Ermin Basic British-Bosnian Author

The first poem “Trunk and Roots” and a photo dedicated to the village of Jugovići near Gacko BiH (my grandmother last name is Jugo).

Written in 2022.

The second poem “Lastva (village of Bašići)” is dedicated to the village of Bašići near Gacko BiH (my last name is Bašić).

Photo of me in a Sufi mosque in London.

Written in 2023.

The third poem “Horses and Cows” is dedicated to the village of Plana near Bileća BiH (surname Avdić is of my great grandmother).

Photo of Avdić’s mosque.

Written in 2024.

The fourth poem “Church and Mosque” is dedicated to the village of Dobropolje near Gacko BiH (my great-grandmother’s last name is Zanović).

Photo of the tower of Žabljak near Lake Skadar.

Written in 2025

The fifth poem “Bosanian Village” is dedicated to all Bosnian villages from which certain nationalities and surnames disappeared after the wars in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

In the photo I am in Regents Park, and behind me is the Central London Mosque.

Trunk and Roots

Illyrians knew way back when about the ways of forgiveness

The state of Zeta had been standing tall for centuries 

Herzog, the old ruler, stretched his hands reaching for the skies

Bosnia remained desolate yet resilient

The United Kingdom has stopped the time

Once there was a beginning and now we’re nearing the end 

A road to infinity never forgotten

26/12/22

Lastva (Bašići village)

Over Skakala, the stone river crossing, a grasshopper touches the sky with each landing, up to the blue heaven in the sad eyes of a calf.

A leech kisses the bloody feet of a mistrusting woman, once a child torn from the fate of happiness.

The crabs cut off the painful areas in the belly of the beast, and end up retreating into stone caves.

Sargan, the curled up snake, swallowed me whole, but threw me out onto a sedge raft on the Rascen side of the river, so I fall into the mud, up to my neck, as it caresses my naked body, healing the scars of the burden of grief.

The voices of mistrusting frogs wake me up on the Ljuta karst,

in a pit collecting rainwater covered with linden flowers from the nearby mountain.

I roll on the slope of the Meteriz hill and cover the wounds with rosehip and elderflower ointment, (if such a thing exists, but it’s real for me).

The howling of dogs in a night covered with fireflies and a starry sky, not that I know the difference between the two. And the moon, hidden somewhere, guards mezars – the graves of stolen, innocent youth.

22/05/23

London

Horses and Cows

With a three-pronged pitchfork, I stack bundles of sunlit hayon the slopes of the hilltop, sprinkled with rattling green hazelnuts.

 

I gather domed berries, peculiar herbs for tea, from the reeds of sharp-edged, flavourful grass,

Perfect for the brown and grey cows, healthy, with great udders, whose horns I separate with strong hands as they prove themselves in battle, while horseflies drink their blood,

The good and diligent women wait to milk them, drawing out every drop of Allah’s gift within them.

 

These same women bring crisp pies, tasty cheeses, and sackcream, from leather sacks balanced on their heads, wrapped in scarves,

With legs covered by rustling dimije*, swaying their bodies in small steps across the bridge,

Under which the now-sated cows cross the blue river, filling their nostrils and bellies with cold water after a feast in abundance.

 

Harnessed horses struggle with muscular bodies, climbing the rocky uphill path riddled with potholes, dragging carts loaded with hay from already-stacked mounds, where I once rested my soul, leaning my back against the straws that summon diamonds.

 

After the work is done and the storeroom filled with golden hay, I watch the villagers play football on the emerald field, full of strength and life, though already weary from the hard labor of a farmer’s day.

 

I lie down on a creaking bed, covered with peacock-feathered thoughts, drifting into boyhood dreams that erase sorrow, bringing back happy days in some future time, perhaps somewhere far away, yet days so close to my heart.

December 20, 2024 & December 23, 2024

Inspired by the village of Bašići in Bosnia and Herzegovina, written in London

 

 

 * Dimije are traditional, loose-fitting trousers worn by women in Bosnia and other parts of the Balkans, as well as the Middle East, and Central Asia. They are typically gathered at the waist and ankles, creating a baggy silhouette. Historically, they were a common part of women’s attire in Bosnia, especially among Muslim women, and were often paired with a long tunic or dress.

Church and Mosque

On a deserted island, I walk through bloody mud,

Water lilies drown white egrets,

Snakes slither between two churches and a single mosque,

Their stone towers and minaret touching,

As bells ring and the call to prayer echoes.

 

The sun sets in the lake’s cove,

The moon illuminates the barren rocks in the solitude of night,

While in my thoughts, I glimpse ancient light

And soar on the wings of black egrets

Into the depths of waterfalls made of moon shadows and starry paths.

 

A donkey brays, I eat cheese and figs,

Stumbling in the shallows full of oysters,

Now shadows tremble on the lake’s surface,

Bathing my face in blessed warmth.

A cross and a grave lie side by side,

I fall to Sujud,

I pray and write this poem,

While the sounds of opera in my ear

Recite words written centuries ago.

January 25–26, 2025

English National Opera, inspired by the village of Plana in Bosnia and the island of Beška in Montenegro

Bosnian Village

A stone wall extends as far as the eye can see around the blue‑green house on a lofty, golden hill on a dewy planet,

where a stream murmurs like the song of a nightingale, and where lizards leave their tails to live and twitch with each blink of the eyelids of chickens whose heads have been severed.

The wooden palisade, drooping from the touch of the large, well‑fed bellies of Bosnian cattle, “Buša”, – our golden cows that generously give milk every day – stretches around the fertile field where I dig potatoes with both hands, darkened by the sun with sleeves rolled to their ends.

I pluck the golden specks of beetles from tired leaves and I’m picking dew‑covered, ruddy strawberries, then thrust my hands into a clump of “balega” to extract thick, meaty, yellow worms, which I then set on a hook while fishing for red‑speckled little fish in the nearby river.

The calf tumbles into a heap of slime on the floor of “pojata”, while I cut the throat of a ram, hanging headlong, bound by its legs, and let its blood flow into a tin cauldron from which a Bosnian dog, “Tornjak”, laps the warm blood.

I eat white kidneys roasted on a grill in a hut, where I then roast coffee in “šiša” and scatter glowing coals with “mašice”.

The slices of ham that hang everywhere are imbued with smoke, while darkness covers the thatched roof and stars fall, without the slightest fear, into the hearts of sleeping, innocent villagers.

09.04.25

*

Buša – Bosnian a small native breed cattle

Balega – Cattle, horse and sheep dung or poop rich in minerals

Pojata – Built place where you keep domestic animals

Tornjak – Bosnian a big native breed dog

Šiša – Old Bosnian drum coffe roaster made of metal

Mašice – Old Bosnian tool made of metal which you use to handle grill and fire