Biography
Bećir Vuković was born on 3 April 1954 in Kolašin. He studied world and Yugoslav literature at the Faculty of Philology, Belgrade.
He has published the following books of poetry:
Čisto stanje (Pure State, Belgrade: Edicija Književne omladine Srbije, 1980);
Zidovi koji rastu (Growing Walls, Titograd/Podgorica, Književna omladina Crne Gore, 1983);
Mefistovo seme (Mephistopheles' seed, Titograd/Podgorica - Belgrade, Udruženje književnika Crne Gore - Partizanska knjiga, 1985);
Potpis svilenim gajtanom (A Silken Braid Signature, Nikšić: Univerzitetska riječ, 1988);
Kad ujutru gavran osvanuo (When in the Morning the Raven Appeared, Titograd/Podgorica: "Savremenici", Udruženje književnika Crne Gore, 1989) - awarded the Marko Miljanov prize;
Igralište (Playground, Novi Sad: Svetovi, 1992);
Crna umetnost (Black Art, Novi Sad: Svetovi, 1994) - awarded the Risto Ratković prize;
Lov u nejasnom (A Hunt in Obscurity, Novi Sad: Svetovi; selected and with an afterword by Želidrag Nikčević, 1997);
Federalni posed (Federal Property, Belgrade: Narodna knjiga, 2002);
Što ste zinuli (What are you Gaping at? Political articles, Podgorica: Oktoih 2004);
Igračke propasti (Toys collapse, with an afterword by Gojko Božović, Podgorica: Oktoih, 2005 - awarded the Radoman Raco Stanišić literary foundation prize;
Antologija Bože pravde (Antology Bože pravde, Serbian poems, speeches, hymns, and articles), review "Stvaranje", the 60th anniversary edition, Podgorica, 2006;
Duh parka (The Spirit of the Park, Novi Sad: Adresa, 2008);
Nečitač (The Non - Reader, Novi Sad: Adresa, 2009);
Crna umetnost (Black Art, Podgorica: Nova knjiga; selected and with an afterword by Saša Radojčić, 2010);
He is the editor in chief of the review "Srpski jug". He is the president of the association of Serbian writers of Crna Gora and Hercegovina, and a regular member of Matica Srpska. His poems have been translated itno French, Russian, Italian, Polish, Bulgarian, Turkish and Macedonian. He lives in Podgorica.
He has published the following books of poetry:
Čisto stanje (Pure State, Belgrade: Edicija Književne omladine Srbije, 1980);
Zidovi koji rastu (Growing Walls, Titograd/Podgorica, Književna omladina Crne Gore, 1983);
Mefistovo seme (Mephistopheles' seed, Titograd/Podgorica - Belgrade, Udruženje književnika Crne Gore - Partizanska knjiga, 1985);
Potpis svilenim gajtanom (A Silken Braid Signature, Nikšić: Univerzitetska riječ, 1988);
Kad ujutru gavran osvanuo (When in the Morning the Raven Appeared, Titograd/Podgorica: "Savremenici", Udruženje književnika Crne Gore, 1989) - awarded the Marko Miljanov prize;
Igralište (Playground, Novi Sad: Svetovi, 1992);
Crna umetnost (Black Art, Novi Sad: Svetovi, 1994) - awarded the Risto Ratković prize;
Lov u nejasnom (A Hunt in Obscurity, Novi Sad: Svetovi; selected and with an afterword by Želidrag Nikčević, 1997);
Federalni posed (Federal Property, Belgrade: Narodna knjiga, 2002);
Što ste zinuli (What are you Gaping at? Political articles, Podgorica: Oktoih 2004);
Igračke propasti (Toys collapse, with an afterword by Gojko Božović, Podgorica: Oktoih, 2005 - awarded the Radoman Raco Stanišić literary foundation prize;
Antologija Bože pravde (Antology Bože pravde, Serbian poems, speeches, hymns, and articles), review "Stvaranje", the 60th anniversary edition, Podgorica, 2006;
Duh parka (The Spirit of the Park, Novi Sad: Adresa, 2008);
Nečitač (The Non - Reader, Novi Sad: Adresa, 2009);
Crna umetnost (Black Art, Podgorica: Nova knjiga; selected and with an afterword by Saša Radojčić, 2010);
He is the editor in chief of the review "Srpski jug". He is the president of the association of Serbian writers of Crna Gora and Hercegovina, and a regular member of Matica Srpska. His poems have been translated itno French, Russian, Italian, Polish, Bulgarian, Turkish and Macedonian. He lives in Podgorica.
IT IS NOT FUNNY
Then God,
tucked
the clouds
into his beard, in place
of pillows, put
a white cloud, left
to rest.
Well.
There is that by God.
Your works are great,
but, God,
c'mon, tell me,
what you did
before creating the world,
wandering around the pillars
of the throne, asked a shrewd
fool.
It isn't funny
I built Hell's remparts
and forged cauldrons and vats
for those who would ask
such questions,
and he stroked the little fool
on his gourd.
Prancing across maps,
jumping from
one world to another
the fool replied:
c'mon, old man, stop making it up
tucked
the clouds
into his beard, in place
of pillows, put
a white cloud, left
to rest.
Well.
There is that by God.
Your works are great,
but, God,
c'mon, tell me,
what you did
before creating the world,
wandering around the pillars
of the throne, asked a shrewd
fool.
It isn't funny
I built Hell's remparts
and forged cauldrons and vats
for those who would ask
such questions,
and he stroked the little fool
on his gourd.
Prancing across maps,
jumping from
one world to another
the fool replied:
c'mon, old man, stop making it up
SAXON
Brskovo,
na Stonu,
is first mentioned,
on Uroš the First's Chart.
Those that dug,
the miners, were Saxons.
They thought horse legs edible -
while it was afoot they'd nibble all four.
But, once and for all,
a German philosopher,
Wolfgang Overath,
the leader of the pessimists,
put an and,
to this case.
Are there any Saxons now
in Tara Gorge.
Indeed, of course.
Saxons are all those
whose wild
red hair
grows from their head,
who have no eyebrows,
who are freckled
on the wrists
and eyelids, whose,
freckles, skin, were written by
Saxons.
As the snow falls,
The Saxons stay in their holes,
the do not seek each other out. In Winter oh no
nowhere are their traces in the Tara region.
Saxons wear long coats,
as if hiding their tails.
There is noting less aesthetic, than
the Saxons.
na Stonu,
is first mentioned,
on Uroš the First's Chart.
Those that dug,
the miners, were Saxons.
They thought horse legs edible -
while it was afoot they'd nibble all four.
But, once and for all,
a German philosopher,
Wolfgang Overath,
the leader of the pessimists,
put an and,
to this case.
Are there any Saxons now
in Tara Gorge.
Indeed, of course.
Saxons are all those
whose wild
red hair
grows from their head,
who have no eyebrows,
who are freckled
on the wrists
and eyelids, whose,
freckles, skin, were written by
Saxons.
As the snow falls,
The Saxons stay in their holes,
the do not seek each other out. In Winter oh no
nowhere are their traces in the Tara region.
Saxons wear long coats,
as if hiding their tails.
There is noting less aesthetic, than
the Saxons.
LITTLE HOUSE
On the hill,
the little house of the body whitens.
It has no need to flaunt its shining.
Little, it twinkles, and disappears.
As it self - conscious.
Twinkles, and dissapears.
It seems there is something more there.
I'll fence it with sticks and stones,
and tall pine trees.
Above the little house,
mountains cluster,
and snows,
with traces divine.
the little house of the body whitens.
It has no need to flaunt its shining.
Little, it twinkles, and disappears.
As it self - conscious.
Twinkles, and dissapears.
It seems there is something more there.
I'll fence it with sticks and stones,
and tall pine trees.
Above the little house,
mountains cluster,
and snows,
with traces divine.
THE NON - READER
God shared it out:
the reader having
the non-reader not having.
With the non-reader, clear
divine literary intentions.
From the backwards,
(from the clash of the words and things)
the non-reader, is anterior also to language.
Likewise special,
perfect, like knowing,
the non-readers’ non-knowing.
The non-reader tells us: one
reader is fighting against
imagined time.
If we are not here to believe
the the builder renounces death.
And to renounce death only
may one who’s between two worlds,
and that’s, again, the non-reader.
Most importantly, teaches the non-reader,
every quest ends,
unsuccessful.
To approach again from behind
the self. From behind the mirror.
To become invisible,
that’s the non-reader’s,
final message.
The rest belongs to the reader.
All the rest is the reader’s grazing-ground,
garden, flowerbed, the reader’s pasture.
the reader having
the non-reader not having.
With the non-reader, clear
divine literary intentions.
From the backwards,
(from the clash of the words and things)
the non-reader, is anterior also to language.
Likewise special,
perfect, like knowing,
the non-readers’ non-knowing.
The non-reader tells us: one
reader is fighting against
imagined time.
If we are not here to believe
the the builder renounces death.
And to renounce death only
may one who’s between two worlds,
and that’s, again, the non-reader.
Most importantly, teaches the non-reader,
every quest ends,
unsuccessful.
To approach again from behind
the self. From behind the mirror.
To become invisible,
that’s the non-reader’s,
final message.
The rest belongs to the reader.
All the rest is the reader’s grazing-ground,
garden, flowerbed, the reader’s pasture.