25/6/2017 Ana Seferović


 25.6/2017 Ana Seferović, Kirsty Allison & Bruce Sherfield will be reading @ Tennessee – Paris 12, rue André Mazet 75006 Paris (France)

Ana Seferović, Belgrde born writer, has written three collections of poetry: Duboki kontinent (Deep Continent – Matica Srpska, 2000), Beskrajna zabava (Endless Entertainment – Narodna knjiga, 2004) and Zvezda od prah-šećera (A Star Made of Icing Sugar – Association of Writers and Translators Pančevo, 2012).

Her poetry has been translated and published in many languages.

2015 saw the publication of her collaborative poetry book The City (published by Auropolis) with English poet Alice Maddicott and The Travelogue of The Car Boot Museum (published by Somerset Art Works).

She is also the co-author of two published and staged plays.

She is involved with international web-based poetry platforms as one of the editors of Supernovapoetry.net and Dirty Confetti and is currently engaged in numerous cross-over art projects in collaboration with various musicians and visual artists.

She lives in London.

“I am a writer and a textual artist, with a long history both in performing my texts and finding ways how to materialise them in a space and in different audio/visual media.
Writing comes first and then thoughts about what does it mean to read/perform a text, to exhibit a text, to connect with the audience in a space and what are the ways I can capture images and sounds that a text is creating leading from contemporary text and video/sound layers to the roots of ritual and magical power of integral unity of the word, sound and vision.”


From the manuscript “Mothers”

first you would hear the
metal garden gates
a loud bang
and then her high-heels
smashing the concrete
with the power of a CEO
causing a tight mixture
of anticipation, anxiety and
a weird feeling of guilt

for no obvious reason-

mummy is home

with suitcases full of
sweets for children
and nicely packed
stories for grown ups

oh those mothers
oh mothers mothers

tough blondes in charge
of surface mining
of men digging
/he is alive, he is well,
he is inside
earning, producing/

mothers not interested
in children
producing children
producing clean sheet,
serving food

serving entertainment

there was no entertainment
no entertainment

once she was offered a
house in a holy land
she refused it
she didn’t want to live there
she said it was too flat and
there was no birds

flat pancake of the holy land

no not for me sir

she also said that in some
countries, where she was
on her business trips
there was no cotton pants

you had to wait for your
turn to buy them

with your bare bottom?
children would ask chuckling

and that in another place
women had the longest legs
she had ever seen
and they were drinking
for a medial
smashing their long bony knees
on old cobbled streets

she tried eels
and frogs
and snakes and jelly
like desserts
drank martinis
and black russians
and white russians

and fly airplanes

where lunches were nicely
packed in a plastic tray

(she would always bring little
satchels of sugar and salt
and plastic cutlery with the
logo of the airline home)

and that in some places she
was followed by an agent
who would tell her if she

had gone too far

you always have to go too far
to understand
the cold drinks
the cold war
brown drink cabinets

we all went too far

( that morning on her 37th
birthday she looked at
herself in the mirror
and finally understood
that weird expression
on her mother’s face
she noticed as a child:

I observed her from her window;
she was thin
always looking like a
girl from a faraway
good bone structure
people would say

now in her memory, it
was always sunset
roofs tops and tree tops
sinking slowly into the
sticky apricot sunset jam
everything was just
floating there

and her mother
floating there too



smoking like those cowboys on
horses riding off into the horizon
smoking like those french stars
in their convertibles, curving
above the mediterranean
smoking like a free woman
lingering in a bar, ready
for some new loving
like a secret agent

like bond, james bond

that was how she looked to her
puffing those hours
and hours away
floating in warm sunsets
but her weird expression
was always a mystery
until that morning, when she
saw her own face in the mirror:
swollen eyes, endless boredom.

yes, that’s it!

her mother was bored.
and that was a special kind
of elaborate boredom
boredom of a factory
worker who decided he would
stay forever in a factory
he didn’t like
who decided that every
day would be the same and
not quite satisfactory
but that every day
would be familiar
and that was good enough
not the boredom one feels
when there is nothing to do
this was boredom where
everything was boring
the very essence of her
universe was boring
this apricot sunset
just materialised
reassuring boredom

she understood her
mother’s face now
and she loved her
more than ever

around the place where
she was smoking
a circle of cigarette buds
was spreading like
an upside down halo
like a little stage
waiting for her to come back
and conduct yet another
magnificent sunset of thrills

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