Arts Culture, art lessons, oil paintings, Graphic Art, modern sculpture, portraits photographs, Feng Shui decorating tips, global museum, italian painting, art deco furniture, art nouveau, living room home decor, japanese crafts,  landscape gardening, home decor
Goran Simic
poet, short story writer, essayist.
Immigrant Blues released spring 2003 on Brick Books Canada
Work in Progress: An Anthology of Canadian Poetry, translated into Serbo-Croatian.
Your first name:

Your URL:

Your message :

Goran Simic

for Fraser Sutherland

A lamb escaped from me
and I sent the wolf to bring it back.
such lambs loiter about the forest,
and leave droppings where I like to watch the valley.
I am afraid something might happen to the wolf.
There are many fugitive lambs
very few such faithful wolves.
Years pass before you train them
not to look you in the eyes
but at your hands.

I've read in an encyclopedia
how many people were killed in Auschwitz.
Like lambs.
Later I read a book about the same camp
but 308 victims were missing from the list.

Between those two books
my wolf treads in the deep snow
and draws a thick red line with his tail,
contentedly sniffing the air.
The spring is coming again
when the snow melts as fast as memory
and lambs feel the urge to escape.


Immigrant Blues
(Brick Books Canada, 2003)
Book of Wondering
(Knjiga Lutanja - Rad Beograd, 2002)
Alledaagse Adam
(Atlas, Amsterdam, Holland,1999)
Peace and War (with Fraser Sutherland)
(Limited edition, Toronto, Canada 1998)
Sprinting from the gravetard
(Oxford University Press, England, 1997)
Sorrow of Sarajevo
(Cargo press, England, 1996)
Sarajevo Sorrow
(MCZM, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1995)
Sarajevos Sorg
(Sypress Forlag, Norway, 1995)
Sarajevos Sorg
(Studiekamraten, Sweden, 1995)
Sarajevo - ojeblikke af en krig
(Gyldendal, Denmark,1995)
Placz Sarajewa
(Pogranicze, Poland, 1995)
Sarajevon Suru
(WSOY, Finland,1994)
Sarajevska tuga
(IN Press, Serbia, Studio B-92, Serbia,
Vodnikova Domacija, Slovenia, 1994)
Fantasy book
(Svjetlost, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1989)
A step into the dark
(Svjetlost, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1987)
Selected poems
(Svjetlost, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1985)
(V.Maslesa, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1982)
(V.Maslesa, Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1977)
A period next to a circle or a journey
(Svjetlost, Bosnia-Herzegovina,1976)


Three plays for puppets
(Bosnia-Herzegovina, 1998)
A fairy tale about Sarajevo
Roentgen S, Germany 1995)


Wind in Uniform-comedy
London under siege (libretto),
composed by David Wilde
(National Theatre Hannover, 1999)
Europe, (libretto)
composed by Nigel Osborne
(National Theatre Sarajevo, 1995)


Where is winter (1988,1989, 1996)
A fairy tale about Sarajevo (1994)
Marko the prince and the Fairy (1988)
A cubical ball (1987)
Spring, Summer, Fall (1986)
The little match girl (1985)
Thumbellino the lanky (1986)

My poetry was included in several
world anthologies in several languages:

101 Poems Against War
by Faber and Faber (2003)
Scanning the Century
by Penguin books (2000)
Banned poetry
by Index of censorship (1997)


Strange Things Happen Here - prose poetry
7 Sad Stories - short stories

I was born in Bosnia-Herzegovina on October 20, 1952. My poetry, essays and reviews have appeared in all the prominent journals of the former Yugoslavia as well as publications abroad. I also wrote short stories, plays, radio plays and was the editor of several literary magazines. I came to Canada as a landed immigrant in February 1996 under the auspices of PEN Canada. For a period of one year I was a senior resident of Massey College.
Goran Simic - Audio Files
musical collaborations with Miro Brcic from Immigrant Blues

Goran Simic
articles books
articles lessons
heritage artists A-Z
featured art magazines
competitions art museums
styles styles
magazines featured artists
museums news for artists
links links
links blog
contact contact

(for Visnja)

I love my accent, I love that wild sea
which attacks my weak tongue.
It doesn't reside in the morning radio news
as much as in the rustle of the job offer flyers
stapled to the street poles.
In my accent you can find my past,
the different me who still talks with imagined fishes
in a glass of water.

My grandfather was a fisherman
and I grew up on a dock
waiting for him to come back.
He built a gigantic aquarium when I was born
and every time he brought a fish
he named it immediately by some word I had to learn
until the next came.
I remember the first two were called "I am"
and after that the beauty of language came to me
through the shining scales.
I learned watching the aquarium
and recognizing the words by the silent colors.
After returning home
my grandfather would spend whole nights
making sentences by combining the fishes
who would pass each other.
It's how I learned to speak.

I left the house the day when my grandfather went
fishing for a black fish he was missing
and never came back.

Now I am sitting in the middle of my empty room
as in an aquarium
and talking with ghosts of the fishes
I used to recognize by words,
talking with the shadows floating
over the flyers ripped off street poles.

"I love my accent....
I love my accent.."
I repeat and repeat again
just not to ask myself :

Who am I now.
Am I real or just the black fish
my grandfather failed to catch.



I'd never been aware how beautiful my house is
until I saw it burning,
my schoolmate told me, who had twenty pieces of shrapnel
that remained deep under his skin after the war.
He wrote me how at the airport he enjoyed
having upset the customs officials who couldn't understand
why the checkpoint metal detector howled for no reason.

I had never been aware I was a nation
until they said they'd kill me,
my friend told me,
who'd escaped from a prison camp
only to be caught and raped by Gypsies
while she was roaming in the woods.
Then they sold her to some Italian pimps
who tattooed the owner's brand and number on her fist.
She says you cannot see it when she wears gloves.

I recognized them in a small town in Belgium.
They were sitting and watching the river
carry plastic bags, cans,
and garbage from the big city.
She was caressing the hard shrapnel lumps
through his shirt
and he was caressing her glove.

I wanted to say hello
and give them a jolly photograph from the times
when none of us knew the meaning
of House and Nation.

Then I realized that there was more meaning
in the language of silence
in which they were seeing off
the plastic bags down the river
than in the language
in which I would have tried to feign those faces
from the old photograph
that shows us all smiling long ago.

Copyright StudioTreasure© 1999-2009. All rights reserved. StudioTreasure.