Vitomirka Trebovac

Vitomirka Trebovac, born 1980 in Novi Sad, has published two poetry books, Plavo u boji (Blue in Colour, 2011) and Sve drveće, sva deca i svi bicikli u meni (All the Trees, Kids, and Bicycles Within Me, 2017). Together with Jelena Anđelovski she edited a book of poetry Ovo nije dom (This Is Not Home, 2017). She works in a bookstore and at the publishing centre Bulevar Books in Novi Sad.

Selected Poems

OPPOSITES

in front of the

‘olga petrov’

retirement home

a man kissed

a woman’s hand

she raised her head

and he blushed

and what happened after

I don’t know

because the wheels of my bicycle

are big

and I’m

already in another part of town.

here it begins to rain lightly and

there is the stink of mcdonalds

a girl plays accordion in front of it

stiff families eye her suspiciously.

I would crush

them with my big bicycle,

but I am polite as well

my upbringing does not let me

cause any issues.

I WILL NEVER FORGET

some woman reading proust

in a tram in gdansk

and a fat cat who

ate my pancakes when

I was a child

I will not forget

how mom screamed

when they told her something over the phone

and the view

of the skyscrapers from some hotel

I will never forget

the waiting line for visas

and how we played frisbee

drunk in a park in berlin

before dawn

then I will never forget

how they helped uncle to escape the army

because the war began

and my grandma’s hands shaking

I will never forget when sara was born

and I was at the pool

first second third

emigration

I will not forget

when I saw you

on the staircase of the bookstore.

never.

SCAR

maybe I’ve already said

that I had three friends

one liked Russians

one Americans

and the third was so-so

he didn’t know whether to go

left or right

and he’s still like that

anyway

once when we

were children

I beat them in a street race

to the lamppost

(and they were in a good shape)

I touched the post and collapsed.

now I have a scar, a small one,

in the middle of my forehead

I wear it like a trophy through life.

WALKING

s. and I wandered away a couple of times

yesterday at the cemetery

and we barely made it to the funeral.

we took a strange route

three kilometers on foot

through terrible mud

and we mostly talked about

gaudy gravestones

odd last names

about the fight from the previous day

he said that

the grass is really nice here

and I agreed

but the whole time

we were walking

I was thinking

how the saddest thing in death

is not the death itself

but a sunny day

compared to a dark grave.

ABOUT OLD AGE

maybe one should not write

about old age

and about me bathing you

and how you were ashamed

because I touched

your decayed body and freckled skin

with your downcast eyes

powerless

you suddenly

talked about how your feet

were small and charming

and how now

one should die

but not even that is easy

while you were talking

the smell of a sharpened pencil

overtook me

and I see my childhood self at once

I’m sitting at my desk,

sharpening my pencil,

but the lead keeps falling out

then I remember

that my feet today

are small and charming

I got that from you

I thought

I shut the water off

and hug your

bony

weak body

my grandmother little girl

maybe this is not

a poem about old age.

Translated by Tamara Božić