Weaver
I weave,
row after row,
pattern upon pattern;
my thread
for someone’s rug,
a shirt for an unknown,
a stranger’s bed.
I weave
to inweave
plums in orchard;
fruitfulness in fields;
wheat into barn;
throb in heartbeat;
joy in the day;
year of abundance;
in another’s fate.
I weave
to interweave
fire on hearth;
wedding in courtyard;
peace for dispute;
praise for good heart.
I weave,
I inweave,
I interweave—
and give all away;
a golden ducat
for a necklace
is my pay.
Heart Beneath a Heart
Blessedly, nobody asks
how come I’ve got
a heart beneath my heart.
The truth remained in autumn,
among apples and pears.
The truth is,
each one knows
what to do
while doing so.
The truth is,
even in silence,
what’s done can still be perceived:
when a woman girds a sash
over her budding navel.
when a youngster
straightens up
and starts to walk like a man.
Besides, no heart could flourish
among apples and pears.
Evening Prayer
The children are full-fed,
tucked in their cribs.
A thin quilt and sleep
nestle against them.
Dear God, now take me!
I won’t grow any happier —
than this.
Today at the market,
I stole a loaf of bread.
Light as a feather,
I flew down the street.
Dear God, now take me!
I won’t grow more cunning —
than this.
And if only someone had told me
this morning
I’d make it through the day…
Dear God, now take me!
I won’t grow any wiser —
than this.
Castaway
To whom shall I tell?
My ship lies wrecked!
Still confused, I take all
with a grain of salt.
Above the dove,
the gull I pick.
No olive branch
within its beak!
Once the herald flies in,
it shall perish —
and its flesh
devoured! Neither roasted,
nor boiled; raw and fresh!
And just like this one God’s joke,
in poor taste!
From there on I’ll fast,
as long as I last —
like all true believers,
once spared from plight, must.
The Return
“They will come,”
whispered an old woman,
her head wrapped
in the scarf of her own skin.
“If you lay your ear
to the sleeping millstone,
you’ll hear
the cheerful rattling
of their wagons
on the way back home.”
“We must greet them properly,”
nodded the head of another,
ready to tumble
from her stiffened neck.
“We’ll knead dough
from a thousand grains,
bake a quail’s egg,
harvest bird’s milk
from pigeons’ crop—
all just to please them.”
“They are coming!”
grumbled the abandoned road,
rutted by rain and snow.
“I must be patched—
at least filled with slag,
here and there,
where snouts and hooves
have scarred the ground
in wild boars’ brawls.”
“And the school should be whitewashed!”
“And the fallen doors propped up!”,
from the overgrown ferns,
the crippled cockchafers already hum—
bearing witness to the sons’ return.
Andersen-like
Dear, inconsolable Hans
bewitched me all my youth
with African violets
magically shooting up
from lovers’ skulls.
Unlike you—
from whom not even weeds
could sprout; Oh, if only we had
girded you in time
in white marble!
May our children be
my absolution to the world:
saplings,
unaware of the rot they feed on.
Neither cage nor cradle
will keep them in your canopy—
only my love they build their nest.
A Dance on the City Square
Last night, all night
I bathed my little
feet, steeped in milk,
so they grow white
and feather-light,
lest you should feel
your shadow trapped
by my barefoot step.
All this for a dance
before your house,
on the city square,
cobblestone-paved.
I let down my hair,
a yellow silk scarf
loosely wrapped
around my hips.
My slender legs
seize your mute gaze,
tightly gripped.
Jovana Simic Roussou is a Serbian poet living in Greece. She writes in Serbian, Greek, and English and is the author of four published poetry collections in Serbian, as well as a bilingual Greek–Serbian children’s poetry book. Her work has appeared widely in magazines and anthologies across the Balkans and has received several regional literary awards.
Her poetry often explores memory, domestic and communal life, and the quiet rhythms of everyday experience. In translation, she seeks to preserve the emotional resonance and texture of the original language, creating work that speaks across cultures. Her poetry in English is forthcoming in Mantis Journal (Stanford University).
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