Thanks to all the authors who have influenced my poetic work...many of these classics I'm still reading. Here are all the writers and poets who helped me to become what I am: Dostoevsky, Bulgakov, Marquez, Huxley, Hemingway, Hamsun, Krleža, Kundera, Tribuson, Carver, Fitzgerald, Yourcenar, Hesse, Twain, Celine, Quelho, Castaneda, Blake, Whitman, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Prevert, Matos, Ujević, Kamov and many others ...
Jack Kerouac's book On the Road was a turning point. That was the time when I began to like beatniks, the free expression, loosed from forms and literary directions – the literary freedom on the road. Jack introduced me to Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Burroughs, Corso, and later to Bukowski and Miller – the last two were no beatniks, but they certainly used free verses and described unrestrainedly the reality of America, which cannot be seen on TV – the America of the streets, sex, bohemians and vagabonds, the America of simple survival.
in the temple
whip and thorns
From the Dolorosa
to the cross and the blood
death and resurrection,
on the Olive Mount
to the rock where it was betrayed
to the tree where he was arrested
In Galilee, where he appeared
to the water on which he walked
on the coast, where he preached
in Jordan, where he was baptized
In the wilderness, where he was tempted
challenged by Satan
before his Father proven
carrying a victory in the fertile coast
and the desert to the devil goes
In Jerusalem, after many centuries
in Israel in all religion conflicts ;
in a church, synagogue, mosque
at the Wailing Wall, in front of the blade of a Roman sword
the Herod Treasury of gold
In the room of the last supper
where flesh and blood was shared,
to the terrible acts of Judas' betrayal
to Mother and Magdalene terrified
In Nazareth, to the prophet
in Bethlehem to the holy child
by Lazarus once more alive
all the dead on their feet again
In the Holy Land
to our God
Artists, songwriters, poets and singers among the top five of my greatest ones: Van Gogh, Michelangelo, Lou Reed, Jim Morrison and NickCave. Those are the five who have inspired me...
„To publish the bad writing of great writers is much like beating the shit out of a man when he is totally drunk. It just ain't fair, baby.“
„We don't need poetry writing seminars, we need poetry writers.“
„The movie world is what kills writers.“
„To have great poetry, we must have great audiences.“
„If you keep on doing newspaper work, you will never see things, you will only see words“
„Reality is the best fantasy off all.“
"The result must be an act , not an abstract idea."
"People who do not believe in this sun are real wicked."
"What is more natural, more human and more comprehensible than those strange statements of a solitary poet?"
"Nothing stands in the way of a man, only his own ghostly fear."
"A man sometimes travel the whole world without moving from the spot where he live."
"If you want to be a winner, you have to give the best you can."
"A true poet serves beauty, not the government."
" The reality is, more or less, what we want."
"Love is the only innocence and the only virginity is not to think."
"Poetry as a reflection of reality."
"If you stop supervise your future, you will discover happiness."
An old Chinese
"Who don't like Dostoevsky, don't like literature."
"Humanity is not aking for despair, hopelessness and futility, but hope, love and the possibility of goodness."
From the book " The only planet of choice "
Blues is my passion. Blues coming from the speakers while I’m writing songs. Blues behind the wheel while driving along the Adriatic coast, Blues in central Istria at a table with ham, cheese, red wine, Blues in the deserts of California, the pain of New Orleans, the midnight lullaby of John Lee Hooker. I grew up on guitar solos, moderate bass sounds, heartbreaking saxophone. Muddy Waters, Albert King, Robert Johnson, B. B. King, Eric Clapton, Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Taj Mahal… they were my idols. Because of them my interest awoke, and my love for rock music grew. Blues masters are the ones I owe my passion to for meeting the Doors, Lou Reed, The Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, the Stones, Nick Cave, U2, Tom Waits ... live blues in the bars of the French Quarter, the original black voices, genes of slaves, the cry for freedom, the escape through the swamps of Louisiana... all that I felt in the city of black music, the cradle of jazz and blues, the imperishable New Orleans of cool rhythms.
I then started towards the West coast, drove though deserts, listened to a blues radio station and dashed through the immense dusty areas into the heart of nowhere on the fuel called blues. On the shores of the ocean, in the megalopolis of Los Angeles, I lived on and from the blues, beer, steaks. One morning I sat on a plane and landed in New York, and there, in Manhattan, I screamed out my blues on the fiftieth floors of inaccessible peaks, at night I went to wicked and seedy nightclubs where blues was slowly poured out until dawn when I went along the avenues of the Morning Blues, with tired steps.
But when I briefly settled down in the South of Chicago, where half a century ago the King of the Blues, Muddy Waters, ruled in the darkness of the underworld and when blues belonged only to the oppressed, I realized that electric blues, to which I still gladly listen to under the slopes of Mount Učka, in my home beyond the world, where I listen to the Midnight Blues in the silence of my mind....
Can you hear the crickets in the summer afternoon
while sitting in the shade and drinking light wine?
The wind from the sea in the warm afternoon whispers its stories...
We live in the Land of Paradise, the most beautiful sunsets
in the foetus of Gods fruit.
We live at the entrance into the Paradise
Healthy crumbs were given to us, a full glass, too.
A beautiful indented coast and a bed under the stars.
The Mediterranean as a Habitat
I climbed to a clearing where I could watch the sea, hills, peaks and canyons in peace, cliffs and lush vegetation, clouds and islands, too. There I created a home, brought a wife and a dog, founded the home of love. Faith is in the air, silence, God. Stone, wood and water on the ground. Everything is imbued with truth and somehow tailor-made for me - simple, modest, natural. To strike the Mediterranean stone with my palm, to afford fresh water streams to my body and the warmth of a burning log in the fireplace to my soul, these are the experiences, which I live. I chose to dream away from the world, in a kind of loneliness, isolated and in spiritual freedom.
"I live to celebrate life through a tired writer's literary pains to whom America happened and whose heart is close to melancholy and benevolent coastal tranquility."
Maybe a Desert
New York gives rise to sinful dreams,
California is beautiful in the morning
Where am I?
To whom belongs the writer's soul?
Who am I?
Poet of the sea and the coast
Or poet of urban corners?
Who am I when I'm torn apart with questions?
What do I want?
Or write poetry?
Perhaps both. Exactly that.
New York is a spitting image of reality,
California a scene in the eye of a director.
Where to place my desires?
What do I need?
Maybe a desert.