if it opens it wonÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t take root and only then could you touch the facelessness, it drizzles in your ear, tapping, leaf drop at the first step, it spreads its fingers on the membrane, catches its breath to defend itself and walks on, down again, down again, because death is not here, wall-zone is air-zone is an obstacle, like a breach sunk flat, a second step

If this block of words seems like nonsense, well, youÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™re not wrong. But it could mean something specific. ItÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s the readerÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s job to give it meaning. This may feel burdensome, but these poems are asking the reader to be their co-creator. ItÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s an obligation you accept when you continue to read them. In this duty, you are as important as the poet. There are clues, but you get to put them together. Lucky you.

DjurdjevićÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s poems are referred to as avant-garde, a label that seems both vague and lazy. His work does qualify as such, but to lump it in with everything else under the umbrella term doesnÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™t offer one much of an idea of what to expect. Then again, the term avant-garde might be enough to engage curious readers and weed out timid ones. Of course, Morse, My Deaf Friend will not likely win over new poetry fans. There are plenty of people who are comfortable ignoring poetry, and, to quote Frank OÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™Hara, bully for them.

Clearly Djurdjević is not concerned. Rather, he offers the adventuresome reader a chance to see what can be found in this puzzle. And who am I to say that my reading or yours or anyoneÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s is best? ThereÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s a smidgen of loyalty we owe the text, otherwise itÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s every man for himself. Read into these what you will. ItÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s part of the experience.

The chapbook itself is shortÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”clocking in at 32 pagesÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½”and is yet another beautiful work of print done by Ugly Duckling. Here’s the beginning of Vince’s review, which tries to get a grasp on what to expect, or not to expect, from poems labeled as “avant-garde”:

ThereÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s little to say about a series of prose poems that willfully refuse to identify pronoun antecedents. Or perhaps there are a million things. The poems in _Morse, My Deaf Friend_ÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½” the chapbook by MiloÅ¡ Djurdjević published by Ugly Duckling Presse as part of their Eastern European Poets SeriesÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½” will be confounding to those accustomed to poetry that holds its readerÌÇÐÄ´«Ã½™s hand. These poems do not. They are elliptical and strange and offer very few concrete signifiers.

For the rest of the review, go here.