Poets from the World, Boris Jovanović Kastel, Montenegro


Boris Jovanovic Kastel (Trebinje, 1971), considered by literary critics the most important Montenegrin poet of Mediterranean origin and prominent name of Mediterranen poetry.

He published the following books of poetry:

The Scents of regrets (1994)
The Rings of Seaside (1995)
Footnotes of Southern Bells (1997)
The Anatomy of The Mediterranean Day (1998)
The Mediterranean Agenda and Predicting the past (2000)
The Mediterranean Hexateuch (2003)
The Ego of the Sea (2004)
Wedding with Cuttle-fish (2007)
Neptune’s spear (2007, selected poems in English)
Mediterranean indigo (2008, selected poems)
Lunch on the cliff (2010)
Kosilo na čeri (2014, poetry in Slovenian)

He also published four books of selected essays:

The Parchement of Mermaid’s bust (2000)
The Fifth Side of South (2005)
Mirroring the Calm (2009)
The Mediterranean Enlightenment – Our Mediterranean, Compass of Faith (2012)

Mediterranean Nobleman, the book with selected essays of local and foreign writers on poetry of Boris Jovanovic Kastel (2010).

He won the Nosside World Poetry Praise, awarded under the auspices of UNESCO’s World Poetry Directorate in Reggio di Calabria (2011).

He was editor of the Montenegrin literature review Ovdje (2000-2003).
He published his essays in the Montenegrin daily news Pobjeda, for many years.
His poetry was translated in Italian, English, Polish, Czech, Hungarian, Albanian and Slovenian.
His poetry is presented in Antology of the World Poetry Nosside , in Italian, as well as in Anthology of Mediterranean Love Poetry from the oldest time until nowdays, Anthology of the Slavic poetry in Slovenian, Anthology of the Montenegrin poetry in Italian, Anthology of the Montenegrin poetry in Albanian, several anthologies of Montenegrin poetry on wine, women…
Selected as one of thirty poets of the world for The VI World Poetry Festival in Calcutta (India, 2012).
He lives in Podgorica.



I don’t trust the sea anymore
it did not withdraw before us
to the wine bottle of the antique shop
or the aquarium of Peter the second Orseol,
nor has it without reasoning flooded us,
glittering and murmuring
it plays kolo* without a leader,
to a hundred year old circle
and bacchanals with a Lovćen fairy
it lights.

* Montenegrin folk dance


She rushed to the sun long ago
and it celebrates or burns down.
They make me forget her,
but I can’t
because the sun is still rising
above the Mother of Jesus in Perast
where in the cell
surrounded by the senses of panihidas
by the storms and turnkeys
I hear the burning of the eagle
at the carnival of merchants.
I survive by biting my nails
and I secretly drink diluted urine,
by the fish skeleton
I engrave the genealogy
of gentlemen and haiduks
of cut veins.
Excuse me the lady of Montenegro,
I read and remember you –
banned to the promise of sandy covers.



I followed her for a whole hour
along the streets of Naples.
I remember the market place,
the portals of the old town,
the strands without strollers.
I followed her so barefoot
with a transparent skirt and a blouse,
without a brassier
As if she sensed me,
she turned toward me,
with woman’s shrewdness,
she looked at the tower.
I thought to stop her,
to introduce myself,
to tell her that I am a poet
from a country Montenegro
and without hesitation
to declare my love.
Or maybe
to give her a book,
to offer her a stroll
to the cathedral
and to wake up in the attic
of a rented apartment.
I was silent,
and lost courage
and I looked at the tower
at a minute to noon.
I didn’t ask her anything
and I didn’t even think of touching her
not even her shadow –
as a half of a violin –
played by a blind man
on the other side of the street.
She was leaving
as if she knew
who I was,
from which country –
where people consciously
hold their eyes closed
and blind people
feel the presentiment
of the end.



The wings of schizophrenic gulls
a minute to twelve
don’t show up any more.
Behind unknown, blind ships,
without the eighth passengers,
charmed by going out,
they went to no return.
The sea hot tempered in the chest.
On tops of towers and castles
decorated by God weaving the flags
at half masts, a minute to noon.
The new illusion will not come –
for a long time,
nor it will hurry when the high sea needs
the blood group of Citera, Cicero’s lady
after a meal and a prostitute from the highest society –
for salvation.
Rusty of tears of angels
for a revived and again petrified caryatid,
the mechanisms of clocks have remained.
Rusty – for us to follow them.

Translated and edited
by Vladimir Sekulić and Julka Ostojić



In the night of the first day of summer
from a museum of the southern museums
the Neptune’s spear was stolen,
a young palm tree was broken
from a tree lined path
without an end.
It is the second night of summer,
I am the witness –
a spineless and hunchback person.

Translated and edited by Vladimir Sekulić