he says , and I know
how he feels, and we silently admit it’s easier
with it, it comes as an antipode for the blues, like
a cloudy morning. which is better than a sunny morning,
when you have a hangover. when we have a hangover.
he goes through my manuscripts, never
saying a word, he’s like me, damn son of a bitch,
but I can’t throw him out, he’s been here so many times
many times when I’d been almost lost, very
lost, and damn aware of all the losses
that I’ve been through, and all the losses that are awaiting me
on this one, on that one, and on all of the other existing worlds.
“you son of a bitch“, he murmurs quietly, “you never show off with something“,
and we both pour one more
while I’m tapping the blues with my foot
'it gets hard when we’re out of beer, the eyes
get heavier, and there’s nothing left to do
so we show each other our tattoos.
the night is a whore too expensive for us.
but we always take her
anyway.
From: 'The Light Awaits You at Reception'.
.bmp)
