Versopolis no MAP Oeiras

A Palavra é o membro e parceiro português do Versopolis, a plataforma que congrega os maiores festivais europeus de Poesia e divulga e estimula novas vozes da poesia europeia. Poetas como Marija Dejanović e André Osório, que vão estar à conversa com Alexandre Cortez, no MAP OEIRAS, dia 13 de Junho, entre as 17h e as 18h.

Marija Dejanović nasceu na Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1992, pertence à Croatian Writers’ Association e está a terminar a licenciatura em Teoria da Literatura e  Pedagogia na Universidade de Zagreb. Em 2018 venceu os prémios “Goran” e “Kvirin” para jovens poetas com  “Ethics of Bread and Horses” (“Etika kruha i konja”). Com “Heartwood” (“Središnji god”) ganhou o prémio “Zdravko Pucak”. Ambos os livros foram publicados no mesmo ano e foram bem recebidos pelos críticos, leitores e media. Dejanovic já colaborou com slam-poets e tem uma parceria regular com a música Sara Renar.

André Osório nasceu em 1998 e é o poeta português no Versopolis, autor de “Observação da Gravidade” (obra finalista do Prémio Literário Glória de Sant`Anna), co-fundador da Revista Lote, mestrando em Teoria da Literatura.

Mais informações em Consulte os poemas de Marija Dejanović na plataforma VERSOPOLIS.

Poems by Marija Dejanović – Translated by Hana Samaržija

From the book Kindness Separates Day and Night (Sandorf, 2021)


Aubade is a buffalo
It unwraps its horns like a lotus
and water is dew, dispersed with a faint
twist of the neck. This mist gathers in a thin
dense layer of fur that trails the spine
like a white deer trails traffic
when it is snowing
The white petals of a lotus

white blood cells, like pearl necklaces
that hang from roofs when it turns cold
Aubade-breath rushes and races with its brief
darting haste
like the life of a white rabbit
and other white animals

Aubade: it is the only part of the scene that is brown

Everything else is white, everywhere
wherever the small rifle of the eye
coated in a thin frosty membrane
can perform the splits
Brown is only a tree with four roots
and two branches

I don’t know why, aubade

reminded me of the juggler
who waits for the pedestrian crossing
to turn green. He then begins hurling
dusty tennis balls
ball by ball
like large, smooth walnuts
If only one were to drop on the wet road
it would roll beneath a car waiting for its sign to go
and ruin the day
This way, there is no mistake 
There is no mud on the hands

My love is 
a hunter that aims 
in the empty space between the horns


I will move to Iceland
like a flock of birds
like two bales of wheat
treading under the sun
to exhaustion, their skin
strapped to vertigo 
with soft ribbons

I say: it’s reliable
this doesn’t mean: safety

this does mean
my body is bound 
and I am floating 
like an amoeba
as free as 
a life belt
without a
drowning man
to rescue

This empty core 
is Iceland:
my need
to be warm
thrown into water
my desire 
to see you
blown up by a bomb
from my stomach

my hands
hold binoculars
watching me from the shore
in an explosion
inviting me
to forget my name

The Time of Long Recovery

We have reached the age when maturity
has nothing to do with age:
birds communicate
by mimicking heavenly bodies
with their movement
Frogs roam the seas
by using their silky films
as sails
Seven days of solitude went as follows:
on the first day, I didn’t realize I was alone
On the second day, my routine
proceeded as usual
I ate nothing
and slept little
cooked a soup from your shirt
in the case of a visit from some guest
I ended up using it to clean the windows
it is better than
hurling some insult towards the door
the door that welcomes no visitors
the door that is locked
sown in the warm walls of my stomach
a hedgehog’s home, swallowed
When, on the third day, I realized I was alone
the fish got scared and gathered into a flock
They held a meeting, where they decided
to continue living as silver bats
They will fly towards the light, close their eyes
and count the days with the sensors in their throats
I decided to remain alone
and embrace this new state
as the time of my long recovery
I don’t remember the fourth day
I remember the fifth day well
but prefer not to talk about it
On the sixth day, I decided:
I will be alone
And indeed, the seventh day

Like ice cracking in my knees
in my thanks
in me-spider’s knuckles
who resembles a dog
in me-fox’s teeth
who resembles a wolf


My friends live in gaps between the wardrobe and the wall
that are impossible to reach
as I stretch my arms, a web of silence
enters my mouth; they are the shady silence of plaster
I tell her: choose a picture frame
and stick your scalp through its hollow body
push the supple roots of hair untouched by sun
sprinkled with flour
sneak out of his kitchen or jump through the window
from the tenth floor, you’ll land on the atoms of possibilities
like the ashen flowers in the district park
Your eyes: symbols for bursting, heavy breasts
sagging from your father’s eyes, from equine milk, and presents
that shed from your skin instead of your husband’s cruel lips
His words gather in your bellybutton
and crawl to your neck, like cypresses in the cemetery
and suddenly, instead of dust, it is you hanging from the chandelier
My friends are mine because they are no one’s
they only listen to themselves and touch only themselves
my friend is the table leg
whose splinter pierces your thumb while moving house
My friend: a small plastic ball
filled with brown fluid
My friend is a curly hair
in the drain of her throat
He tells her: together we drew boundaries
to clean furniture together
She tells him: it’s easy to fall apart, it’s hard
to pierce a pea with your fork
My friends are the first sorrows
whom I genuinely loved
They are the first to make decisions
and the only ones to carry them through

My friends are tall buildings
whose hands hold the foundations
My friends are an airplane
with concrete legs

Tracing Straight Lines

Yellow inertia of arrival
of fruits, apples, pears
sprouted from a stone that was dug in like a heel
swam out of water
All fruit is yellow
and appears only in hints
thickness of noon approaches us like a tame train
regularly, with delicate deviations
and warn us to be careful
with mild smiles
clean surfaces, and heated steel hearts
ready to smother snakes with shovels
and to seek them under every stone
She has fireproof hands, and
hides them in the oven like a snake hides its legs
stretches her neck, scalp and chin tracing straight lines
and searches the sky for scars
coming out the back of an airplane
She can’t burn herself on me
she can’t learn my name
Our irises are fixed within eyelashes
that calibrate like flower buds
buds of May
escorting heads and tails
I’m so happy to have you
you stole a part of the car so nobody could drive it
and now you are hitchhiking, wondering
whether it was worth it
Your grassy tongue hides lies
sweet, summery slights that enable you to love me
When you melt my name in your mouth
I’d swear it’s not my name
When your mouth kisses my cheek
I’d swear it’s not my cheek

The Photograph of a Duck

I photographed a duck
that stood on a wooden trunk
to show you the duck and the trunk
or to say: there was a duck
I spend the rest of the day applying make-up
and then watching myself
observing myself from the distance, until I
recognize myself, and wave hello
When I am done, I say: this is a mouth
or, this kind of mouth:
and I immerse my lips into a large pomegranate
and say Pomegranate
there was a pomegranate
this kind of pomegranate
and then swallow it whole
I only appear for myself
and these acts entail storms
from a low sky of treetops
locusts and crickets
They are actually the same creature
only one had long lost its cry
when it buried it in the earth
to shelter it
and then forgot it
Green on the eyes, red on the lips
the other held on to its cry
and got a badminton racket
a racket like the one which we
as children, used to strike flying beetles
and some used to, after knocking them down
halve them with the racket’s edges
crooking its rims
and ripping its net
but not me
This morning, the duck ate pomegranate
Or, it had yesterday hatched that pomegranate
It was red

with a red beak and a red tail
it was as green
as a locust, a cricket
as red and as green as meat sitting on grass
The day is as standard
as the wounds on the knees
calves and thighs of the girls
playing football
on a mine field
in grass rising above their waist


Marija Dejanović was born in Prijedor, Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1992. She grew up in Croatia, Sisak, and currently lives between Zagreb, Croatia, and Larissa, Greece.

In the year 2018, her poetry book Ethics of Bread and Horses (Etika kruha i konja) won the Goran award for young poets and the Kvirin award for young poets. Book Heartwood (Središnji god) won Zdravko Pucak award in 2019. A trilingual selection of her latest poetry Ορατο Οστο/ Visible Bone/ Vidljiva kost was published in Greece by Poets’ Circle for Athens World Poetry Festival. 

She was awarded the first place Milo Bošković award for a single poem (2021), the second place DiBiase Poetry Contest award for the single poem (2021) and was awarded the Marin Drž award (2020) by the Croatian Ministry of Culture for a dramatic text Ne moramo više govoriti, svi su otišli (We Don’t Have to Speak Anymore, They Are All Gone).

Translated poems by the author were published in over ten world languages. She presented her poetry at festivals and readings in numerous countries.