Western Voices: Daniel Pixiades

Daniel Pixiades was born in Yugoslavia in 1931. He finished Teachers College where he was a public school teacher and wrote short stories and poetry for children and adults. In 1974 he moved to Canada with his family. In Thunder Bay (Ontario province) he worked as a housekeeper at Lakehead University and at the same time as an editor of the emigrant newspaper Naše Novine published in Toronto. As an editor of the poetry page of NN he wrote essays and critiques pertaining to the works of Yugoslavian authors. There he published most of his poems that later made up books of poetry published in Serbian. There is more about Daniel Pixiades on his web site: www.cikadanko.com

Translated from Serbian by: by J.S-Smith and Ivanka Radmanović

     How does a dog's milk taste?
     A bitterness in a dream and a song in the frozen morning
slow dying of a stone iron and power
bursting bells and their bond with justice and lying
riding on one’s own herd of shame and sickness
a breath of the timeless stench of fallacy and honor
decaying in the humiliating plunder and messages
of such malice and high accomplishments
    Because the cliffs turn to mud after melting
the sun falls apart and divides within us                                                                                                              
the sky descends to the lowest point in the stories
as if eternity wasn't created for mankind                                                                                                                    
    The catacombs of the eons crumble in the blood of the poor
in the deathbed confessions on the deathbed of millionaires
and even almighty God blinks turning a blind
when we return to our ancient form as atoms of dust
    The daughters of the pharaohs are abducted too early from splendor
roses are prone to decay and rot
owe their rage to the shadows of ignorance and shamans
and to the stupid slowness of space and the Earth
become only a sediment in the debris of present and past
beggars cripples squanderers and false prophets
on the bottom of the amphora of time mixed up and faithful to the form 
in the wonderful image of the hunger and self-combustion of a world
without which there couldn't be beginning or survival
    Hermits move like maggots in a corpse
after a peculiar ecstasy of passion and wantonness
blood flickers on the swords of deceived warriors
who return without triumph
with wounds deeper than shame                                                                                                                                
and so they become repetitive killers
and a burden to their fathers and children
because wars cannot be healed with drugs medals and money
and cannot be forgotten upon return from the battle-field
    Every wretched morning the world is without icons and saints
we are sad in our robes without the crucifix and the faith
because Christianity reached the end of sweet talk
so the end is coming to everyone
to benefactors killers innocents prostitutes
and there are no incredible miracles at the end
and no one pays off their debts
because the end is a misery which cannot be evaded
     As if we and those over there had never existed
And it’s better like that, it’s better like that, it’s better like that
In the essence                                                                                                                                             
     Because a new world is here above us who
long for change

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