The role and function of Macedonian poetry in Canada represents the most direct way of expressing the spirit of the old world surrounded by the conditions faced in the new world. This genesis began over 100 years ago as the first Macedonians began migrating to Canada. The historical circumstances developed a truly Canadian Macedonian poetic narrative which the Canadian Macedonian Heritage Society presents to you the reader. The selected poems are just a sample of some of the works of Canadian citizens of Macedonian descent.
Spero Thompson is a colleague and contributing writer of the Brachi Miladinovci Macedonian Poetry and Literary Society of Saint Clement of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox Cathedral in Toronto, Ontario.
Patsy Sider-Aspassia Bossota is the author of five poetry books entitled "Diary of a Soul (1998)", "A Spark from the Ashes (1998)", "Between Two Worlds (2000)", "The Joy of Justice (2003)", "Prohibited Culture (2006)", a book of Short Stories entitled "Amazing Garden"(2009) and author of many other poems and short stories. Poems from "Between Two Worlds" are presented for your reading.
They are following in the footsteps of the first representatives of modern Macedonian literature at the beginning of the 19th century. These include, Joakim Krcovski, Kiril Pejcinovik, Dimitar and Konstantin Miladinov, Grigor Prlicev, and Rajko Zinzifov. It was further developed in the 20th century by Vojdan Cernodrinski, Nikola Kirov - Majski and Atanas Razdolov. Then the development of Macedonian Literature continued with Koco Racin, who is considered to be the founder of modern Macedonian literature.
The first post-war generation of Macedonian poets, include Blaze Koneski, Aco Sopov, Slavko Janevski, Vlado Maleski and Kole Casule. The new generation of Macedonian writers appeared in the early 1950s, encompassing among others Gane Todorovski, Mateja Matevski, Dimitar Solev, Ante Popovski, Boris Visinski and Simon Drakul. They were followed by, Zivko Cingo, Petre M. Andreevski, Radovan Pavlovski, Jovan Koteski and many others.
“Wife, they called on the telephone— the little ones are coming. Prepare the minced meat, we’ll make some meatballs.” One wants leek pie, another spinach pie. Beautiful red peppers— those will be stuffed. We cleared some space then so no one would get hurt. Grandmother flies with joy and grandfather follows behind. “Leave the kitchen now, go bring the wine and the big baking pan for the cheese ...
In a little donut shop , as we call it here, they gather every Saturday to talk about the village dear. One of them can barely hear, another has lost his mind, all with snowy-white hair now, seventy years behind. One of them is diabetic, his hands begin to shake, and the other, big and heavy, keeps needing bathroom breaks. One believes he’s wiser still, he talks about Viagra. “A great thing!” ...
When I was just a little child. One evening I sat by the doorway, the yard with flowers running wild, and green the grasses all around. Voices drifted from afar— they watered their gardens there. It must have been a full moon night; the violets bloomed in the air. The night owl cried out mournfully, as if it had been wounded. The stars shone high above the sky like a diamond veil suspended. From ...
Many years have passed and we have grown white and old. Our beautiful village we have never forgotten it. Green village, my Zeleniche, you are not as you once were. Your face has changed so much while we were far away from you. We remember the evenings when the streets filled with children, and the old women on their stools sat together sharing gossip. Your stone-paved roads have now been covered ...
Two brothers from Canada made up their minds one day to go, for one last time, to see their village far away. They had a few small fields and a little piece of land. “We’ll sell them,” they both said, “and drink some rakia while we can.” They left their suitcases at the hotel and started walking downhill. They called someone on their cell to say they’d reached the village still. They stood before ...
A stone slab appeared below, there in the yard one day. The two looked at each other slyly— and one grabbed the iron bar right away. One lifted it with the crowbar, the other struck with the heavy tool. The Albanians watched and wondered: “What are these two looking for here, fools?” They searched for hidden gold coins to give to their children and grandchildren dear. But instead of gold beneath ...
Where are you going, my sorrowed one, through these narrow alleyways? Why are you a stranger, my exiled one, with tears upon your face? Where have you been so long, that you had forgotten us— to see the green mountain again, to drink water from the spring? To take a walk through the village, to see your kin once more— where have you been so long? What was it that kept you away before? As he ...
Last night I dreamed, and found myself back in the village. All the parents were there, all the ancestors and relatives. And our children were there, together with the grandchildren. We danced at rido hand in hand, like in the olden years. We all embraced each other with tears in our eyes. We remembered everything from before— the passions of the past. And two brothers over there, now turned into ...
The last time I went to the village, to say farewell to those I knew, and from my father’s worn inheritance to sell what little there was to do— Our small ancestral house, a barn now fallen and bare, a lowly yard enclosure too, built once with sweat and care. I walked down into the yard as if my throat had closed tight— it gripped me deep within, like drowning in heavy night. Bushes and thorns ...
Her three sons left for foreign lands. One went off to Canada, another to Australia, and the third, the youngest, went to Germany. The years were difficult in their beautiful homeland. You leave your place behind when you have no hope. The brothers were separated, and the little cousins too. Their mother was left alone, wandering through the fields. With a pair of borrowed oxen she worked the ...
