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Kosta (Kocho) Racin
 Kocho
(Kosta) Solev Racin is the founder of the contemporary
macedonian poetry. He was born in Veles, 1908, in the family
of the potmaker Apostol. From early childhood he experienced
the hard life, filled with constant strugle for basic existence,
for bread. Kocho Racin understood early that "those who
work the hardest have little." He accepted the potmaking
work, because his dad didn't have enough money to send
him to school. He finished 8th grade and was helping in
his dad's shop, but the wish for knowledge was stronger
than everything else. He started to educate himself; he
spent nights and nights in the attic reading marxists litterature
by the candlelight. In the same time he was reading the
works of Maxim Gorky, Balzac and the other great authors
of the world litterature.
He started to write poetry and prose in serbo-croatian
language at first and then in Macedonian, although it was
forbidden to write and publish works in Macedonian at the
time.
His poetry met approval by the progresive world from whole
Yugoslavia. In 1939 in the small town of Samobor (near
Zagreb in Croatia) his collection of poems Beli Mugri(White
Dawns) was published. It was a small book, but with big
historical and literaturical value. The book was published
underground and it was distributed in the same way. The
ditribution of the book was forbidden immidiately for two
reasons: it was published in Macedonian and it attacked
the usurpators of the Macedonian peasant and the worker.
The book not only conveyed anger towards the exploatators
but called for revolution against the bourgoasie.
Kocho Racin joined the partisans, as a participant
in the People's Liberation War-PLB. On 13 of June 1943
he was killed by mistake by a partisan guard, on the Lopushnik
Mountain near Kichevo.
The tobacco gatherers
On cold scales with bronze they weigh it-
but can they gauge its weight-
our tobacco, our troubles,
our salty sweat!
From the dark dim dawns of summer mornings
up to the godless time of winter evenings
greedily it drinks of our sorrow,
our sweat, our blood and our strength.
The yellow-gold makes faces pale
and brings a yellow guest into out breast.
On dew-laden mornings in the first dawn
bowed low in the fields of the place where we were
born
listlessly we gather it in.
Pick leaf by leaf
string leaf by leaf
turn leaf by leaf over and press down,
line leaf by leaf gently, sadly
on the long string of beads of sweat
hope with an oath and green fury
with hard stares from cloudy eyes
at the soft leaves all yellow gold
a bitter tale of a life accursed
string on so, soundlessly but clear.
Don't you know this ?
The day is come for the weighing-up.
There is no gauge meet, it burrows in the breast
without ceasing, without finding its level
not grief but an oath, and in the clouded eyes
unsummoned rises the tempest.
The scales bear golden leaves
while in the breast rage furious waves
of golden grief, of golden tobacco
of the golden sweat of our hands. |
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Tutunoberachite
Na kantar studen so tuch go merat
a mozhat li da go izmerat
nashiov tutun - nashava maka
nashava solena pot!
Od temni zori na utrini letni
do nikoa doba na vecheri zimni
toj gladno pie tagata nasha
i potta i krvta i snagata ni.
Zholt - zholti pravi licata bledni
i zholta gostinka u gradite nosi.
Po utrini rosni, po mugrite presni
navedeni nichkum po polinja rodni
zachmaeni nie go bereme.
List po list kini
list po list nizhi
list po list prevrtuj, pritiskaj,
list po list milno, tagovno redi
i na dolga niza od kapki pot
i nadezh so kletva i zelena jad,
so korav pogled na ochite matni
po krevkite lisja zholtozlatni
prikaska gorka na zhivot klet
nanizhi bezglasna a taka jasna.
Ta ne znaesh li?
Denot li dojde toj da se meri -
merka mu nema, a v gradite dlabi
bez da se zapre, bez dno da najde
ne taga a kletva, i v ochi matni
i ne sakajc'i sama da se diga
furijata.
Kantarot nosi lisjeto zlatno
a v gradi luto dalgite besnat
na zholtata maka - na zholtiot tutun
na zholtata pot na racete ni! |
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