Poet Goran Simic in Toronto on Feb. 23, 2000. Simic died of liver failure in Sarajevo on Sept. 29, at the age of 72.DEBORAH BAIC/The Globe and Mail
Brilliant and inspiring, yet deeply scarred by the Siege of Sarajevo, Goran Simic was a prolific poet, essayist, journalist, librettist and producer of puppet plays. His literary journey began in 1976, with his works eventually appearing in anthologies and translations worldwide.
He wrote the libretto for Differences in Demolition, an opera featuring traditional Bosnian sevdah music, by Scottish composer and humanitarian Nigel Osborne. Mr. Simic’s play for children, The Fairy Tale of Sarajevo, which premiered during the siege, was performed at Sarajevo Youth Theatre for more than 16 years. The title of his final book, written in his native language and published this year by Bosnian publisher Buybook, translates to: The Golden Jubilee Among the Cannibals, 50 Years.
Goran Simic was born on Oct. 20, 1952, in Vlasenica, in the former Yugoslavia, to parents who had fought as partisans against fascism during the Second World War; his grandfather was a veteran of the First World War. Consequently, from a young age Goran was exposed to the devastating effects of post-traumatic stress disorder before it became a recognized mental-health diagnosis. He often talked of his father’s nightmares, stating he learned about war through his father’s stories, because after the war ended his father still lived in it.
Mr. Simic’s artistic life can be divided into three sections: before, during and after the siege. Before this pivotal event on April 5, 1992, he wrote six books of poetry and six plays, which were staged in puppet theatres in the former Yugoslavia.
During the war, however, he realized how little the poetry he loved reading had prepared him to survive during a conflict. No poem had taught him how to use shoelaces dipped in cooking oil to create candles, or protected him from the humiliation – like hundreds of thousands of other Bosnians – of having to burn the books he loved to fuel his stove. To overcome the guilt of burning books to survive, Mr. Simic participated in the rescue of books from the burning National Library.
With the beginning of the war, Mr. Simic and Professor Zdenko Lesic, along with other writers, formed a crisis headquarters where they provided help for other artists within the city under siege. They distributed food and money sent from abroad.
Like so many of his fellow poets, Mr. Simic chose to stay and bear witness to the siege. He was haunted by the idea that what wasn’t written would be forgotten. He believed firmly that there was no form more enduring than poetry; it lets writers absorb horror and yet give voice to sorrow and condemnation wrapped in a form of beauty, as in Mr. Simic’s collection From Sarajevo, with Sorrow.
There is a photo of Mr. Simic carrying water across a broken bridge wearing a shirt with “Living Legend” written on it. He knew that when Serbian nationalists shelled Sarajevo, they were not only trying to destroy the Muslim nation of Bosnia and Herzegovina; they were working to destroy the possibility that people from many nations could live together in peace. Poetry would not have saved Mr. Simic from sniper fire, but it did save him, in a sense, when he moved abroad, lifting his spirits when it was most needed.
Goran Simic, writing home to his father in Sarajevo, on Feb. 23, 2000. In 1996, Simic settled in Canada with his two children and wife, Amela Marin Simic.DEBORAH BAIC/The Globe and Mail
The third phase of Mr. Simic’s artistic life began in 1996, when he and his family settled in Canada with the help of the American writer Susan Sontag, PEN International and PEN Canada. The war would end on Feb. 29 of that year, but Mr. Simic would stay in Canada for another 17 years. Although he was accepted in Canada and respected for his writing, he felt displaced, ”dislanguaged” and fragile, armed at first with only a five-year-old’s command of English.
His poetic style was also affected by feeling like an ex-man – as though he was no longer fully a man – or a traitor because he left his home to live in another place. As a poet, he wanted to capture reality, but on the other hand, he wanted to forget this painful part of his life. He reconciled this conflict by adopting a quasi-journalistic approach. This led to a style of poetic-journalism found in stunning poems such as Beginning After Everything, which was a favourite of his readers to hear live and can be found on YouTube read by the acclaimed actor Alan Rickman. This poetry aimed to capture the moment like a newspaper report. When he wrote it, he did not know if he would see the next day.
After the war, he wanted to disappear, to go to any country, because he was gutted by what had happened in Sarajevo, disgusted with the graveyards. He wanted a quiet place where he could continue his life. But his excitement soon led him to ask: Who am I now? He would later state: “As much as you try to get rid of the war, war exists in you in some strange way. In your nightmares, in your dreams. You can’t just wake up one morning and say: Okay that’s it. I don’t want to write about the war any more.”
When he arrived in Toronto with his two children and wife, Amela Marin Simic, he soon realized his poetry meant nothing financially. He was a Writer in Exile at Massey College, in a program supported by PEN Canada. After that, while learning English and until he could establish himself, he worked as a labourer in a Holt Renfrew warehouse, where he learned that the words in his head were worth less than what he could lug on his back.
Mr. Simic knew little about copyright when his book From Sarajevo, with Sorrow was being translated and published in Finnish, Danish, Norwegian and German, while he was still trapped in Sarajevo. In the end he would receive almost no royalties for these books. He also learned that the British poet David Harsent, who translated his collection Sprinting from the Graveyard, owned the copyright to it, and the book’s British editor asked for too much money to reprint it in Canada. Mr. Simic, who had lost his family, friends and country, felt as though his words were now being stolen or held ransom by others.
Years later, he would be a respected, well-reviewed and award-winning poet in Canada. He was a writer-in-exile at the University of Guelph and the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. But it took many years and many hours in food bank queues talking to other immigrants before he began to find his legs and voice.
Goran Simic reading at Pontiac Quarterly. It took Simic 12 years to feel comfortable enough to write in English.Supplied
He was also the co-owner of the Toronto restaurant and literary meeting place Fellini’s Shoe. It was there that Zach Wells presented him with a special award for From Sarajevo, with Sorrow. Enraged that it was not considered for the Governor-General’s Award because it wasn’t originally written in English, Mr. Wells had raised funds to create his own award. Sadly, even with accolades like this, Mr. Simic’s question “Who am I?” would never be resolved.
It took him 12 years to feel comfortable enough to write in English. But when he began to dream in English, the seeds of a new fear were planted: Would his progress in English cause him to forget his mother tongue? His homeland had been in ruins when he left; would his language also be torn from him?
In 2003, Brick Books published Immigrant Blues, arguably Mr. Simic’s finest poetry collection published outside of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and one that contained seven of the first poems he composed originally in English.
The Canadian poet Paul Vermeersch wrote in his review of the book: “With free verse like Simic’s, there’s not a lot of metrical pyrotechnics: no glaring rhymes, no prosodic snaps … but that’s not to say these poems suffer from a lack of lyrical finesse. On the contrary, Simic’s rhythms remain smooth and, for the most part natural sounding. He layers image upon image, action upon action, observation upon memory, until, when at last the parts become a poem, the whole is entirely expert, stirring and personal.”
In 2006, Mr. Simic, along with his business partner Vishnja Brcic, late poet and editor Fraser Sutherland, and designer Shaun Tai, formed Luna Publications, a literary publishing company in Toronto.
Befriended by poets Al Moritz, Mr. Sutherland and many others, Mr. Simic became an important figure in Canadian poetry.
A documentary about Mr. Simic by Zoran Maslic, called When You Die as a Cat, begins with Mr. Simic walking through Toronto’s St. James’ Cemetery and Crematorium in winter. He recounts a dream he had in which his father comes back to life and says: We have to bury people in the right order.
Mr. Simic says in the film that he believes the dead send signals, messages, but we can’t figure them out. He goes on to say that, although we think death ends life, those who have died keep living in us. Mr. Simic speaks not just for his father but for all the dead of Sarajevo.
In the poem A Scene, after the War, Mr. Simic wrote: “I’d never been aware how beautiful my house [was] until I saw it burning.” In conversations he also stated: You can’t rebuild a home. Once it is destroyed the memories are gone. What is rebuilt will never be the same. Nevertheless, Mr. Simic returned to his homeland permanently in 2013. It would never be the same, but Bosnia was home.
History should not be studied to avoid repeating it, for we will. We should study history because, in the cycle of forgetting, someone might teach us how to make candles from old shoelaces and cooking oil when we need a little light. Mr. Simic’s poetry and prose are another way to warm ourselves. They are also a warning, and a shield.
Mr. Simic, died of liver failure in Sarajevo on Sept. 29, at the age of 72. He leaves his daughter, Luna (and spouse Chris Wilson); son, Darius (and spouse Nascha Freire); and his dog, Kola.
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