@ddtpecko 23 June 2022 more from that month

My dear friends of the noise! Unfortunately, on this day in 1986, the great man and great poet Miroslav Mika Antić left us. In addition to literature, he was engaged in painting, journalism and film. The poet Mika Antić said in one conversation that he had read many writers, and that everyone influenced him. But there are few, as he said, who remained his good and eternal friends. In children's literature, for example, as he said, he was never disappointed in St. Exupery. In his work, Antic, like Exiperi, shows how valuable small things are that adults do not notice. Addressing the children, he says: "My songs are not songs, but letters to each of you. They are not in these words, but in you, and the words are used only as keys, to unlock the door behind which some poetry, already experienced, already finished, already said many times, is waiting closed to be released. " Here are some of Mika's verses: AFTER CHILDHOOD Maybe it's the sun, and maybe not because: these thousands of hands, these thousands of people, - All at once this morning it seems unknown as if out of town boy and girl. Suddenly: as if they had crossed over the big bridge, twisted and beautiful reminiscent of debt, into a new life, to one shore another. Under the sky, from afar, what awaits them there? Behind them are strips of birds and strips of wind are drawn. And they run. And wave. And they hold hands. Under the sky, from afar, what does it call them there? Cities are sailing after them. Behind them the expanses float. And everything is like a dream when they are overflowing with gold. Maybe it is, I say because of the sun, and maybe that's not why. Wait! Wait! - I shout. I know what that rainbow means. I know: that other coast it floats much better. But let each of you at least a crumb of childhood carried secretly in his hand and kept in mind. Maybe you without that crumb I won't even meet, not to arrive and we will live together, go to the same cinema, in the same restaurant eat the same food, in the same street maybe our days will pass, and yet - without that crumb, tiny crumbs of childhood, we will be so alien, we will be so foreign. And once, when the years pass to infinity, to distance, and colorful days pass as if they weren't, and all walks are tired, and gray April, and a beautiful blue tuft it settles over our eyes, - You'll see that crumb, tiny crumbs of childhood, a new life is worth it. It's like growing in the heart big star story carefree golden yellow, so you live many more times, countless more times. *********************************************************************************************** Dragi moji prijatelji buke! Nažalost na današnji dan 1986. godine nas je napustio veliki čovek i veliki pesnik Miroslav Mika Antić. Pored književnosti, bavio se slikarstvom, novinarstvom i filmom. Pesnik Mika Antić je u jednom razgovoru rekao da je čitao mnoge pisce, i da su na njega svi uticali. Ali je malo onih, kako je govorio, koji su mu ostali dobri i večiti prijatelji. U dečjoj literaturi, na primer, kako je govorio, nikad se nije razočarao u Sent Egziperija. U svom delu, Antić, poput Egziperija, pokazuje koliko su vredne male stvari koje odrasli ljudi ne primećuju. U obraćanju deci on kaže: „Moje pesme nisu pesme, nego pisma svakome od vas. One nisu u ovim rečima, već u vama, a reči se upotrebljavaju samo kao ključevi, da se otključaju vrata iza kojih neka poezija, već doživljena, već završena, već mnogo puta rečena, čeka zatvorena da je neko oslobodi“. Evo malo Mikinih stihova: POSLE DETINJSTVA Možda je to zbog sunca, a možda i nije zato: ove hiljade ruku, ove hiljade lica, — sve mi to jutros odjednom izgleda nepoznato kao da nema u gradu dečaka i devojčica. Odjednom: ko da su prešli preko velikog mosta, izvijenog i lepog što podseća na dugu, u neki novi život, na neku obalu drugu. Pod nebom, iz daleka, šta ih to tamo čeka? Za njima trake ptica i trake vetra se vuku. A oni trče. I mašu. I drže se za ruku. Pod nebom, iz daleka, šta ih to tamo zove? Za njima gradovi plove. Za njima prostranstva plove. I sve je nalik na snove kad ih prelije zlato. Možda je, kažem, zbog sunca, a možda i nije zato. Stojte! Čekajte! — vičem. Ja znam šta znači ta duga. Znam: ona obala druga mnogo lepše se plavi. Al neka svako od vas bar mrvicu detinjstva ponese krišom u ruci i sačuva u glavi. Možda vas bez te mrve neću ni sresti, ni stići, a živećemo skupa, u isti bioskop ići, u istom restoranu ručati istu hranu, u istoj ulici možda prolaziće nam dani, pa ipak — bez te mrve, sićušne mrve detinjstva, bićemo toliko tuđi, bićemo toliko strani. A jednom, kad godine minu u beskraj, u daljinu, i prođu šareni dani kao da nisu ni bili, i umore se sve šetnje, i posive aprili, i lepi plavi čuperak nad okom nam osedi, — videćeš da ta mrva, majušna mrva detinjstva, nov neki život vredi. Kao da raste u srcu velika zvezdana priča, bezbrižna, zlatnožuta, pa živiš još mnogo puta, još nebrojeno puta.