The Poetry of Radovan Karadzic
July 22, 2008
They have finally caught up with Serbian guerilla Radovan Karadzic, one of the Serb architects of ethnic cleansing in the Bosnian conflict.
My interest in Karadzic stems from his status as a warrior/poet. Yes, he wrote poetry and has continued to do so from in hiding! There are a number of interesting articles online about the mythical warrior/poet aspect of the Karadzic phenomenon. Considered a National hero to many Serbian’s and with his pursuit dramatized by the Richard Gere movie The Hunting Party, this former psychiatrist turned genocide exponent, wrote some interesting poems. Two of which I reprint below.
Maybe, we can expect a new volume of poems from The Hague, before he suddenly has a ‘heart attack’ like his former chum Milosevic. But wasn’t the whole Bosnian thing just a warm up to the Democratic West’s own war on Muslims? I mean Karadzic has killed far less innocent citizens than Bush and Blair after all? When are they’re dates at the Hague? Karadzic was no fan of Muslims and if this race war of Bush’s is to continue, maybe the US and Israel can ask him to continue his poetry and other activities, in their own theatre of operations?
Regardless of his career, I find the idea of the warrior/poet fascinating. Byron, D’Annunzio, Mishima. Now Karadzic.
Enjoy his poetry…
Measure your steps, your hand’s twists
That spear you throw is mad
The landscapes awaiting it are full of no names and no reason.
Something like a chill is nesting within you
That spear, that stretched arm, glows in your head
You feel that mortal metal, its presence
You don’t think of it and it is still a metal.
You think of it and it leaves you as super metal
As metal which lives but is no metal
And the difference is reason enough to become a set of events.
It sets landscapes unseen to its serpent-like spine
It changes and glows while doing it
Does it only threaten or glisten for its beauty’s sake
Full of love for the blade which is itself?
Brought to madness thinking about its purpose
And becomes a hero
Before the gap, before the irreversible one that stays.
Twittering from time to time and also tired and vulnerable
It always returns to your abandoned self
Devastated by the new finding.
I hear the misfortune threads
Turned into a beetle as if an old singer
Is crushed by the silence and turned into a voice.
The town burns like a piece of incense
In the smoke rumbles our consciousness.
Empty suits slide down the town.
Red is the stone that dies, built into a house. The Plague!
Calm. The army of armed poplar tree
Marches up the hill, within itself.
The aggressor air storms our souls
and once you are human and then you are an air creature.
I know that all of these are the preparations of the scream:
What does the black metal in the garage have for us?
Look how fear turned into a spider
Looking for the answer at his computer.