Anthology of Macedonian P.E.N. Poets

ISBN 9989-928-22-3

Blaže Koneski

The Breaking of the Strength

(Disguised as a beggar, the Lord waited for Prince Marko at the roadside.
He had gathered the weight of the whole world into a bag. ‘My son, help
an old man, lift this bag on to my back.’ Marko picked it up on the one end
of his spear, the earth trembled. ‘What have I  done?' said the Lord to Himself.
And he left him only one third of his strength. Folk tale)

You who gave me unimaginable strength
God
To grow muscular like a knotted oak
To joy in my young branching and leafing
To rampage in my innocence
You who let me feel I could move even the world
As a ploughman shifts a stone with his harrow
God
Why were you afraid of me
Why in unthinking fear did you shift your first purpose
Why did you take my strength?

I used to come to you in thought as to a father
I stepped into your house with a child’s pure faith
Running in from play to take a crust from the larder
I knew you as my defender, who would smile at me
Pleased with the transparent whirlpool of my soul
And I could not think of you differently –
You, the Almighty
Turned yourself to a beggar
Dressed in tatters, filthy with your begging-bag
Scouring your face with the pain of a tired old man
Making yourself blind
So I should not see the cunning in your eyes –
And all to test me better
To buy me, to try me on the weights
Then to flaunt your cruel power over me

God
Why did you stoop so low
Just to destroy me?
Did you think that a man
Would not testify to your moment of base weakness
Would not look with bitter mockery even at the splendour of heaven
On a spring midnight when the stars are clear
And hopeful in quiet prayer?

Merciless
Your humbling of me knew no bounds
You broke me
But left me the memory of my strength
I am a dry underground river
Whose dark is not yet quiet from the beating of waves

Mocking
You made me first in a failing empire
In a ship sinking with its cargo of pain and sin
To strengthen, to save
But the murky waters suck us down
Go on then, make the most of it
You who bore me to be great
And then gave me such a gift

God
The brand which burnt my wings is smoking in your hand
My whole being rises up against you
My heart curses you
In humiliation
I feel that in me which puts me above you
Which once you had, perhaps, but put from you
When you created us to flee your anguish
Alone
Through mists I must search out the path of my life

Translated by Andrew Harvey and Anne Pennington