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Franjo Nagulov's new poetry collection, The Bloody Book, is a dark record of the decline of a society.
The intense saturation and density of this poetry make it impossible to read this book in one sitting. It must be taken slowly and measuredly, as each poem requires a longer process of reception.
This is a collection in which the city becomes an interlocutor, a space whose streets, parks and courtyards become places of encounter (with oneself).
The book of poems by Irena Skopljak Barić Moja begins unexpectedly with its ending, a decisive point that is a conclusion, appropriation and dedication, but shares them equally with others, "with my own".
The following pages are torn from the book of the people's revolution. From the book? No, from the womb, from the veins, from the bloodstream, from the roots of life. They are the history of love.
