Poems by Risto Lazarov 

SHOES FOR MY FATHER
 
We’re bewildered my brother and I 
in the shoe shop
on the main street
in our birthplace.
when we were children
they bought us new shoes 
in this same shop
before the start
of each school year.
our father made sure 
they were comfortable first
and only then nice 
and one size larger
so they could be worn longer.
shoes have to be outgrown,
our father used to tell us.
 
now my brother and I
are buying new shoes
for our father.
we follow his instructions
given at the time:
his shoes should be 
comfortable first and only then nice
they must not be too tight
and cause him blisters
when he decides to go
for long walks
through the jungle of memories.
these shoes for our father
must be pointed
and have a hard sole
so that he can
give the fake guardian angel 
a hearty kick in the ass 
when he starts to blab
about the immortality
of goodness and righteousness.
 
we smiled bitterly my brother and I
leaving the shoe shop
the day before
our father died.
 
Translated from Macedonian by Ljubica Arsovska and Peggy Reid
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THE MILKMAID
 
One can see from a distance what you’re thinking.
Times are bitter, sorrow boils over,
but not a tear from your eyes must drop in the milk.
You don’t even try to recall what yesterday was like,
or the day before. It’s the same every day.
Milk without honey. Sheep are not the only ones milked.
They drink the same milk, but people are so different.
Three of them set off in four directions, as in
pitiful Macedonia. They may be left without milk,
but they still wish the neighbour’s goat dead. The time of
the supremacy of oxen is long gone. So many cows nowadays,
and yet they yield so little milk. Everyone drinks artificial
milk and wears artificial smiles with artificial
white teeth. In passing, they smoke grass and call
on their mobiles to say they’ll be late
at the rendez-vous. Some buy themselves artificial women,
blow up dolls to come in handy when there’s no more natural lifting
of the skirts and natural lowering of the knickers.
In Amsterdam, milkmaids haven’t dreamed anything
for a very long time now. And painters too, truth to tell,
belch increasingly often. In Amsterdam, there’s a growing
number of those who are happy because the others
are not. Those who get lost before they’ve left their own garden
multiply. A deep drowsiness begins to hold sway,
milk burns more often. And burnt milk
won’t give a good white colour, say the painters.
The milkmaid came down from the painting and ran
to the nearest kiosk to buy some paper hankies,
to have them on her in case, God forbid, her eyes began to water.
In front of one of the cafés in the red light district
a boat stopped and, still in it,
Vermeer ordered a cappuccino with a lot of froth and a little sugar.
 
Translated from Macedonian by Ljubica Arsovska and Peggy Reid

Risto Lazarov (1949) – poet, essayist, literary critic, translator and journalist. He is the author of thirty poetry books and has also published books of essays and several books in the field of journalism. His poetry books have been published in seven European languages. He has translated books and poems by many authors from English, Czech, Serbian, Bulgarian and other languages into Macedonian. Risto Lazarov is a recipient of the most important awards for poetry in Macedonia. He is a member of the Macedonian Writers’ Association and has served as the president of the Macedonian PEN Centre. 


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