Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci’s statement “Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard” is circulating through the blood. That’s why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. “Trees of Desire” is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems “Moon Circle”. She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists “Mountain Views” in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club “Area Felix” in Serbia.
Stage set of a mostly dark living room with blue velvet and wooden chairs, houseplants, and lamps.
In your view does Mrs. Alving mark the emergence of the modern woman in western theatre? Assess her characterization especially in the light of her conduct with her husband in the past and her son at the end of the play.
Two men and two women, in red and blue gowns and petticoats, and two men in suits, on this stage set.
Mrs. Helen Alving is a pioneer radical progressive stalwart feminist embodied character of Henrik Ibsen’s Ghosts and her cowardice and/or foolery with the cloaking of darkness of past life is tainted with scandals. Mrs. Alving vouchsafes the seduction scene of her beloved son’s flirtations with Regina in the vein of her closetting Captain Alving’s promiscuity with the domestic hearth stewardess parlour maid Johanne. Mrs Alving is a hybrid and fluid rebellious spirit adhered to keeping up with appearances in the western tradition.
The impending dooming catastrophe of upholding a fictitious pair of perfect couple is a gobsmack revelation foreshadowing Oswald and Regina’s unbeknownst incestuous romance. Phantom spectral love-making of the preceding generation reincarnates into the half-siblings unrequited love as embodied by the poltergeist alter egos. However, Mrs. Alving insists Pastor Manders in refraining from intrusion into the tempestuous seduction analogizing her late husband’s surreptitious extra-marital affairs. Helen Alving is a woman of education and woman of refinement despite a microcosm of absurdity, vulgarity, coarseness, egotism and debauchery. She nonetheless harbours courtesy and dignity while adjusting towards transcendence.
Despite Eurocentric male dominated patriarchal cosmos, Mrs. Alving transcends gender barriers of race and class through salvaging familial relationships. Her resolution to preserve the sanctity of the father son relationship is a marvelous throwback to severe father son conflict in nuclear families. Mrs. Helen’s abominable husband’s crestfallen lechery should not be revealed in the microcosmic world, so she disguises a stance of absolute blissful marital alliance and deports her son Oswald with scholarship abroad. Mrs. Alving endeavours painstakingly to protecting Oswald from a poisoned home life. This joyful illusion is furthered by the authority and decree of Pastor Manders’ acquaintanceship as foreshadowed by deemphasizing of lurking hidden past ghostly events.
Investigative series of a speculative fiction and detective literature, drama of contemporary life is portrayed by Henrik Ibsen in the Ghosts’ through Mrs. Helen Alving’s excruciating quest for self-fulfillment. Mrs. Alving’s heroic endeavour to establish orphanage in the legacy of her late husband is lost in the flames and burnt down to cinders, alluding to the literal and figurative bursting of spilled beans. Helen Alving’s abolishment of her abhorrent husband’s scandals through redemptive establishment thus becomes awry. Her family heirloom is relinquished of the life giving force because of the hereditary sexually transmitted diseases morbidity. Corruption and pollution afterall haunts as a cascade of infernal torment for all that eventually compels Mrs. Helen Alving with a sadomasochistic dilemma in administering overdose of morphines to end Oswald’s intolerable nightmarish macabre. The poltergeist soul of Captain Alving resurrects with a vengeance to haunt Mrs. Helen Alving in the alter ego Oswald she reckons, has vouchsafed from the truth.
“Ibsen’s Ghosts shares a problem with many contemporary naturalistic plays; it has some, but very little relevance in our world today.” Do you agree? Support your answer with an analysis of the treatment of any two issues in the play.
Or
(Middle aged couple and a younger man in a suit on stage)
“All your life you’ve been governed by an incorrigible spirit of wilfulness. Instinctively you’ve been drawn to all that’s undisciplined and lawless.” Critically explain the commentary of the speaker.
Henrik Ibsen’s modern European realistic problem play drama Gengangere or The Revenants (The Ones Who Return) is a satirical tragedy of contemporary nineteenth century Denmark and Norway’s “events that repeats themselves” concerning religion and morality, adultery and profligacy, incest and euthanasia and venereal epidemiological ramifications. The Ghosts is a firestorm of public outcry because of a controversial forbidden storyline of venereal diseases and syphilis infestation associated with unbridled lovemaking in debauchery and promiscuity.
Henrik Ibsen vindicates the crusade for unravelling a swashbuckler within the frontiers of modern western dramaturgical tradition and thus Ibsenites preoccupy themselves in battling hackneyed ideologies of the malevolent taboos propagated by orthodoxical society. None of the transformative radical policies of modern healthcare and medicine of the then controversially stigmatized sexually transmitted diseases were prevailingly conferred upon the vulnerable including Captain Alving and Oswald Alving. As a consequence, continental citizenry of the civilized world considered kindling fires on the syphilis affected patients even from their funeral pyres. Harrowing and heart wrenching sadomasochism trembles the innocent characters Mrs. Helen Alving and Pastor Manders analogous of Shakespeare’s shuddering in Macbeth and in Lady Macbeth’s taint of scandal.
Mrs. Helen Alving’s upbraiding for unfulfillment of cuckolding with Pastor Manders; her upbraiding of mismarriage adjustment with the dissolute husband Captain Alving; her upbraiding of the incestuous sibling lust bonding brimming between Oswald and Regina are realistically depicted as dysfunctional family relationships in contemporary patriarchal and misogynistic cultural Eurocentric ideology. “The sins of the fathers are visited on his children” extrapolates the trajectory of hereditary sexually transmitted diseases passed down from ancestral generation to the descendant generation as ushered in the polemic statement by Oswald. Captain Alving bequeathed the legacy of debauchery and dissolution to his heir, Oswald. Oswald’s frozen heart and stricken soul cannot idolize spatiotemporality of phenomenal mirocosmic boudoir offered at the expense of “my mind has broken down—-gone to pieces—-I shall never be able to work anymore!” Dreaded malady of the twilight of the brain is envisioned by such suicidal rhetorics of the son under the mother’s upbringing as expostulated in the remarks: “I, who gave you life” … “A nice kind of life it was that you gave me, and now you shall have it back again.”
(Young man in slacks and a jacket speaks with an older man in a suit on stage. Woman is seated in a red dress).
Further Reading, References and Endnotes
Henrik Ibsen, W. D. Howells, The North American Review, Jul. 1906, Volume 183, No. 596 (Jul. 1906), pp. 1-14, The University of Northern Iowa
Stripped Cover Lit Youtube Vlog Review Ghosts by Henrik Ibsen: Summary, Interpretation and Analysis
40 MRS H.F.LORD on the phases of the soul in Ghosts 1890 149
44 An anonymous comment on the depravity of Ibsen, Edward, Aveling and Ghosts, Saturday Review 1891 157
Ghosts (Royalty 1891)
60 GEORGE MOORE sees Ghosts in Paris 1891 182
61 Unsigned notice by CLEMENT SCOTT, Daily Telegraph 1891 187
62 Editorial, Daily Telegraph 1891 189
63 Unsigned notice, Daily News 1891 193
64 Unsigned notice, Daily Chronicle 1891 195
65 Unsigned notice, Evening News and Post 1891 196
66 Anonymous satirical poem, Evening News and Post 1891 200
67 Ibsen and real life: report of a murder trial, Evening Standard
Maybe you will wait me furtively, Why is it I’m writing it on a small piece of paper? I’m silly, I’m weird, I cannot understand, After leaving you and coming back I’ll become crazy. Maybe you have forgotten, A smiling girl walking in your street. Where did our ways broke a part? Or are we now strangers to these streets. Maybe you have missed my flaw, dull, But written with a special kindness poems. Sometimes, my heart becomes tired of silence, When the questions do not let me go. My cure is you, but paper is being my sympathy, I hurt my heart by trying to write something on it. The street that was full of my laughter formerly, Is now filled with me and my tears. The feeling that you do not know or do not realize, Paper even can understand my speechlessness. I want to become a piece of paper, Which you wanted to see something written on.
Teacher
Do not think I have grown old, I’m still the same, the same that you knew. I do not know whether I justified your trust or not, But I do know I have made your pain even more. Sometimes, I get your words wrong, Sometimes, I get upset from you.
But I did not know that you had a heart as well, Was I crazy while not controlling my tongue? Maybe, you will be happy while reading mistake less poems, Poems that are devoted to you. But before I fill my life with mistakes, Please keep teaching the life to me
Mashhura Usmonova Zafarjon’s daughter was born on May 16, 2006 in Gallaorol district, Jizzakh region the Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently she’s 18 years old. Mashhura is a student of Samarkand State University. She has been practicing writing poetry since she was 10 years old. Now, she is the author of about 100 poems. She is a member of international organizations in Egypt, Indonesia, Pakistan, Argentina, and India. Her poems are regularly published in newspapers and magazines such as “Mushtum”, “Gulkhan”, “Guncha”, “Bilimdon”, “Tong yulduzi”, “Nazm gulshani”, “Ezgulik”, “Kelajak bunyodkori” and “Gallaorol ovozi”. She makes creative performances on Uzbekitan24, Sevimli, MY5, Bolajon, JizzakhTV television and radio channels. In addition, her works have been published in book collections in the USA, Azerbaijan, Turkey, and Great Britain. She’s the winner of more than 30 republican contests. She likes to read books and travel. Her future goal is to become a philologist.
Maria Teresa Liuzzo was born in Saline di Montebello Jonico and lives in Reggio di Calabria (Italy). President of the Lyric-Dramatic Association ”P. Benintende” – Journalist – Publisher. Chief Editor of the literary magazine ”LE MUSE” – Essayist – Lyricist – Literary and art critic – Director of Public Relations – Translator – Opinionist – Writer – Doctor of Psychology – Leibniz University Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA. – Professor of Philosophy and Modern Literature – USA. – Correspondent of ”IL PONTE ITALO – AMERICANO” – USA – ”NUOVA CORVINA” EUROPA – (Hunedoara) – Collaborator of ”ALB-SPIRIT” TIRANA (ALBANIA), ”Gazzetta Nazionale” (Tirana). ”Perqasje” (Tirana); ”Gazeta Destinacioni” (Valona – Albania); ”Dritare” and ”Albania Press” (based in Rome); ”Atunis” (Belgium – Brussels); Alessandria Today (Italy); ”EZGULIK” – Bukhara (UZBEKISTAN) dir. Obid KOLDOSH.
*** Collective of the graves Black raven lost in white snow You remain silent The silence is still as ambiguous as before the funeral
*** Returning home is near Counterbattery fire Burst intestines are covered in painful spots Eat vomit because we all have eat and die They say war is a milky night mother After all one born from the night
Must someday return home to the darkness
***
I grow in the dew under the branches of the heavy arms of the forest I am the grass mown by time, rain, sun, hope you are a candle that burns only in the blinding heat you are the rain that waters the cemetery paths we can’t find each other we can only be snow and everything around is white as if nothing had happened and it’s over forever like a paper book about a felled tree the snow continues its path off-road
***
I don’t know why a graveyard crawled out from under my bed
I don’t know why all the flowers are tied with a mourning ribbon
“We bury the old world” – says the bird and dies
The agony of the cemetery bursts like a vein
Mothers sew dresses for their daughters from their vaginas
Daughters marry soldiers
Mosquitoes drink the blood of the universe
Cats dream of a bowl of blood with a drop of milk
Military pilots fly to the smell of blood
People are insects – at least mosquitoes
***
sakura is silent
calm bird drinks silence
***
spring is like a drowning
we drink damp heat
time to go to bed
***
the frog drinks from the bowl of autumn
water and air mix with each other
***
autumn colors stuck to the skin
the leaves underfoot beg for help
***
Getting to know silence
The clouds in the sky burst silently
The veins on the arm burst silently
The dead cry silently
Thunder rumbles without any unnecessary sounds
Fish heads don’t scream
Even mosquitoes don’t squeak
A military pilot prepared to drop a quiet (but only for the time being) air bomb
***
the existence of clouds for the sake of the existence of rain
the creation of man for the sake of the creation of god
I know everything in the world except the truth
***
The future is water
The future is a spit
I collect spit and tears
I pretend that the cemetery is a space rocket
I pretend I’m going to the stars
But in fact I’m picking mushrooms in the forest after an explosion in the forest near Hiroshima
***
Religion was invented for those
Who have not yet died
Each of us dreams of being Jesus Christ
Each of us is a baby
Вut where are the Magi
5 new pieces
*** lips emerge from the evening gloomy snow lights of blueberry nights teach the eyes to sleep
and if your face floats in silence noiselessly and invisibly then I will still draw your features in every rustle of a winter evening
I love you even though you don’t have a name you will be the black square of my triangular heart you will be immense and inexplicable and then I will run out of gouache and your face will be painted with my blood
from where do you get your name if I’m selling you to make money do I really love you if I sell your features for money ?
I don’t love you at all and I don’t know you at all no one cares for anyone in the snowy space
I teach your lips to sleep I pacify your lips your name is a black square we all live in portrait frames and only
snow
and only snow and only snow and only snow
*** The legacy of silence grows among the reeds of what is forgotten Life never ends and silence goes to sleep in a tired cemetery
A girl flies like a swallow through the concrete night painting time with a brush Too much water and the paint is completely stale and the teacher scolds
The orphanage speaks silently to the blizzard And on the next street, a retirement home sails into the sky with its sails spread
The final stop The final goal The middle silence
*** What’s hiding behind the window glass? The rain falls asleep. Red splashes flow down from top to bottom. The emptiness shines. Silence mumbles. Rifles whistle. The fires are raging. Warheads play with birds. Houses turn into bloodthirsty monsters and swallow the future. Explosions scream. The baby sleeps in a cradle and dreams. Window frames whisper to the walls. A window will never become a mirror for time flowing down like water into a toilet. And what, after all, is hiding behind the glass?
*** The bird does not know what silence is and sings songs with its cut throat
*** Tree looking for an apple The tree is looking for a child
The body is growing The body is getting old
The cell searches for the soul And the soul has died
*** What is emptiness In the hands of a beggar is an empty can of cola with change
What is loneliness This is when birds still return home from warm countries Аnd you look out the window and realize that these birds are no longer (none?never?) a flock
*** every evening the bird thinks about the sky every night the cell thinks about emptiness every morning feathers dream of flight every noon the beak begs for alms
every new bird day is a small escape from the past and present the shores play with the waves in sighs, cries of silence and knocks of inevitability the bird learns to walk again on the hot sand, but its legs don’t obey
every moment of wasted flight is an expectation of death a bird flies forgetting about its legs just because it can fly what is the meaning of flight and where does the water of time flow?
every bird hides a cemetery in its nest each leg hides cement in its nest every head hides meaninglessness in its nest every void expands to the horizon line and there’s nothing beyond the horizon
