Milosava Pavlovic

Milosava Pavlovic, a poet, has so far published two collections of poems:

Igra (The Game), Belgrade, Cigoja stampa, 2012.

and  Igrac (The Game Player), Pancevo, ZIZA collection, published by “Pancevac“ and the Section of Writers of the Municipality of Pancevo 1983.

She wrote and published poetry in many literary magazines (high school journal NE,  Knjizevne novine, Knjizevna rec), several issues of the journal Rukopisi (published by KPZ Vojvodina),  gave readings at various literary events, and won many awards in a period from 1978 – 1984.

She currently resides in Pancevo, Serbia.

Education:

B.A., Communications,  Faculty for Media and Communications,  University of Singidunum,

Belgrade (240 BSP),  4 year.

B.A. (final year), Comparative Liteature and Theory of Literature, Organisation of Cultural

Activities Stream, Philolgy Faculty, University of  Belgrade, 4 year.

Passed, National exam for  work in banking, 1 year.

High School diploma, Social studies, Russian and French languages, Uros Predic High

School, Pancevo, 4 year.

Foreign Languages:

English, advanced comprehension; Russian, basic comprehension; French, basic

comprehension.

__________

SLEEPING

Not even the position of the fetus

Soothes the pain

Of these empty hands

I hide my head

under a pillow

The ceiling

Threatens to fall down

It doesn’t matter

I don’t want a Valium

My attic

My staircase

My fall

…into a Dream

DAUGHTER, THRE YEARS OLD

She wants me to let her go

She can do it on her own

I stop

Release her hand

Can I?

WHEN IT RAINS

I am calm,

Light,

even if the rain curls my hair

From myself I cast off

the piled up garbage

of the civilized days

I put on

Sacred secrets

and go out to dinner

with Eternity 

I choose

A PLATE, A ROOM, A HOUSE OF DWARFS

I undress

on the palette

Not a step outside the body

Not a step on its own

I push the plate away

Far from myself,

neither naked, nor warm,

I am taken in

By the appearance of The Big room

I add myself

Tucked in,

I hide my face

and cry

through the keyhole

I don’t want to go to the House of Dwarfs

DAUGHTER, FOURTEEN YEARS OLD

She cries

I console

What she doesn’t know is that we are both aching

She over her first,

I over my last love

THE KITCHEN

My recipe book

An alchemy of smell, taste, pleasure

Each page

new,  authentic,  sweet,  sickly

It holds attention, seduces, shines

It’s Literature.

I cook more and more these days

with a feeling of joy, discovery and enlightenment

Becoming aware of Plato, Hegel, God, Myself

I felt the same

It’s time

to move the library into the kitchen