Duško Trifunović was no ordinary poet. He was the voice of poverty, pain, and sorrow—a man who wanted to die but left behind eternal poetry that still touches millions of hearts. Born in 1933 in Sijekovac near Bosanski Brod, Duško lost his father at just six years old, who was killed before his eyes during World War II. From that moment, his life was a struggle for survival, walking the edge of hunger and pain.
With his mother and sister, he moved to Sarajevo and later to Mostar, a city that left a deep mark on his soul. He worked as a locksmith’s assistant in an aluminum factory, living in a barrack with one bed and one book. Though a physical laborer by day, he wrote poetry by night, publishing collections at his own expense, saving on bread and milk. “I was hungry, in love with words. Poetry saved me. I had nothing but writing,” he once said.
Duško was not a poet of salons and ceremonies. He was a poet of taverns, factory halls, and streets of poverty. He published over 80 books, including poetry, novels, essays, children’s poems, and plays. He collaborated with some of the biggest names in Yugoslav music like Bijelo Dugme, Zdravko Čolić, and Indexi. Yet, fame never erased his sorrow. He was never a favorite of the authorities and often skirted censorship for his unconventional thoughts.
He spent his last years modestly in Novi Sad, where he passed away on January 28, 2006. A heart patient, he refused treatment—he wanted to die. On the day of his funeral, as they carried his coffin, a plane’s contrail appeared in the sky in the shape of the number eight, the symbol of infinity. Duško was his own man, forever caught between two worlds—the earthly and the poet’s realm.
His poetry still reminds us that from the darkest moments, something eternal and beautiful can bloom. The world often forgets its poets, but Duško Trifunović remains a silent witness of an era and a man whose verses touch the souls of those who know what it means to lose, to be silent, yet survive.
Thought poetry was boring? Duško will prove you wrong. Got a favorite poem of his? Drop it in the comments—let’s see who else still breathes his words!
