poetopolis

Ana Ristović

2011-01-19T19:03:00.000+01:00

ANA RISTOVIĆ (Beograd, Srbija, 1972)

poezija / poetry:

Snovidna voda (Književna omladina Srbije, Pegaz, Beograd, 1994)

Uže od peska (Gradac, Čačak, 1997)

Zabava za dokone kćeri (Rad, Beograd, 1999)

Život na razglednici (Plato, Beograd, 2003)

Oko nule (Narodna biblioteka Stefan Prvovenčani, Kraljevo, 2006)

P. S. (izabrane pesme) (Narodna biblioteka Stefan Prvovenčani, Kraljevo, 2009)

u prevodu / in translation:

So dunkel, so hell (by Fabjan Hafner, Jung und Jung, Salcburg, Austrija, 2007)

Življenje na razglednici (by Jana Putrle & Urban Vovk, LUD Šerpa, Ljubljana, Slovenija, 2005)

Pred tridsiatkou (by Karol Chmel, Drewo a srd, Banska Bystrica, Slovačka, 2001)

Neupotrebljivi darovi

U vreme najave rata doputova

belgijski prijatelj:

njegov brod, danima oklevajući

slani dlanovi propuštahu kao popino prase.

Sa njim stigoše i neupotrebljivi darovi:

baštovanske makaze za nepostojeći vrt,

skijaško odelo za nepostojećeg skijaša,

planinarski ranac za nepostojeća putovanja,

mapa flandrijskog grada,

kao paučina pod staklom

za prazan zid koga nema.

I tanke, turske muštikle od ružinog drveta

koje sâm izdelja, tako dugačke

da su se pušači u maloj sobi sudarali

ukrštajući ih kao zapaljena koplja.

„Predviđene su za veća rastojanja –

dobra bi bila prostrana terasa, salon

ili piknik u polju.

I dim treba ispuštati polako, jer ovo je drvo

koje ga upija: gajeći sićušne larve

što dimom se hrane.“

Reče

dok mu je velika muštikla štrčala

kroz pustinjačku bradu i kosu

kao kljun pupavca koji pretražuje

nepostojeće gnezdo u vazduhu.

U vreme najava, i njegovi darovi

najavljivači drugačijih upotreba:

Nužnih rastojanja, jer sve manje beše

onih između kojih bi se moglo provući;

Zapaljenih stabala, prezasićenih dimom

što rastu na nepostojećoj zemlji;

Odsutnih primalaca.

Useless Gifts

On the eve of the outbreak of war

a Belgian friend arrived:

for days, hesitant salty palms

rubbed his ship like herd’s grass.

Together with him useless gifts arrived:

gardening scissors for a non-existent garden,

a ski-suit for a non-existent skier,

a mountaineering rucksack for non-existent journeys,

a map of a Flemish town, like cobwebs under glass

for an empty wall that does not exist.

And long thin Turkish cigarette holders made of rosewood

whittled by himself, so long

that the smokers in the tiny room collided

crossing them like burning spears.

“They were made for greater distances –

a large terrace would do, a drawing room

or a picnic in the field.

Also, the smoke should be exhaled slowly, for this wood

absorbs it: tiny maggots drown in it

feeding on the smoke.”

Thus spake he

while the cigarette holder stuck out

of his hermit-like beard and hair

like the beak of a hoopoe searching through

a non-existent nest in the air.

In a time of portents his gifts

portended different uses:

Necessary distances, as there are fewer and fewer

things that can be drawn in-between:

Burning trees, saturated with smoke,

growing on non-existent soil;

Absent recipients.

Translated by Novica Petrović

Published in the magazine Verse, Volume 15, No ½, Williamsburg, U.S., 1998.

O korisnosti muzike

Tek što poče prevratničko doba

kad upravnik opere odabra ironiju

zatvorivši se u koncertni klavir

na kojem „beretom“ izbuši za vazduh četiri rupe.

Tih godina samo zidovi prazne hale

ponavljahu njegov solilokvij

kroz muzičko bure propušten u etar –

O korisnosti muzike u prevratničko doba –

Oboriti gong u polje umesto kazana,

spustiti zvona na vreće sa brašnom i solju,

zlatnike i dugmad u zevove truba

a tegle s pekmezom i mašću u klavire

postrojene u predvorjima

kao crne kornjače ukočene

pri uvlačenju glave pod oklop;

Tajne cedulje nanizati na violinske žice

smotane u klupko, ćušnute

u pribor za pecanje;

Dete što nema krevetac moglo bi

u preuređeni kontrabas

I vojska će srećnija biti ako joj se sledovanje

deli otvorenim tamburicama

umesto malom kutlačom

Bubnjarske palice ponuditi lokalnoj policiji

jer uvek postoji koža zategnutija od kože

Radi kontrole melodije

praporce sa sanki preseliti na kape

uostalom, i muzika evoluira seobom

iz donjeg u gornje

Što više tišine, to više i zvučnika

magnetofona da zabeleže nepriznat titraj

Rasturiti tržište prigušivača

O gudala okačiti zastavice

A povlašćen prostor prenosnika zvuka

umnožitelja već iščezlog tona

ostaviti samo ćutljivim stenama:

između njihovih amnezija

dovoljna rastojanja nikada narušena neće biti

Muzika lako odustaje od instrumenata

u prevratničko doba, njen celi je svet

zaboravi li na oruđa –

Tako je kloparao, suva semenka u klaviru:

upravnik opustele bine i zavesa

zauvek podignutih kao smotana jedra ...

Tek što odabra ironiju, kad spustiše ga u podrum

ložačka leđa, domarske ruke

jer polirano drvo dobro je za potpalu

kad halu treba zagrejati

za dolazak hora

A dirke – do domine – strpati u vreću:

uz njih neko već smisliće

pravila nove društvene igre.

On the Usefulness of Music

No sooner had a time of upheaval started

than the director of the opera opted for irony

by closing himself inside a concert piano,

having shot four air-holes in it with a Beretta

For a while the walls of the empty hall

echoed his soliloquy

sent into the air through the music barrel –

On the usefulness of music, in a time of upheaval –

The gong is to be placed in the field in place of a cauldron,

the bells are to be lowered onto the sacks of flour and salt,

the gold coin and buttons into the yawning openings of trumpets,

while the jars of jam and lard are to be placed into the pianos

lined up in well-lit entrance halls

like black turtles frozen

in the act of pulling their heads into their shells;

Notes containing secret messages are to be strung

along violin strings piled up and tossed

among the fishing rods;

A child without a cot might be placed

inside a modified double bass;

The Army, too, would be much happier if rations

were handed out using tambouritzas*

instead of small ladles;

Drumsticks are to be offered to the local police force

for there is always skin stretched tighter than drums;

For better control of the melody

jingle bells are to be moved from sleighs onto caps,

even music evolves when moved from lower to upper regions;

The greater the silence the more loudspeakers there are,

tape-recorders to record the unrecognized vibration;

The silencer market is to be busted,

flags are to be hung on bows;

And the privileged domain of sound carriers,

multipliers of the already-vanished tone,

is to be left to the silent rocks alone:

the distance separating their states of amnesia

will never be violated;

Music gives instruments up easily

in a time of upheaval, the whole world belongs to it

should it forget its tools –

Thus rattled he, a dry seed inside the piano:

the director of the empty stage and curtains

forever raised like folded-up sails …

No sooner had he opted for irony than he was lowered into the cellar

on the backs and by the hands of stokers and porters,

for polished wood is good for kindling

when the hall needs to be warmed up

for the coming of the choir

And the piano keys – like dominoes – are to be stuffed into a sack,

someone is bound to come up with

rules for a new game.

Translated by Novica Petrović

Published in the magazine Verse, Volume 15, No ½, Williamsburg, U.S., 1998.

*tambouriza (tamburica) – (pronounced /tæmˈbʊərɪtsə/ or /ˌtæmbəˈrɪtsə/) or Tamboura (Croatian: Tamburica and Serbian: Тамбурица/Tamburica, meaning Little Tamboura, Hungarian: Tambura, Greek: Ταμπουράς, sometimes written tamburrizza) refers to any member of a family of long-necked lutes popular in Eastern and Southern Europe, particularly Croatia (especially Slavonia), northern Serbia (Vojvodina) and Hungary. It is also known in parts of southern Slovenia and eastern Austria. All took their name and some characteristics from the Persian tanbur but also resemble the mandolin, in that its strings are plucked and often paired. The frets may be moveable to allow the playing of various modes. The body of the instrument is made of a hollow gourd.

Sneg u cipelama

Ne gradi se kuća na zbirkama escajga

mada koja kašika više

ponekad dobro dođe.

Ne gradi se kuća na novim zavesama

mada drugačije poglede

s vremena na vreme

treba zakloniti novim platnom.

Da bi dom bio dom, između ostalog

treba ti i mnogo toga

čega bi se unapred

odrekao, vrlo rado.

Slušaj šta kažu Eskimi:

da bi se sagradio dobar iglo

godinama moraš da nosiš

sneg u cipelama.

I špenadlu, zaboravljenu

u okovratniku kaputa,

blizu žile kucavice.

Snow in your Shoes

One does not build a house collecting cutlery
even though a few extra spoons
come in handy sometimes.

One does not build a house from new curtains
even though different views
from time to time
should be shielded by new cloth.

For a home to be a home, among other things
you need a lot of things
you would gladly renounce
in advance.

Listen to what Eskimos say:
to build a good igloo,
for years you have to carry
snow in your shoes.

And a safety pin, forgotten
in your coat collar,
near the jugular.

Translated by: Novica Petrović

Lepa mrtva mora

Iz dana u dan dajem ti samo isparljive stvari:

maglu nad asfaltom, maglu u džepovima

i polja koja su pojele strvine od reči.

Umesto karte za put u dvoje

nudim ti prolaze kroz iglene uši.

Iz dana u dan, prosipam pred noge

lepa mrtva mora.

Živimo od krivotvorenja

hronične slobode: adresa je znana.

Između glavnog zatvora i stare šećerane

gde nekad završavahu pesnici, a sad

drugi klošari skupljaju iščezlu slast.

A mislim, dovoljan mi je samo jedan grad:

splet ulica koji čine tvoje vene.

Šator i sklonište stvoreni od tvoje kože.

I da je tvoja kosa, Birnamska šuma

što će mi prići i onda

kad stojim ukopana, poput sveće:

prejako sagorevanje ponekad me prilepi za tle.

Varam samu sebe da je dovoljna voda

koja se presipa sa usta na usta,

čak i onda kad se pretvori u led.

U tvojoj zemlji mladih sa prezrelim umom

sam nedorasla cura koju treba voditi za ruku.

U mojoj, gde je vreme odavno već stalo

nosim dušu starca i nazore mudre kuje.

Govoriš mi, da se moram navići

na novo agregatno stanje:

ono što isparava tamo, na uzavrelom jugu

ovde radom ruku pretvaraš u vodu

koju možeš prodati za blago.

Saginješ se,

na dlan spuštaš otežalu glavu:

tvoj uzdah poveća daljinu

između naše dve poluprazne čaše,

moj ih potera do ruba zajedničkog stola.

„Kupujem odmah, ali u naturi plaćam“, kažem

i poližem ti kap znoja sa čela:

učinilo mi se da svetli

kao žar cigarete.

„Od previše poređenja bankrotira i pesma“,

čujem te i vidim, u plamenu su ti

već cela kosa i lice:

no ne znam, da li od ushićenosti

ili od očajanja.

Beautiful Dead Seas

From day to day all I give you are things that evaporate:

mist over asphalt, mist in pockets

and fields stripped bare by beastly words.

Instead of a ticket for two

I offer you passages through the eyes of needles.

From day to day, I pour in front of your feet

beautiful dead seas.

We live by counterfeiting

chronic freedom: the address is known.

Between the main prison and the old sugar works

where poets used to end up, and where now

other down-and-outs gather vanished delights.

But I think all I need is one town:

the network of streets created by your veins.

Tent and refuge provided by your skin.

And that your hair is the Birnam forest

that will come towards me even

while I stand rooted, like a candle:

burning too strongly sometimes sticks me to the ground.

I deceive myself that water pouring

from mouth to mouth is enough,

even when it turns to ice.

In your land of the young with overmature minds

I am an immature girl who needs to be led by the hand.

In mine, were time had come to a standstill a long time ago,

I carry the soul of the old and the views of a wise bitch.

You are telling me I have to get used to

a new aggregate state:

what evaporates in the boiling south

you change here by handwork into water

which you can sell for goods.

You bend over,

rest your heavy head in your hand:

your sigh increases the distance

between our two half-empty glasses;

mine pushes them to the edge of our table.

"I buy immediately, but I pay with my body", I say

and lick a droplet of sweat off your brow:

it seemed to me to glow like

the end of a cigarette.

"Too much comparison kills even a poem,"

I hear you say, seeing that your

entire hair and cheeks are already aflame:

only I don’t know whether because of excitement

or despair.

Translated by: Evald Flisar

Published in the magazine Sodobnost, April 2001, Ljubljana, Slovenia

Lajbnic

Dan i noć, noć i dan

putujemo ka Sloveniji:

u malom autobusu, među nama

tišina raste

kao grad otcepljen od zemlje i sveta.

Još uvek neznanke, kao dve

lenje muve, sklupčane

svaka uz svoj prozor –

Ona, mala starica, Maruška možda –

u krilu drobi keks, marke

„Lajbnic“

kao da monadu od monade iznova deli

i smeši se, zureći u mrak

svetu što je još uvek

najbolji od svih ...

Ona, koja poznaje harmoniju –

Maruška, Blažka, Mojca možda.

U svom krilu drobim poeziju

pod slabim svetlom, na lošem drumu

list po list, reč po reč i čujem:

Srečko Kosovel odriče se sreće

jer svaka lepota deo je bola.

Nad stihovima

nema opravdanja za Boga

i monade što ih šalje

nikad ne stižu do zemlje:

kao varljiv sneg ispare

u prvom sloju neba.

U mom krilu, knjiga pesnika

čije ime unapred se odreklo

harmonije sa srcem i dušom.

Dan i noć, noć i dan

putujemo ka Sloveniji,

ona i ja, još uvek neznanke ...

I čitav svemir ljulja nam se

na kolenima

kao da bi da se odvoji od usnulog Boga

i traži saučesništvo

šapućući nam nežno, na uho:

„Braća smo, po ocu...“

Leibnitz

Day and night, night and day

we’re travelling to Slovenia:

in the little bus, the silence between us

growing like

a town cut off from the Earth and the Universe.

Still enigmas, like two

lazy flies, each curled up

alongside her window -

She, a little old woman, Maruška maybe –

in her lap crumbles a cookie brand-named

"Leibnitz"

as if newly separating a monad from monad

and smiles, staring into the darkness

of the world which is still

the best of all worlds ...

She who knows harmony -

Maruška, Blažka, Mojca maybe.

In my lap, in a bad light,

on a bad road, I crumble poetry,

page by page, word by word and I hear:

Srečko Kosovel* renounces happiness

because every beauty is part of pain.

In his verses

there is no excuse for God

and the monads He sends

never reach the Earth:

like a deceptive snow they evaporate

in the first layer of the sky.

In my lap, the book of the poet

whose name has in advance renounced

harmony with his heart and soul.

Day and night, night and day

we travel to Slovenia,

she and I, still unknown to each other ...

And the whole universe rocks

on our knees

as if wanting to separate from sleepy God

and find complicity

gently whispering into our ears:

"We’re brothers, born of the same father..."

Translated by: Evald Flisar

Published in the magazine Sodobnost, April 2001, Ljubljana, Slovenia

*Srečko Kosovel (1904–1926) was a Slovenian expressionist poet who evolved towards avant-garde forms. Since the 1960s, Kosovel has become a poetic icon, in the league of the most prestigious Slovene literates like France Prešeren and Ivan Cankar. He produced an impressive body of work of more than 1000 poems with a quality regarded as unusually high for his age. Most of his works were published almost four decades after his early death.

Licem u lice

Dani oporuka, dani priznanja: prva pesma

u kojoj rekoh „Ja“

ulazeći u reči kao da sklopljenih očiju

zašivam dugme za džep

iglom ga odižući od kože.

Na levoj strani, iznad samog srca.

Koje zaobilazih pažljivim ubodima

jer pročitah negde: tako se kroji

iskrena poezija –

kad uveriš srce da si odustao od njega.

Kada ti se čini da ne možeš ništa reći

ni o ljubavi, ni o strepnji, ni o kazni

ni o onome što je mimoišlo sećanje

u širokom luku,

tada se sve to, neizgovoreno

sâmo izgovara; i tek tada

odgovorna sam za ono što nisam

i šta ću možda jednom tek biti.

Svaka reč, poput vrha igle

spušta se sporo

tražeći pravu razdaljinu od kože i srca.

Meru podnošljive iskrenosti.

Veštinu krojača koji tkaninom ne skriva lice.

Nauk priče što je vekovima šapuću

hasidski starci, kraj toplog zida:

o zemlji, koja je tek naprstak Boga –

za svaki promašen ubod, samo način

da se Njegova ruka zaštiti od bola.

Face to Face

Days for last testaments, days for confessions: the first poem

in which I said "I",

entering words as if sewing a button on my breast pocket

with my eyes closed.

On my left side, above my very heart.

I guard it by stitching with care

because I read somewhere that

sincere poetry is tailored

when you convince your heart that you have left it.

When you have no more words

about love, trembling, punishment,

not even about things that gave your memory

a wide berth,

then the unspoken

expresses itself; and only then

do I become responsible for

what I am not,

and what I may yet become.

Each word descends slowly

like the point of the needle,

looking for the right distance from skin and heart.

For the measure of still bearable sincerity.

For the skill of a tailor who does not hide his face behind cloth.

For the moral of the story whispered for centuries

by old Hassidic men close to a warm wall:

About the Earth which is only God’s thimble –

a way of protecting His hand

from our pain

when the needle slips.

Translated by: Evald Flisar

Published in the magazine Sodobnost, April 2001, Ljubljana, Slovenia

Mišima

Iz večeri u veče, majka čita

„Kodeks samurajskih veština“:

svako novo jutro je belina tela

koju otkrije

rastvoreni crni kimono –

vrh sečiva treba zabosti

što dublje.

Sa danima se nositi

kao sa bliskom kožom uvek spremnom

na sepuku.

Kraj uzglavlja, umesto Biblije

držati Mišimu čije korice

sliče kutiji od lipovih daščica.

Iz njih i najtužniju istinu

birati pažljivo prstima, kao da je

trešnjin cvet

kome se ritualno, dva mala demona –

demon sećanja i demon zaborava

klanjaju u isto vreme.

Iz večeri u veče, majka izučava

samurajske tajne: pred spavanje

mesta u knjizi obeležava iglom

skliznulom niz probuđeni vulkan

raspletene punđe.

Samo ona zna: postoji

još jedan, nepisani zakon koji kaže

da su godine zavesa od papirnih ptica

kroz koju se treba provući

očuvavši tišinu,

a pogrešnim rečima i suvišnim dahom

ne zaljuljati nijednu.

Podneti samo

blagi šum malih krila

za leđima.

Mishima

Evening after evening my mother reads

“The Way of the Samurai”:

every new morning is like the whiteness of the body

showing through

the slightly open black kimono –

the tip of blade should be stuck in

as deep as possible.

One should struggle with the day

like with skin always ready

for seppuku.

By the head of the bed, instead of the Bible

Mishima’s book should be held

with its cover resembling a box made of tiny linden boards.

Even the saddest truth

should be carefully plucked from it, as if it were

a cherry flower

that two little demons –

the demon of remembrance and the demon of oblivion –

ritually bow to at the same time.

Evening after evening my mother studies

the secrets of samurai: before she goes to sleep

she marks her spot in the book with the needle

she slides from the wakened volcano

of her unbraided bun.

Only she knows: there is

another, as yet unwritten law claiming

that years are a curtain made of paper birds

one should squeeze through

keeping silent,

not making a single one swing

by wrong words or excessive breathing.

One should permit only

the gentle sound of little wings

behind one’s back.

Translated by: David Albahari and Richard Harrison

Čistka

U jeku krečenja stana

reših da krenem sa bibliotečkom čistkom

al bacih samo katalog izdanja iz ’85-e

i knjiga poezije, nekoliko.

Od tada se police ljuljaju i škripe

kao tuberkulozna pluća nečija, davna,

a za Dostojevskog, uporno se lepi

osinje gnezdo, kao meta kazna.

I svake noći, iz imena tvog Osipe M,

putuje omča do mog vrata

i glava se, ipak, spušta sama:

svih mojih telefona brojke su u tebi.

Purge

While white-washing the apartment

I decided on a book purge,

but threw away only the catalog of editions from ’85

and a few books of poetry.

From then on the shelves swayed and creaked

like some distant tubercular lungs

and persistently stuck in Dostoevsky’s

flat like meta-punishment.

And every night from your name, Osip M*

the snare travels to my neck

and the head descends to her alone:

you have all my telephone numbers.

Translated by: Brian Henry

*Osip M. – Osip Mandelstam, Russian poet

Prolećni zanati

Neka mala ptica

propevala,

progovorila dve-tri reči

i pokakila se na terasi obasjanoj suncem.

Ptica tako mala

da bi čak i kutija šibica

prerastala raspon njenih krila.

Njene oči, tek polovina fosfornog zrnca.

Iz sićušnog brabonjka

izrasla detelina

sa četiri lista:

Naša sreća govori nemuštim jezicima

i jezikom dobre probave,

prevazilazi svoje razloge

i ne bira mesto gde će da se dene.

Treba ćutati, istina je:

to sunce nad nama,

što ga više pominjemo

to više raste

u zlatna vešala.

Spring Trade

Some little bird

sang,

spoke two, three words

and shat on the terrace, ashine with sun.

So this little bird,

still a matchbox

that outgrew its wingspan.

His eyes only half phosphoric grains.

From the small shit

grew a four-leaf

clover:

our luck speaks in an animal language

and in the language of good digestion,

outdoing its causes

and not choosing the spot where I would land.

It must keep quiet, truly:

if he mentions

the sun above us,

it changes

into golden gallows.

Translated by: Brian Henry

Miloš Komadina

2010-01-02T12:43:00.000+01:00

MILOŠ KOMADINA (Beograd, Srbija, 1955 – Beograd, Srbija, 2004)

poezija / poetry:
Obično jutro (Nolit, Beograd, 1978)
Rečnik melanholije (Nolit, Beograd, 1980)
Figure u igri (Nolit, Beograd, 1983)
Etika trave (Prosveta, Beograd, 1984)
Južni krst (Nolit, Beograd, 1987)
Nešto s anđelima (Nolit, Beograd, 1991)
Dan (BIGZ, Beograd, 1994)
Čudo (Narodna knjiga, Beograd, 1998)
Svejedno (Rad, Beograd, 2001)
Ono (S. Mašić, Beograd, 2003)
Svilom šivena juta (Društvo Istočnik, Beograd, 2005)

proza / prose:
Vode ili vetrovi (Zajednica književnika Pančeva, Pančevo, 1994)
Institut za rak (Stubovi kulture, Beograd, 2003)
Saučesnik (Književno društvo Sveti Sava, Beograd, 2004)

iz knjige / from the book:
Miloš Komadina: Not Just Anything (dvojezično izdanje / bilingual edition, Treći Trg, 2009)
prevela / translated by: Nina Živančević

SVETOVI

Svet kaljavih vojnika na vojnoj vežbi,
svet vlasnika portabl kompjutera,
svet bolnica i svet bolesnika...
Svet okupljenih na nečijoj sahrani.
A sred svih svetova moj svet.
Zašto neće da stane u nekoliko reči?

Svet putnika u prvom jutarnjem autobusu.
Izmoždene kurve nakon obavljenog posla,
polumrtvi radnici odlaze na posao...
Jedne noći sačekaću taj jutarnji autobus,
i kada postanem deo tog sveta
i moj sopstveni staće u nekoliko reči.

THE WORLDS

The world of mud-covered soldiers on a military exercise,
the world of the laptop owners,
the world of hospitals and the world of the sick...
The world of people at someone’s funeral.
And amongst all these worlds... my world.
Why does it refuse to fit into just a couple of words?

The world of the passengers on the first morning bus.
The weary prostitutes have done their job,
the moribund workers going to work...
One of these nights I shall get on that morning bus,
and once I become a part of that world
my own will fit into just a couple of words.

OBIČNO JUTRO

Kada ti dođe, slobodno nabrajaj sve sitnice
koje ti privlače pažnju, koje primećuješ...

Na putu od kuće do trafike, idem po cigarete,
žena u šalvarama, crvene čarape, barica vode,
ispred zgrade prodavačica pere izlog knjižare,
staniol, tramvaj prolazi, mesari istovaruju meso,
ljudi žure na posao, našminkane žene žure
i uz put jedu viršle, golubovi na trotoaru
i po krovovima, lak vetar nečujno pomera lišće
kestenova, sve vidim, sve vidim,
brojim bele kamenčiće utisnute u asfalt...

Sa novinama pod miškom i cigaretama u šaci,
vraćam se i opet nove stvari, nov raspored,
sto puta istim putem prolazim, uvek nešto
novo privlači pažnju. Žena u šalvarama u redu
za viršle, u poprečnoj ulici prokop,
nove telefonske linije, radnici doručkuju,
iskopana glina, pogodna za pravljenje ćupova...

Grad je od jutros čist, zelenilo, žuto nebo,
golubovi još od jutra poobarani vrućinom,
pred zgradom žena prodaje kruške, u liftu
sijalica je pregorela, gore u stanu voda za kafu
sigurno već vri, lep dan, zagrizam meku krušku,
puna je vode i po košulji mi kaplje sok...

AN ORDINARY MORNING

When you happen to be in the mood for it, feel free to count up
all the small things that you have noticed and paid attention to...

Walking from home to a cigarette stand
I see a woman in Turkish pants, red socks, a tiny pool of water,
in front of the building the saleslady is cleaning the bookshop front window,
the aluminium foil, a tram is passing by, the butchers unloading their trucks,
all the people rushing to work, the made-up women in a hurry
eating their hot-dogs as they run, the pigeons along the pavement
and on the roofs, soft wind inaudibly moving the leaves
of chestnut trees, I see everything, everything,
I’m counting up white pebbles embedded in the street concrete...

With the newspapers under my arm and cigarettes in my hand,
I am going home and again there are new things, new order,
hundreds of times I walk the same road, every time something new
attracts my attention. The woman in Turkish pants is queuing up for hot-dogs,
the perpendicular street is under construction,
new telephone cables, the workers are having breakfast,
the clay which is dug out – good for making pots...

The city is pristine this morning – the greenery, the yellow sky,
the pigeons struck by heat from early morning,
a woman selling pears in front of my building, inside the elevator
the bulb has burnt out, up there in the apartment the water for coffee
has probably boiled over, it’s a nice day, I am biting the soft pear,
it’s full of water and its juice is dripping down my shirt...

POSLE KIŠE

Vidim: između dva krečna kamena, mrtav gušter.
Okrenut je na leđa, belog i kaljavog stomaka.
Ljudi pod kišobranima promiču kao u snu.

Kišobrani plove kroz park i nestaju na drugom kraju.
I sve me to podseća na dobar akvarel
koji sam video u kući mog druga kad sam bio mali.

A ja?
Ja idem polako, gologlav, i pokisao, i lepo raspoložen,
ali neprimetno, između košulje i leđa počinjem
da osećam kožu mrtvog guštera i blato i vlagu,
i sve što vidim najednom mi se učini prljavo,
i najviše od svega mi je potrebno da operem ruke.

Najednom (takvih neočekivanih preokreta ni u snu nema)
oblaci se povlače, sunce izgreva, i ljudi na ulici
postaju češći, razgovorljiviji, sklopljenih kišobrana.
I gle, i ja se ponovo smeškam raspoložen,
i korak mi postaje brži, čvršći i poletan,
ali daleko u meni jedna je misao:
ta je kiša nad nama, ne možemo joj ništa...

I košuljicu gušterove kože, pomalo blatnjavu,
dugo, dugo nisam mogao da skinem...

AFTER THE RAIN

I see: between two calcified stones lies a dead lizard.
He’s turned on his back, the stomach’s white and muddy.
The people under their umbrellas are passing by, as in a dream.

The umbrellas are floating through the park, disappearing on the other side.
And all this reminds me of a good watercolour
that I saw once as a kid in my friend’s house.

And what about me?
I’m walking slowly, bareheaded, wet with rain, and in a good mood,
but imperceptibly, between my shirt and my back, I start
feeling the dead lizard’s skin and mud and humidity
and all that I am seeing suddenly seems dirty,
and it is vital to wash my hands.

All of a sudden (and that velocity goes beyond the dream state)
the clouds back off, the sun heats up and there are even more people
in the street, they are chattier, with their folded umbrellas.
And look , my good mood is back, I am even smiling,
my pace is quicker, steadier and more enthusiastic.
However there’s a thought haunting me:
that rain dwells somewhere up there, above us, we cannot prevent it....

And the shirt made of lizard’s skin, sprinkled with that mud,
I couldn’t get rid of it for a long, long time...

PROMAKLO

Kada sam te video kako nailaziš izdaleka,
učinilo mi se da sa sobom vodiš psa.
To nije bio pas, to je bila tvoja senka.

Kada si me videla prvi put,
imao sam na sebi šarenu košulju bez rukava,
iz koje su izlazile moje ruke, suve, mišićave,
pola dečačke, pola sasvim muške i odrasle.

Sedeo sam tamo, vitak i lep, malo pogrbljen,
lepo raspoložen, razgovarajući sa dva prijatelja,
od kojih je jedan imao bradu i ličio na Hrista.
On je sad u Londonu, pere sudove u nekoj kafani
i puši drogu, a drugog ne viđam.

Mogao bih da se setim svakog pokreta
koji smo od tada učinili, svakog lista, drveta, pogleda.
Svega se sećam.

Dođe mi da pomislim da je susret bio najvažniji.
(Ne držim mnogo do Onih trenutaka opuštanja),
ali ako susret nije bio najvažniji,
nešto mi je promaklo. O tome često mislim,
to mi ne da mira...

THE MISSING LINK

When I saw you coming from a distance
it seemed to me you were walking a dog.
It wasn’t a dog, it was your shadow.

When you saw me for the first time
I was wearing a sleeveless multicoloured shirt
from which my muscled and thin arms descended
half-boyish, half-manly and grown-up.

I was sitting there, slim and handsome, slightly hunched,
in good spirits, talking to two friends of mine,
one of them had a beard and resembled Jesus.
He lives in London now, working as a dish-washer in some bar,
smoking dope, and the other one, well, we’ve lost touch.

I could remember every single movement
we have made since then, every leaf and tree, every glance.
I remember everything.

I’ve come to think that the encounter was the most important thing in here.
(I don’t value too much those Moments of relaxation)
but, if the moment of our encounter hasn’t been the most important one,
then I’m missing something. I think about that so often,
it worries me...

BAR DVOJICA

Uvek nas je bar dvojica.
Tako mi nikad nije dosadno,
tako nikad nisam sam.

Legnem da se odmorim.
I njemu cvile pluća.
Njemu cvile pluća,
a ja ništa ne osećam.

Danas sam mnogo pušio.

Sve ti ovo govorim
da budeš vrlo oprezan,
da budeš veoma pažljiv
kada se opet sretnemo.
Jer možda neću biti onaj
koga si prošli put sreo.

AT LEAST TWO OF US

There have always been at least two of us.
That way I never get bored
and never alone.

I lie down to rest for while.
His lungs start wheezing too.
His lungs are wheezing
and I feel nothing.

I’ve smoked a lot today.

I’m telling you all this
so that you watch out for yourself,
so that you pay more attention
next time we meet.
For I might not be the one
you have met the previous time.

PONOS GORŠTAKA

I svoje sećanje na žene, i žene dao bi,
i one, one najmlađe, ljubav...
Novac i posede dao bi, sav imetak,
slavu, moć, mnogo što šta.
Ali nema načina da se to kupi
pa čak ni silom da se uzme.

Sve što si ikad želeo (i imaš)
dao bi rado: ponos gorštaka da stekneš,
prirodnu nedodirljivost, zrno časti,
neprelazni prelaz...
Dao bi sav svoj smisao,
sve posede, znanje, blago, sve, sve,
samo: to se nikako ne može imati,
ne može, osim ukoliko se već nema.

MOUNTAIN MAN’S PRIDE

Even your memory of women, even the women themselves,
even the youngest ones, even love... you would give away.
The money and assets you would give away, all your worldly goods,
power and fame, a lot of things.
But there’s no way to buy it
not even to take it by force.

Everything you’ve ever wanted (and owned)
you’d give away gladly, in order to gain the mountain man’s pride,
that natural manner of staying untouchable, that grain of honour,
the untransferable transfer...
You’d give away all your meaning,
all your possessions, knowledge, treasures, everything, everything,
however: it is impossible to have it,
impossible, unless it’s been already a part of you.

ULICA

Mangupi sede pred ulazom zgrade,
sede i pljuckaju na trotoar.
Ispljuckana bara tolika je
da se u njoj može utopiti čitav svet.

Mangupi ne znaju za dođoše,
što iza kapija od kovanog gvožđa
izlaze iz svojih iznajmljenih soba
i slivaju se u centar sa svih strana;
kao: u centru je centar svih zbivanja.

Mangupi sede pred ulazom
sede, pljuckaju i znaju:
nigde se ništa ne događa.

STREETLIFE

The layabouts are sitting on a porch of a building,
they sit together spitting at the pavement.
The pool of their spits is so big
that the entire world could drown in it.

The layabouts know nothing about newcomers,
those who pass through cast iron gates
when they have to leave their rented rooms,
and slide into the very heart of the city centre
as if it were the very centre of all that’s happening.

The layabouts are sitting on the porch,
sitting and spitting. They know:
nothing is happening anywhere.

ANATEMA

Tog jutra,
kada smo otvorili vrata,
ugledali smo pred kućom
čupavo, crno, polumrtvo pseto.

Istog trenutka,
ispred kuće je prošao čovek
sa crnim šeširom na glavi
i kontrabasom pod pazuhom.

Tog istog jutra,
srušilo se lastavičje gnezdo
iznad naših vrata.

Procvetao je kaktus u bašti.
Cvet je bio prelep,
ali je širio smrad strvine.

U podne je četa vojnika
promarširala pored kuće.

Više se ništa nije desilo,
ali od tog dana,
niko nam nije ušao u kuću.

CURSE

That morning,
as we opened the door
we saw in front of our house
a hairy, black, half-dead dog.

At that very moment
in front of the house a man passed by
with a black hat over his head
and a big bass under his arm.

That very morning
a swallow’s nest
had fallen onto our doorstep.

A cactus had bloomed in our garden.
Its flower was gorgeous
but it had the stench of a corpse.

At noon a squadron of soldiers
marched by the house.

Nothing else has happened since then
but from that very day
no one has visited us.

SVETLOSTI KOJE NEMAM

Viđam te oreole posvuda,
ne samo oko tvoje glave i ruku, draga.
Nose ih sva mala deca, tela im svetle,
i onaj golišavi cigančić do pasa u gipsu,
što sedi na uglu moje ulice i prosi,
i on primetno sija tako ispruženom rukom.

Vidim srećne svetlosti posvuda,
nalazim ih na najneočekivanijim mestima,
i gotov sam da pomislim da sobom nose tugu,
a nisu ni pečat ni darovani znak
po kojem bih nešto mogao da prepoznam.

Vidim ženu koja ide s pijace,
bije iz nje svetlost oko prosede kose,
kao neka pravilna paučina rasprela se zrakasto.
Oreoli na ljudima, na ženama, na svakom detetu.

Često se u svoj lik zagledam,
u ogledalu, izlogu, prozorskom oknu, ne namerno.
Ne tražim tu vašu svetlost, ne znam šta tražim.

A ti, kad smerno izađeš iz tamne sobe,
na vratima ostaje svetao obris tvog lika i tela,
i ja koji ne posedujem svetlost približavam taj obris,
umanjujem ga ili ga povećavam po želji.
Kad bih mogao više od toga što mogu...

THOSE LIGHTS I DON`T HAVE

I see these auras everywhere,
not only around your head and your arms, darling.
All little children have them, their bodies shed light,
even that half-naked Gypsy boy with a plaster cast from the waist up
sitting at the corner of my street and begging,
he’s shining visibly with his extended hand.

I see these cheerful lights everywhere,
I find them in the most unusual places,
and I almost think that they carry sadness within,
though there is neither a seal nor a birthmark
to help me recognize their meaning.

I see a woman coming from the market,
the light pours from her greyish hair,
resembling a meticulous spider web as it radiates outward.
Auras are placed on men, on women, on all children.

I often look at my reflection
in a mirror, in a shop window, in a windowpane, and it’s not deliberate.
I’m not after that light of yours, I don’t even know what I am after.

And you, when you come out of your dark room shyly,
the shiny shape of your face and your body stays in the doorway,
and then I, with no light whatsoever, try to approach that shape,
diminishing it or enlarging it at will.
If only I could... more than I can...

POŽELIM

Da kao raspusan šeik
pijan i nesvestan,
napijem i kamilu šampanjcem,
da joj pustim na volju,
nek me nosi preko dina,
krivudajući,
pri punom mesecu;
dok za nama vetar,
prizeman i oštar,
briše sve tragove i
čini mi se da se ne mičemo...

I WISH

I wish I were a decadent sheik,
drunk and unconscious,
I’d make my camel drunk with champagne,
and let it roam at will,
carrying me across the dunes,
zigzagging, while
under the full moon,
the sweeping wind blowing
behind us
erases all our traces so that
I feel like we are not moving at all...

ZIMA I SUNCE

Sad kad je usred zime sunce ogrejalo,
i stub se zlatne svetlosti
kroz prozor na plafonu sobe probio
i pao na tvoju sliku na zidu,
ja hoću draga
da se goli prošetamo gradom,
kao preko brda i bregova tamo u selu...

Za nama, u maršu, četrdeset tri gajdaša
neka sviraju šta im padne na pamet!

WINTER AND SUN

Now that it has started shining in midwinter,
now that its pillar of golden light
has penetrated the ceiling of the room
and has fallen on your picture on the wall,
I wish, my darling
to take a stroll with you through the city, both of us naked,
as if we were climbing the hills and mountain tops, there in the country...

There are forty three pipers marching behind us
so let them play what they please!

BRAĆA

Braća kopljem zatvaraju vrata.
Gledaš u nebo, čupaš kosu,
plačeš i proklinješ sebe,
što imaš takvu braću.

Braća mačem beru cveće.
Iskradeš se, pobegneš na polje,
legneš i mirišeš cveće sa zemlje.
Braća odu da te traže.

Vratiš se a kuću ne zatvoriš.
Zlikovci te u njoj nađu i zakolju.
Tebe braća ćutke zakopaju.

Mrtvome ti nešto došlo teško.

THE BROTHERS

Brothers are closing the doors with a lance.
You watch the sky, tear your hair out,
you cry and curse yourself
for having such brothers.

Brothers are gathering flowers with a sword.
You sneak out, run into the field,
you lie down and smell flowers scattered on the ground.
Brothers start looking for you.

You get back to the house but don’t close the door behind.
The knaves find you in there and slash your throat.
Brothers bury you silently.

Once dead you begin to feel a bit heavy.

Da ti kažem:
„Kada sve olista,
kada zamiriše bilje,
ja se menjam.”

(I tada
mala lična tragedija
biva važnija
od velikih nacionalnih vrenja.)

Da ti kažem:
„Ti govoriš o zvezadama,
o horoskopu,
o uticaju i zavisnosti...
Slažem se.
Samo, ja sa ovim sistemom
nemam nikakve veze;
moje se zvezde ne vide.”

Možemo mi da pričamo svašta,
ali TO se dešava mimo nas.

Let me tell you:
“When everything’s in bloom,
when the plants give their scent away
I also change.”

(And then
a small personal tragedy
becomes more important
than big national upheavals.)

Let me tell you:
“You talk of the stars,
of the horoscope,
of influence and of dependency...
I agree with you.
But I have nothing to do
with this system,
my stars are invisible.”

We can say what we want
but IT is happening in spite of us.

TO igra.
Na mnogim je mestima
samo ga treba ugledati.

Eno ga!
Eno ga
oko pletene kotarice
pune šugavih jabuka.
Igra a ja ćutim.

Misliš da treba da ga pokažem
nekome, kada god ga ugledam?

Neću.

Šta ko ima od toga?
Šta TO ima od toga?

IT dances.
It can be found in many places
we just have to notice it.

There it is!
There it goes
around the wicker basket
full of rotten apples.
It dances and I keep quiet.

Do you really think that I should show it to
someone, when I happen to see it?

Well, I won’t.

And who would ever gain anything from it?
And what would IT gain from my revelation?

TO možda ipak zavisi od mene?

Sedim tako jednog popodneva
kad
neko kuca.
Odem, otvorim.
Nije morao ni da se predstavlja.
Odmah sam znao.
I rekoh:
„Rat je na našim vratima!”

Pa poučen koječime
umesto da ga pustim unutra,
sam sam izašao napolje.
Jer:
TO ipak zavisi od mene.

After all, perhaps IT depends on me?

I’m hanging around one afternoon
when I hear a knock
at the door.
I go and open it.
He did not have to introduce himself.
I knew it at once.
So I said:
“The war has come to our doorstep!”

Life has taught me something
so instead of letting him in
I myself stepped out.
For:
in spite of all, IT depends on me.

TO u očima lepe žene treperi.
TO se s mačkama druži
pod automobilom.

TO vidi vojnik
dok umire u oranici.
TO vidi seljak
dok plasti slamu il seno.

TO ti se neće ukazati druškane
tek tako...

TO u očima lepe žene treperi
i tu se najpre može ugledati.

IT shimmers in the eyes of a beautiful woman.
IT snuggles with cats
under a car.

A dying soldier sees IT
in a field.
A farmer sees IT
while mowing hay or straw.

IT won’t show itself to you, my friend,
just like that…

IT shimmers in the eyes of a beautiful woman
and that’s the first place you spot it.

TO nije razum.

Bosa ludakinja na mesečini.
Ona se muči.
Zbog krvavih špilja
koje samo ona zna,
zbog mesečine,
zbog gluvih ptica.

Sve je nokte polomila,
svu je kosu raščupala,
tražeći da nađe...
TO je njoj okrenulo leđa.
Zato ne nalazi...
TO joj je okrenulo leđa.
Ali, TO nije razum.

IT does not invite sanity.

A barefoot mad woman is lurching in the moonlight.
She’s suffering.
Because of the caves drenched in blood
that she knows only
because of the moonlight
and the deaf birds.

She’s broken all her nails,
messed up all her hair,
she’s been searching for…
IT has turned its back on her.
That’s why she cannot find...
IT has turned its back on her.
But IT does not invite sanity.

SRPSKI BLUES

Znam da je crvena
a ipak mi se ponekad
učini da je crna
moja krv.

„Mi smo bre jedna govna”,
govorio je pokojni deda
za ovaj narod, za Srbe.

Polako mi postaje jasno
koliko ga je to bolelo.

Koliko ga je bolelo i TO
i crna krv.

SERBIAN BLUES

I know its colour is red
however black it appears
sometimes,
this blood of mine.

“We are all just pieces of shit”
my grandfather used to tell me
about our people, the Serbs.

It clarifies itself slowly, this affair which
must have hurt him so.

To what extent it hurt him – IT itself
and the black of the blood.

Plovimo.
Nezadovoljni,
ali plovimo.

Najednom
pacovi
skočiše
u vodu.

A mi
koji smo
ostali
na brodu,
ne brinemo.
Vidimo:
na brodu je i TO
i nema opasnosti.

A niko od nas ne zna
da TO ne ume da pliva.

We are sailing along
unhappy about it
but still sailing.

All of a sudden
the rats start
jumping into
the water.

And we
who remain
on the ship,
we are not worried
as we see
clearly:
IT is also on the ship
and there is nothing to fear.

However no one suspects that
IT does not even know how to swim!

Cigani gde god bili
ma u kom narodu bili,
nepogrešivo, daju mu TO.

Rusima – babušku i pesmu,
Englezima – potkovicu,
Francuzima – mašinicu
za motanje duvana,
Špancima i Srbima – nož.

Cigani, ma gde bili,
od svakog naroda u kojem su,
nepogrešivo uzimaju TO.

Pa voleo ih ne voleo,
isto ti dođe;
jer ako i uzmu TO
oni baš TO i daju.

The Gypsies, wherever they pass,
whatever country,
never make the mistake of not giving IT to other people.

They gave the Russians babushka and a song,
they gave a horse’s hoof to the English,
a tobacco-rolling machine is what they gave
to the French. To the Spaniards and the Serbs,
they gave a knife.

The Gypsies, wherever they pass,
from each people they live amongst,
they unfailingly take IT.

Whether you like them or not
makes no difference;
although they take possession of IT
they also confer IT.

SUNCOKRETI
Ljubici

Vidim te u centru te njive,
okružen si hiljadama braće i sestara,
dobro su mudri naučnici primetili
da pratiš Sunce duž neba.

Na mene sleće hiljade bubica
to su sve one koje vole sunce,
poda mnom hoda milijardu mrava
oni čekaju gozbu.

Noću, kad ovde sunca nema,
ja ga i dalje pratim,
zato obaram glavu.

Znaju li mudri naučnici
šta se događa noću?
Dobar deo bilja
uvrće se za Mesecom.

*

Pričala si o nekoj
galeriji u Holandiji.
O njegovim suncokretima –
na nekima su i hiljade vrana.

Suncokrete znam i poštujem ih.
Ali na vranama, o kako ti zavidim!

SUNFLOWERS
for Ljubica

I see you in the centre of that field
surrounded by thousands of brothers and sisters,
the good scientists have justly remarked
that you follow the Sun making its rounds across the sky.

Thousands of little insects land on me
all species that love the sun
and under my feet thousands of ants are marching,
waiting for a feast.

At night when the sun hides away,
I still follow its route,
that’s why I bow my head.

Do these good scientists know
what’s happening at night?
A large number of plants
turn their bodies towards the Moon.

*

You spoke of a certain gallery
located in Holland.
You spoke of his sunflowers,
some housing thousands of crows.

I know sunflowers and I respect them.
But to know the crows, oh, how I envy your knowledge!

ZAVIST

Prosto i dalje ne mogu da poverujem
kako mi zavidiš na nečem što nije moje.
Nisam ja to zaradio niti ukrao,
ja sam to dobio na poklon od Svevišnjeg.

I, što je najgore, to nikad nećeš imati,
neću imati ni ja kad mi On oduzme dar.

A ima nešto mnogo gore:
vidim kako počinješ i da me mrziš.

ENVY

It’s hard to believe
that you’re envious of something that does not belong to me.
I did not earn it nor did I steal it,
I got it as a gift from the Almighty.

And the worst of all is, you’ll never have it,
I won’t have it either when good Lord takes it away from me.

And I’ve observed something much worse than all this:
I’ve noticed that you’ve started hating me.

CITOSTATICI I FAGOT

Rano izjutra
kad pevaju prvi petli,
ne, ne, ne i ne.
Rano izjutra
kada se lasica lepotica
vraćala iz lova
posle obilaska mnogih gnezda,
na njenoj njuškici
bilo je krvavih tragova.
To su ti, sine, citostatici.

To je tamnoplava tečnost
koja se, kap po kap,
slivala pravo u venu.
Za sve to vreme
brujao je fagot.
To je tvoj život.
Ne, to je moj život.

A CYTOSTATIC AGENT AND THE BASSOON

Early morning
when the first roosters crow,
no no no and no.
Early morning
when that beauty of a weasel
returns from its hunt
after visiting so many nests,
a trace of blood
on its muzzle.
These are, my son, the cytostatic agents.

That’s deep blue liquid
which oozed into a vein
drop by drop.
And all that time
one could hear the sound of the bassoon.
This is your life.
No, it’s mine

Enes Halilović

2009-12-24T14:06:00.000+01:00

ENES HALILOVIĆ (Novi Pazar, Srbija, 1977)

poezija / poetry:

Srednje slovo (UPS, Novi Pazar, 1995)

Bludni parip (Agena, Beograd, 2000)

Listovi na vodi – prvo izdanje (Prosveta, Beograd, 2007)

drugo izdanje (BKG, Beograd, 2008)

priče / stories:

Potomci odbijenih prosaca (Rad, Beograd, 2004)

Kapilarne pojave (Treći Trg, Beograd, 2006)

drame / plays:

In vivo (Prosveta, Beograd, 2004)

iz knjige / from the book:

Enes Halilović: Leaves On Water (dvojezično izdanje / bilingual edition, Treći Trg, 2009)

prevela / translated by: Danijela Jovanović

PRELUDIJUM

Vidio sam dojilju koja budi dijete da ga nahrani.

Rekoh, da je gladno ne bi spalo.

A ona veli,

Spi, ali gladno je,

Jer meni su nadošle grudi.

Ni ti koji uzimaš ove stihove

Nisi probuđen svojom voljom.

Niti ja pišem radi sebe.

A PRELUDE

I saw a nurse waking up a child to feed it.

I said, if it were hungry it wouldn’t be asleep.

And she said,

It sleeps but it’s hungry,

Because my breasts became swollen.

Neither you who take in those lyrics,

Were awakened by your will.

Neither I wrote for my sake only.

PARIS

Na stijeni, dahom Sredozemlja okovan, sebi sliči

na sina Japetovog. Zagledan u vale, Paris

kazuje:

Ja sada želim samo stoku da čuvam.

Ne, nikada više jabukom ljepotu da vagam. Nikada,

Jer kad zlatnu voćku držah u ruci

( Zalud mi riječi Afrodite)

Ne slutih vojske što kreću na Troju,

Ne slutih srdžbu Here i Atene.

I znam. Vi nikada niste ni postojale, nikada ni na ovom

Ni na onom svijetu.

Osvanule ste u glavi pjesnika, vi ste buncanje obično.

I ja sada želim samo stoku da čuvam

I da se od buncanja skrijem.

O, sakloni me

Zmija i vrabaca, i vjetra oko Troje,

I Kalhanta koji misteriju smišlja, ne radi Grka

No radi sebe i trpeze carske,

Sakloni me

Ljudi što iz jednog trbuha donose pobjedu i poraz

Pa najzad i tog konja koji nevidljive uzde nosi.

PARIS

On the rock, chained by the Mediteranean breath, he looks to himself

Like a son of Japheth. Peering at the waves, Paris

Is saying:

From now on I only want cattle to tend.

No, never again beauty with apple to weight. Never,

Because when golden fruit I had in my hand

(Aphrodite’s words were in vain)

I did not foresee armies set out for Troy,

I did not foresee the wrath of Hera and Athena.

And I know. You never existed, not on this,

Nor on the other world.

You dawned in a poet’s head, you are just a raving.

And now I only want cattle to tend.

And to shroud from ravings.

Oh, protect me

From snakes and sparrows, and wind around Troy,

And Calchas who plots a mystery, not for the Greeks sake

But for his own and an emperor’s feast,

Protect me

From the people who bring victory and defeat in one belly

And lastly from that horse that wears an invisible curb.

O MASTEJU

Danijeli Kambasković – Sawers

Znamo da je postojao nekad pisac Valgije Ruf,

Ali ništa mu od spisa nije došlo do nas.

Legenda jedna kazuje da je sin mu Mastej

Skočio u vodu da spasi

Listove koje vjetar odnese njegovom ocu.

I utopio se Mastej,

Pa istorija književnosti nema sad čime da vaga.

Da bar znamo kakav je čitalac bio sin mu Mastej,

Slutili bi kakve elegije

Zgubi Valgije Ruf.

ABOUT MYSTES

to Danijela Kambasković – Sawers

We know that a writer Valgius Rufus once existed,

But none of his writings had reached us.

One legend says that son of his Mystes

Jumped into water to save

Leaves that wind took away from his father.

And Mystes drowned,

So the history of literature does not have with what to weight.

If we at least knew what kind of reader Mystes was,

We could foresee what kind of elegies

Valgius Rufus lost.

KARTAGINA

Bio sam u zemlji koja Hanibala rodi.

Spavao sam u hotelu čudnog imena, u Susu.

Pamtim, dva lifta na kraju hodnika,

Sjajan mehanizam to bijaše (kao istorija, kao život) -

Kad god jedan ode, drugi dođe.

I kad siđemo, neko se popne.

Sasvim jednostavno i veličanstveno.

CARTHAGE

I was in a country which gave birth to Hannibal.

I slept in a hotel of a strange name, in Sousse.

I remember, two lifts at the end of the hall,

Great mechanism it was (like history, like life) –

When one goes up, the other comes down.

And when we come down, somebody else goes up.

Quite simple and magnificent.

ZASTAJKIVANJE

Ja ti ne mogu reći brate ni prijatelju,

Jer ja nisam ono što moram da budem

Iako ponekad prospem niz vjetar glose

A prolazim ovuda, kao progonjena divljač,

Očajan, prolazim kud me noge nose,

Poljima i brdima.

A ti ćeš sigurno doći,

Kao što dobro znam,

Jer tebe nosi Riječ koja mora da se kaže

I odjekne među ljudima, medju krdima.

A ti ćeš sigurno poznati moje tragove

Po skokovima i zastajkivanju,

I, mada to ništa ne znači,

Ti ćeš se čuditi kud sam sve prolazio

I kakve sam vode pio, mutne i otrovne,

Nakon što sam čuo Riječ koja se mora čuti.

Iako ti si nošen, upitan i potvrđen kao onaj

Ko dolazi,

Ko nalazi,

I moje oznake sasvim su nepotrebne

Kao tuđ grob, ma gdje bio,

A moje stope jesu gonjene

I sramno je šta sam i što sam gazio ponekad

(Strašno i sramno).

Želim da znaš

Da ja sam samo onaj što prolazi kao progonjena divljač,

Ni vjetar što me gonio,

Ni vjetar što me češljao, ne nose miris moje kože,

I nisam kule zidao ni voćke sadio

Za tebe uglednika, koji sigurno dolaziš

Nošen

Riječju.

Kao da suvišni su za zemlju svi moji putevi,

Kao da zemlja ih nije tražila

Ni ubrzali joj nisu igru oko sunca, ni skrenuli je,

A ti ćeš sigurno doći

Korakom kojim treba da se dođe

I ugledati nerazumne.

Znam, tražićeš smisao u mome putovanju

I nemoj da me žališ niti braniš, i ne reci

Da nisam birao put -

Bijah saglasan s putem kojim sam hodio.

A ti ćeš sigurno doći.

I mada suvišne su moje riječi,

I mada pravi put ćeš ti sigurno naći,

I mada sve je moje suvišno

Za ono što je tebi suđeno,

Želim da znaš

(Jer poznaćeš mi korak kad sam zastao)

Jer poznaćeš mi slutnju tu gdje sam stajao -

Slomio sam grančicu

I dugo je uzalud žvakao.

Na mapi svih koraka

Gdje moje puteve nađeš

(Iako dobro ćeš znati da izlišne su moje riječi)

Želim samo da znaš

Tu gdje sam zastao

Treba da skreneš

Jer ja sam bio sam i očajan

I znadoh da korak mi je slabašan, i skretanje mi pogubno,

Niti sam čekao koga

Niti me neko čekao.

HINDERING

I can not tell you brother or friend,

Because I am not what I must be

Even though I sometimes spill my words down the wind

And I walk hereabout like the hunted quarry,

Desperate, I go through where my legs take me,

Through fields and hills.

And you will surely come,

As I know too well,

Because you are borne by the Word which has to be told

And to echo among people, among herds.

And you will surely recognize my footprints

By leaps and by hindering

And, even though that does not mean a thing,

You will be amazed where all I have been

And what waters did I drink, muddy and venomous,

After I heard the Word which had to be heard.

Even though you are borne, asked and approved as the one

Who comes,

Who finds,

And my markings are quite unnecessary,

Like someone else’s grave, wherever it might be,

And my steps are hunted,

And it is shameful what I am and what I stamped on sometimes

(Horrible and shameful).

I want you to know

That I am the one that pass by like the hunted quarry,

Not the wind that chased me,

Nor the wind that combed me, do not carry the smell of my skin,

And nor did I build tower, nor did I plant fruit trees

For notable you, who surely is coming

Borne by

The Word.

Like all my paths are excessive for earth,

Like the earth did not look for them

They did not quicken its dance around the Sun, nor did they sheered it,

And you will surely come

With a pace like it should be

And you will see the unreasonable.

I know, you will look for the meaning of my journey

And don’t pity me or defend me, and don’t say

That I did not choose my path –

I was in accordance with the path I trod.

And you will surely come.

And even though my words are needless,

And even though you will surely find the right path,

And even though all mine is needless

For what is destined for you,

I want you to know

(Because you will recognize my pace when I hindered)

Because you will recognize my presage where I stood –

I have broken a branch,

And gnawed it long in vain.

On the map of all paces

Where you will find my paths

(Even though you will know too well that my words are needless)

I want you to know

That where I stopped

You should sheer

Because I was alone and desperate

And I knew that my pace is weak, and that sheer is ill-fated for me

I did not wait for anybody

Nor someone waited for me.

NA VIJEST DA JE U BAGDADU UKRADEN NAJSTARIJI SRP

Sve je počelo na tom poluostrvu, i sve

Baš tamo mora da se okonča. Svi ljudi su od jedne zemlje

I od jednog čovjeka

Koji je prognan iz raja.

I vode iz oblaka i vode iz mora zapravo jedna su voda.

Zar vatra ima samo posestrimu?

I neka ostave u grobu tog Sumerca sa klinom,

Jer svi naši stihovi njegovi su sinovi.

I ostavite klinastog Hamurabija

Čiji 25.član Zakonika glasi:

Ako se u čijoj kući pojavi vatra i neko, ko dođe da gasi,

baci oko na svojinu gospodara kuće, svojinu gospodara kuće uzme,

da se baci u istu vatru.

Kažu za batinu da je iz raja izašla,

Ali će pakao da je sprži.

Ukraden je iz muzeja najstariji srp ovog svijeta,

A Babilon dolazi od akadske riječi Babilu

Što znači

Božja vrata.

Sa toga praga ko je ukrao

Nek proba u raj da se vrati.

Upon the News That the Oldest Sickle Was Stolen In Baghdad

Everything started on that peninsula, and everything

Has to end there. All people are of one land

And of one man

That was expelled from Eden.

And waters from clouds and waters from the seas are actually one water.

Does the fire only have blood sister?

Let them leave in the grave that Sumerian with a wedge

Because all our verses are his sons.

And leave cuneated Hammurabi

Whose 25. article of the Code reads:

If in somebody’s house fire appears and somebody, who comes to the house to quench it,

casts the eyes on the belongings of the master of the house, the belongings of the master of the house he takes, let him be thrown in the same fire.

They say that the beating stick came from heaven,

But the hell will burn it.

The oldest sickle was stolen from the museum,

And Babylon came from Acadian word Bab-ilu

Which means

God’s door.

From that sill who stole it

Let him try to come back to heaven.

SKICE

Postoji takav točak

koji ne prelazi

nego

prolazi.

I postoji takva voda:

kad umočiš – postaje krv,

kad kane – pretvara se u mastilo.

Ovo sam zapisao na poleđini

jedne pozivnice za zlo veče.

Znači,

okrenuo sam stranu.

Sketches

There is such wheel

which crosses not

but

passes.

And there is such water:

when you dip into it – it becomes blood,

when it drips – it turns into ink.

I have written this at the back

of one invitation for a bad evening.

Meaning,

I have turned the page.

SANTO SUBITO

Santo subito! Santo subito! (Svetac odmah)

uzvikivanje naroda na sahrani Jovana Pavla II, 8.4.2005.

Papa Benedikt XVI odlučio je danas da ubrzanim procesom proglasi za sveca svog prethodnika, papu Jovana Pavla II.
RTV CG, 13.5.2005.

Plače li Grčka danas? Zavidna da li je ona?

Kud ostaju svi polisi njeni, kud ode suparnik Rim?

Nekad, na trgovima u Grčkoj, birahu vlast za polis,

A sad u Rimu, na sahrani – izbori za nebesa.

Spustiše ga i masa povika:

Santo subito! Santo subito!

Jednoglasno izabran, niko protiv, niko uzdržan.

I formalno, još potpis jedan.

Novog sveca na nebo šalje

Svetac budući.

Plače li danas Grčka?

Daleko ode Rim.

Santo subito

Santo subito! Santo subito! (Saint at once)

cheering of the people at the funeral of John Paul II, 8.4.2005.

Pope Benedict XVI decided today to proclaim his predecessor pope John Paul II for saint by accelerated process.

RTV CG, 13.5. 2005.

Does Greece cry today? Envious is she?

Where all her poleis remained, where her rival Rome has gone?

Once, at the squares in Greece, they used to elect polis’ government,

And now in Rome, at the funeral – election for heaven.

They laid him down, and the crowd shouted:

Santo subito! Santo subito!

Unanimously elected, nobody against, nobody restrained.

And formally, just one more signature.

The new saint is being sent to heaven

By the future saint.

Does Greece cry today?

Far away Rome has gone.

PISMO PLUTARHU

Mučno je, Plutarhu, danas, zvati sebe Bošnjakom,

Jer što vidiš kriješ od usne, što kušaš – oku ga skrivaš.

Da kažeš – na zub sebi, da šutiš - nije ti rado,

A ako iz sna ih budiš moru ti daruju tada.

Ništa im nije jasno do da snivaju laže

I da crtaju igračke kojih u prirodi nema.

A ni za knjigu neće dati prebijenu banku

Niti za hroniku svoju, da im se tokovi skole.

I vazda na jeziku svom jezik zborimo tuđ,

Čas nas nedoved vodi, čas ga zamijeni vaška.

Plutarhu, ti veliš da Atinjani su oko ostrva Salamine

Bitke vodili, pa gubili – umorili se i donijeli zakon po kome niko

(Ni pismeno, ni usmeno)

Ne smije predložit da se osvaja Salamina, inače

Slijedi mu smrt.

Platonov predak Solon zakon taj ne moga da podnese

Nego o sebi rasturi glas da je poludio skroz,

Onda na trgu otpjeva pjesmu pod imenom Salamina.

Tako se sruši zakon i Solon uvažen bi

Što spreman je za rod i da se napravi lud.

Danas, Plutarhu, ima narod imenom Bošnjaci,

Al što su kakvi jesu to nije jasno ni njim,

Donijeli zakon su oni po kom je sramotna knjiga,

I pisat je i čitat - bruka veća od svih.

Zato, ako si nekad čitao stihove svoje, na trgu

Kakvom il bilo gdje, javno, pred ruljom tom,

Ti više nikad ne moraš da se napraviš lud -

A to je, Plutarhu, smrt gora od smrti svih.

Letter to Plutarch

It is hard, Plutarch, today, to call yourself a Bosniak,

Because what you see you hide from your lip, what you taste – you hide from your eye.

To say – to spite yourself, to shut up – you are not willing,

And if you wake them from a dream then they give you a nightmare.

Nothing is clear to them but dreaming lies.

And to draw toys that exist not in nature.

Neither for a book will they give a dime

Nor for their chronicle, for their streams to merge into one.

And for long on our language we speak foreign tongue,

For a while an understrapper is leading us, and for a while he is replaced by a louse.

Plutarch, you say that Athenians around Salamis island

Were running battles, then loosing them – they became weary and gave the law under which nobody

(Not in writing, nor orally)

Could suggest Salamis island to be conquered, or

Will be put to death.

Plato’s ancestor Solon could not bore with that law

But spread a rumor that he has gone completely mad,

Then on a square he sang a song named Salamis Island.

That is how the law collapsed and Solon venerable became

For ready he was for his kin to pretend to be crazy.

Today, Plutarch, there are people named Bosniaks,

But why are they the way they are, it is not clear even to them,

They gave the law under which the book is disgrace,

And reading and writing –the biggest shame.

Hence, if you ever read your verses on a square

Whatever and wherever, publicly, in front of that crowd,

You do not have to pretend to be crazy ever again –

And that is, Plutarch, the worst death of all.

O RUCI MOG OCA

O sve bi mogli mi, al pusto,

Ime nas naše oda.

Zorom trajemo

I mišlju se majemo

Da krv nam nije voda.

Davno je bilo,

Rastade se milo i drago.

O u snu se ne snilo,

Pradjed moj isprati četiri brata u Tursku

Sa petnaest sinova,

Odoše iz Bara preko debelih mora.

Kćeri nisu brojali (jer ih bijaše mnogo).

Rekoše oni što odlaze da je ovdje svanuo drugi zakon

I rekoše da je tamo miran grob i sloboda.

I plakao moj pradjed, i molio da ostanu:

Krv ipak nije voda.

Pradjed od tifusa umrije, odvuče u zemlju ženu

I dva sina.

Ostade djed moj Ahmet, nejak, sa sestrom,

Na tankoj zemlji, slatkog ploda.

Kad ojača Ahmet, u Tursku se zaputi

Uz želju da krv svoju nađe.

Preko Crvenog krsta rodbinu je tražio.

Listali su kartone, prevrtali imena,

Ahmet je uzalud tragao,

Krv ipak nije voda.

Vratio se natrag vozom, iz Stambola

(Da bar nije preko prokletog mora).

Slutio da u prahu Anadola

Krv damara njegova.

Upamtio je, tek nebitno, da je na stanici

(Nekom u vozu)

Mahao momak jedan desnom rukom.

Žena mu rodi šest sinova i četiri kćeri

(Vazda sa sofrom u boju).

Mnogo kasnije, oca mog je pratio

Na studije u Beograd, i otac moj mu mahao

Baš kao momak onaj u Stambolu, desnom rukom.

Dozna tad Ahmet da mu se nekad

Ispunila želja - vidio je krv svoju

(Po očima to je jasno i po ruci što maše).

Toliko o našima znamo.

Priča o sudbini naše krvi

Jeste priča o sjećanju na ruku koja maše.

About my father’s hand

Oh, we could do anything, but our wretched

Name gave us away.

With dawn we endure

And with a thought we bear

That blood of ours water is not.

It was a long time ago,

The close ones set apart.

Oh, never to happen,

My great grandfather sent off four of his brothers to Turkey

With fifteen sons,

They went from Bar across the deep seas.

Daughters they did not count (for there were too many of them).

Those who were leaving said that here the new law has dawned

And they said that there is a peaceful grave and freedom.

And my great grandfather cried, and pleaded them to stay:

Blood, after all, water is not.

My great grandfather died of typhus, dragged his wife down into the grave with him

And two of his sons.

My grandfather Ahmet remained, feeble, with his sister,

On earth lean, with a fruit sweet.

When Ahmet became stronger, in Turkey he went

Led by a wish to find his own flesh and blood.

Through Red Cross he looked for his relatives.

They leafed through cards, they turned over names,

Ahmet searched in vain,

Blood, after all, water is not.

He came back by train, from Stamboul

(If only it was not across the damn see).

He foreboded that in the dust of Anatolia

His blood is throbbing.

He remembered, which is of no importance, that on a station

(At somebody in the train)

One lad was waving with his right hand.

His wife gave birth to six sons and four daughters

(Constantly in battle with sofra).

Much later, he was sending my father off

To his studies in Belgrade, and my father waved at him

Just like that lad in Stamboul, with his right hand.

Ahmet then discovered that his wish

Came through sometime – he saw his own flesh and blood

(By the eyes that is clear and by the hand that waves).

That is how much we know about our closest.

The story about the fate of our blood

Is the story about remembrance of a hand that waves.

TRAJANJE

Ne znam kako je drugima.

Ali, u mom narodu, kad neko umre,

Kažu:

Odmorio se.

Endurance

I don’t know how it is with others.

But, my people, when somebody dies,

Say:

He’s rested.

TRAGOVI

Šejli Šehabović

Postoji vrijeme u kome mnoge hramove izidaju

Oni koji u hramove nisu stupili.

U tom vremenu mnoge hramove poruše

Oni koji su svakoga dana u hramovima.

I pisci tad slave vođe i vojskovođe

I sklapaju velike naručene poeme.

A grobari kopaju mnogo kratkih grobova

Koji su pticama, iz njihove perspektive,

Nalik na tragove ljudi.

Traces

for Šejla Šehabović

There’s a time in which many a temple build

Those who never stepped into temples.

In that time many a temple ruin

Those who spent every day in temples.

And writers then praise leaders and commanders

And make grand ordered poems.

And gravediggers dig many short graves

Which, to birds from their perspective,

Look like traces of people.

ARGENTINA

U zemlji prepunoj ruda

Postoje motike kojima se zlato i srebro traži.

U zemlji prepunoj ruda, nakon ratova,

Istim se motikama kosti traže.

Ponekad, plaćeni ekspert uzvikne Eureka!

I podigne motiku.

Kada ekspert ponese kost nekoj majci

Na prepoznavanje,

Ona kaže:

Zlato moje.

Kaže li neki poeta:

Srebro moje.

Argentina

In a land full of ores

There are hoes with which gold and silver are searched for.

In a land full of ores, after the wars,

With the same hoes bones are being searched for.

Sometimes, a paid expert yells Eureka!

And raises his hoe.

When expert then takes bone to some mother

To recognize it,

She says:

Gold of mine.

Does any poet say:

Silver of mine.

UPUĆENI NA RUŽU VJETROVA

Dževadu Jahiću

Postoje takvi domaćini,

Koji imaju takve bašte

I u njima zalivaju takvo cvijeće

Koje koristi svaki vjetar i dah,

Da se nagne, na bilo koju stranu,

Da se pokaže,

Da ga pohode

I pčela i leptir i zolja i bumbar

I os i obad -

Samo da u nekoj košnici, na bukvi, u stijeni,

Na izmetu, na konjskom repu,

Bilo gdje,

Samo da nešto

Od mirisa i od polena,

Samo da nešto ostane,

Jer domaćin i bašta neće,

Sigurno neće.

Directed Toward the Wind Rose

for Dževad Jahić

There are such hosts,

Who have such gardens,

And in them they water such flowers

That use each wind and each breath,

To slope toward any side,

To show themselves,

To be visited

By the bee and buterfly and sawfly and bumble bee

And wasp and gadfly.

Only something, in some hive, on some beech, on some rock,

on feces, on horse’s tail,

Anywhere,

Only something of a smell and pollen

Only something to remain,

For host and flowers won’t,

They surely won’t.

TEMELJNA FARBA

Jednog jutra, direktor ugleda na zidu škole

Grafit koji zbori o klanju

I odmah naredi domaru da prekreči zid.

Već sutradan, direktor ugleda isti natpis

I opet pozva domara

Koji opet umoči četku u kreč.

I tako jutrima, i tako godinama,

Direktor poziva domara, domar kreči.

A noć ostavlja crn natpis na bijelom zidu,

A djeca nagađaju ko je pisac tih slova.

Ali jednog jutra, direktor reče da uzalud je krečiti

I domar odmori ruke.

Sutradan, na zidu ugledaše

Nečiju krv.

Tako inače počinju ratovi.

Solid Paint

One morning, principal saw on the school’s wall

Graffiti that was saying about slaughter

And at once he ordered janitor to whiten the wall.

Already tomorrow, principal saw the same inscription

And again he called janitor

Who again dipped his brush into the whitewash.

And thus for mornings, and thus for years,

Principal calls janitor, janitor whitens.

And night leaves black inscription on the white wall,

And children guess who the writer of that letters is.

But one morning, principal said that whitening is in vain

And janitor rested his hands.

Tomorrow, on the wall they saw

Somebody’s blood.

That’s how usually wars start.

PRINOŠENJE ŽRTVE ŽRTVAMA ILI ZAŠTO JE ČOVJEK GLUH KAO TOP

U vojsci, kerovođa

Osječe štenetu jedno uho

Da vidi

Da l‘ je ljuto.

U vojsci, livac

Kada izlije top,

Umjesto đuleta, prvo mu stavi u grlo jednu glavu

Da ga kuša,

Da nije gadljiv.

U vojsci, oficir

Prvo razbije ogledalo vojniku

Da ne gleda sebe u oči.

Sacrifice of the Victims to the Victims Or why is a Man Deaf as a Post

In the army, a dog trainer

Cuts off the ear to the puppy

To see

If it’s angry.

In the army, a moulder

When casts a cannon

Instead of the cannonball, puts into its throat one head firstly

To try it

If it’s not squeamish

In the army, an officer

Breaks the soldier’s mirror firstly

So that he could not look himself in the eye.

RUŠEVINE

Herostrat,

Obućar iz Efesa,

Spalio je hram

Samo da bi ostao upamćen.

Danas, međutim, ne bi imao takvu šansu.

Kao da ga gledam,

Čupa kose nad zgarištima

I lije suze po kamenju hramova razidanih.

I kune

Vladare i vojskovođe

Sveštenike i kurve.

Ruins

Herostratus,

A cobbler from Ephesus,

Burnt the temple

Just to be remembered.

Today, however, he wouldn’t have such a chance.

As if I see him,

He pulls his hair over the ruins

And sheds his tears over the stones of the temples unbuilt.

And swears

Rulers and commanders

Priests and whores.

OBRADA ZEMLJIŠTA I SISTEM NAVODNJAVANJA U ZEMLJI GERMANSKOJ

U tu zemlju su odvođeni naši djedovi,

U logore, na prisilni rad i za zabavu hirurzima,

Ubijani čak i zbog mjerenja brzine smrti.

U tu zemlju, danas, odlaze naša braća.

Iz širokih kazana jedu tri obroka dnevno

I besplatno popravljaju crne zube i prebijene ruke

I šteluju sluh oštećen topovima.

Kad dođu k nama, ne pitamo kojim dobrom

No kojim zlom? Da ih nisu prognali zbog

Krađe ili lažnog braka?

I ne žalimo one što su otišli

No žalimo sebe što smo ostali.

Djedovi, koji su preživjeli logore,

Pričali su da je zemlja germanska

Ostala spaljena i žalosna, pa danas pitamo braću

Kako ta zemlja hrani i mimo Germana ljude?

Kažu,

Izbacila je tuđe kosti iz sebe

I zaplakala,

Da bolje rađa.

Soil Cultivation and Irrigation System in Deutschland

To that land our grandfathers were taken,

To camps, for forced labour and for surgeons’ fun,

They used to be killed even for measuring the swiftness of the death.

To that land, today, our brothers are going.

From large pots they eat three meals a day

And free of charge they fix their black teeth and beaten arms

And tune their hearing damaged by cannons.

When they come to us, we don’t ask what good has brought them

But what bad? Were they deported because of

The theft or false marriage?

And we don’t pity those who left

But us who stayed.

Grandfathers, who survived camps,

Were telling us that Deutschland

Remained burnt and dismal, so today we ask our brothers

How that land is feeding all that people besides Germans?

They say,

It cast out foreign bones from it

And cried

To bear better.

SAMONIKLI

Iznenadio me šipurak u bašti

I njegov plod koji je krenuo k nebu

(Rimljani kažu da je trnovit put do zvijezda).

Nije tražio da se zalije

Ni da se okopa

A iznikao, nezvan,

I protnuo stablo između busike i kamena.

Ovako i piscima slutimo korijen

Tek kad im plodovi zriju.

SELF-GROWN

In the garden, sweet briar surprised me

And its rose haw stretching toward the sky

(The Romans used to say: Through thorns toward the stars).

It does not ask to be watered

Nor to be ploughed,

And yet, it sprouted, uninvited,

Growing between the clod and the rock.

That is how we presage the root of the writers,

Not before their fruits begin to ripen.

LEGENDA O HEROINI

Takav je bio vođa kineske revolucije

Mao Cedung.

Povede 86 hiljada vojnika

Na veliki marš.

I pregaziše 12 provincija,

18 planinskih vijenaca i 24 rijeke.

I dobiše više od trista bitaka.

Vođa je tokom velikog marša

Nosio 2 ćebeta, nekoliko knjiga i mušemu,

A 370 dana jahao je na jednoj kobili.

Kad ga, na kraju, upitaše kako je izdržala,

Vođa reče:

Prije polaska smo joj sakrili ždrijebe,

Još bi ona mogla da ga traži.

A Legend of the Heroine

That is how the leader of the Chinese Revolution

Mao Zedong was.

He led 86 thousand soldiers

On the Long March.

They overran 12 provinces,

18 mountain chains and 24 rivers.

And won more than three hundred battles.

During the Long March the leader carried

2 blankets, few books, and one table cover made of plastic,

And for 370 days he rode the same mare.

When, in the end, he was asked how she endured,

The leader answered:

Before the March we hid her foal,

She could still look for him.

SMOKVA I MASLINA I GORA SINAJSKA

Danas, u hladu poezije

Čitam maslinu,

I mislim na dan

Kad sam

U hladu masline

Listao poeziju.

A Fig, an Olive, and the Mount Sinai

Today, in the shade of poetry

I am reading an olive,

And I think of the day

When I was

In the shade of the olive tree

Leafing through poetry.

PITAO SAM

Pitao sam pjesnika čije tijelo bijaše na zalasku,

Pitao sam ga,

Nakon pedeset godina pisanja

Šta je njemu poezija.

Pravo da ti kažem, uvuče dim,

Ništa.

A kad si počeo da pišeš,

U osvit prvih stihova,

Prije pedeset godina?

Šta je za tebe tada bila poezija?

Pa i tada je bila

Ništa.

I’ve Asked

I’ve asked a poet whose body was coming to its end,

I’ve asked him,

After fifty years of writing

What is poetry to him.

To tell you the truth, he inhaled smoke,

Nothing.

And when you started to write,

At the dawn of your first verses,

Fifty year ago,

Then what was poetry to you?

Why, and then it was

Nothing.

PORTRET ANGAŽOVANOG PISCA

Siniši Soćaninu

Još se priča na grčkim trgovima,

na palubama i pod Olimpom

da je na stolovima, na posteljama, na poveljama

viđao prašinu.

Kažiprstom je ostavljao riječi.

Nekada:

očisti me.

A nekada ime svoje.

Pisao je i nije znao da piše pjesnik u njemu.

Ljudi brisahu prašinu, tako i slova njegova imena,

time dodirivahu smisao poezije

i angažman.

Sakriven osta pjesnik.

I Homer je s prahom sjedinjen.

Traži se onaj ko čita,

Skriva se onaj ko piše.

A Portrait of the Engaged Writer

to Siniša Soćanin

There’s still talk in the Greek squares,

on the decks and under Mount Olympus

that he used to see dust on the tables, sheets,

and charters.

With his forefinger he used to leave words.

Sometimes:

clean me.

And sometimes his own name.

He wrote and he didn’t know that a poet in him is writing.

People cleaned the dust, so as the letters of his name,

Thus touching the meaning of poetry

and engagement.

Hidden remained the poet.

And Homer is merged with dust.

Wanted is the one who reads,

Concealed is the one who writes.

OTROV

Živa je to istina. Prezirali su ga

I oni iz njegove kuće.

I sve druge kuće.

Djeca ga i žena motikama gađahu

Kad je uzimao pero,

A narod se cerio uz priču o njemu.

Pisao je krišom, na tavanu.

Nije narod dao da se pisac u groblju sahrani,

Dadoše ga kljunovima, pticama na upotrebu

Da ih zamaju – da ne pjevaju.

Sudbina pisca!

Njegove stihove popušio je njegov sin.

Nekoliko godina, nakon očeve smrti,

Savijao je duhan papirima sa tavana

I pušio,

Stih po stih.

Potom ga ja napao kašalj. Brzo je izdahnuo.

Kad se pročulo da je poezija uzrok smrti piščevog sina,

Narod je i za njega udario zabranu kopanja u groblju.

Rekoše:

Sam se trovo, sam nek trune.

A Poison

It’s the whole truth. They detested him

Those from his house,

And from all other houses.

His children and his wife threw hoes at him

When he would take quill in his hand,

And people used to laugh while talking about him.

He wrote secretly, in the attic.

People wouldn’t let writer to be buried at the cemetery,

But they gave him to the birds, to their beaks

To entangle them – to sing no more.

Destiny of a writer!

His verses his son smoked.

For a few years, after his father’s death,

He rolled cigarettes using papers from the attic

And smoked

Verse by verse.

Then he was overcome by coughing. He died quickly.

When it was heard that poetry is a cause of writer’s son death,

People lifted a ban for him too not to be buried in the grave.

They said:

He poisoned himself, let him rot all alone.

NA OVAJ DAN

Ex ore parvulorum veritas.

Na ovaj dan

Da te opet spomenemo Rimljanine,

Koji nam jasno reče

Da istina djeci izlazi iz usta.

Sjećam se,

Učenici bijasmo tek sa 30 slova

I deset brojki.

Predavač državni, u menzi đačkoj,

Zborio nam je o borbi za slobodu,

O granicama i krvi,

O zastavi,

I reče: nad svima u zemlji je

Ustav.

Tad neki dječak upita:

A ko je on?

On This Day

Ex ore parvulorum veritas.

On this day

To mention you Roman,

Who told us clearly

That truth comes out from children’s mouth.

I remember,

We were students with just 30 letters

And ten numerals.

Public teacher, in a student’s canteen,

Talked to us about fight for freedom,

About borders and blood,

About flag,

And he said: Above everybody in the state is

Constitution.

Then one boy asked:

And who is he?

DVORSKI SAVJETNIK

Jer, vidio sam ljude, većinom su takvi:

Nestalni u vezi i često promjenljivi.

Aus ibn Hagar

Ova nek pjesma kazuje zašto je kipova mnogo

U dvorovima, onih što mudruju i vazda šute.

Bila dva druga, dva pjesnika, dva pastira; a lira

Bila im družbenica – zborahu o tlu, nebu i moru.

Jednoga ih dana srete kralj grčki imenom Mida,

Reče da savjetnika traži za dvorska pitanja sva.

Jedan se prevari pjesnik, pruži on Midi ruku –

Časom u zlato se pretvori i ostade kao kip,

A drugi utječe, pa uze liru da se izjada:

Zgubih druga zbog zlata, a drug mi zlatan izgubi stih.

A Court Counselor

For, I saw people, mostly they are like that:

Inconsistent in the relationship and often fickle.

Aus ibn Hajar

Let this song tells why there are so many statues

In the courts of those who philosophize and tend to be silent.

There were two friends, two poets, two herdsmen; a lyre

Was their companion – they narrated about land, sky and the sea.

One day Greek king named Midas met them,

He said that he is looking for a counselor for all court issues.

One poet tricked into it and he gave his hand to Midas –

In a moment he turned into gold and remained as a statue,

And the other run away, so he took his lyre to grieve:

I’ve lost a friend over gold, and my golden friend lost his verse.

IMANJE KRAJ TIBRA

Koji mnogo žele, nedostaje im mnogo.

Horacije

Valjda nema nikoga ko nije izgovarao molitve

Pa ipak, ne znam nikoga ko je tražio bolju pamet.

U molitvama i novac šuška,

Dječak ne traži zdravlje,

Starac ne moli za mladost.

Pa najzad, pokažite mi tog pisca

Koji bi od Horacija Flaka

Potražio temu

Al ne i Mecenu.

A Land Near Tiber

The covetous man is ever in want.

Horatius

I guess there is no one that never said a prayer

Yet, I do not know any one that asked for a better mind.

Even money rustles in the prayers,

A boy does not ask for good health,

An old man does not ask for youthfulness.

Finally, show me a writer

Who would ask from Horatius Flaccus

A theme

but not a Maecenas.

AGAMEMNON

- Osta li u nama bar tri kapi od tih starih Grka?

1.Na istom kopnu umiremo.

2.Argonauti su iz Crnog mora uplovili u Dunav,

3. A naši kazivači pjesama narodnih

Nose kratke štapove, izrezbarene,

Baš kao Homer što je nosio.

4. Čujem danas da je razbojnik Feriz, s početka dvadesetog vijeka,

Usmrtio podanika svog (pred očima cijele bande)

Jer je ovaj ridao na vijest

Da mu se žena s komšijom viđa.

Neću da zbog njegovih suza

Vi sumnjate u vaše žene, rekao je Feriz

Koji nije znao da na ostrvu Temidu, blizu Troje,

Ujede zmija vojnika Filokreta

Pa mu nabubri rana i silno zasmrde

Da je morao Agamemnon čamcem na drugo ostrvo da ga iskrca

I kad se vrati, reče vojnicima:

Neću da od smrada jedne rane

izginete nadomak Troje.

- Osta li u nama bar tri kapi od tih starih Grka?

Agamemnon

- Did merely three drops of blood remain in us from the old Greeks?

1. On the same mainland we die.

2. Argonauts sailed from the Black Sea in the Danube,

3. And our narrators of folk tales and songs

Are using short walking sticks, carved,

The same as Homer used.

4. I’ve heard today that a thug Feriz, from the beginning of the 20^th century,

Killed his vassal (in front of the whole gang)

Because the vassal was crying upon hearing the news

That his wife is seeing his neighbour.

I do not want that because of his tears

You doubt in your wives, Feriz said.

Who did not know that on the island Tenedos, near Troy,

A snake bit soldier Philoctetes

And his wound became swollen and reeked greatly

That Agamemnon had to disembark him on the other island

And when he came back, he said to his soldiers:

I don’t want you to die near Troy

Because of the reek of one wound.

- Did merely three drops of blood remain in us from the old Greeks?

O JEDNOM PUTU U SELU HOTKOVU NA POLUOSTRVU BALKANU

Nebojši Gajtanoviću

Tiho! Nebojša, kad ovim putem prolazimo!

Tiho!

Znaš li ti kakav je ovo put?

Lijevo kad skreneš, na brdu Hober, staro latinsko groblje.

A pod Hoberom groblje pravoslavno

Gdje kopaju se komšije Srbi. Dakle,

Možeš i ti.

Ovamo desno brdo Grkovina,

Na njemu staro grčko groblje,

A malo ispod, groblje muslimansko

(Još Turci su ga ogradili)

Tu ukopani moji su svi. Dakle,

Mogu i ja.

Tiše!

Znaš li ti kakve vojske put ovaj prolaziše?

Bili i prošli Grčka, Rim i Turska.

I naši rodovi, sitna istorijska boranija,

Jednom će konačno u čitanke leći.

Možda opet navrate Mongoli, Germani il Ugri.

Da zastanemo ovdje

Da malo kušamo tišinu,

Da malo slušamo sudbinu.

Da učimo šta je put.

About one Trip to Village Hotkovo On the Balkan Peninsula

to Nebojša Gajtanović

Quiet! Nebojša, when we go by this road!

Quiet!

Do you know what kind of road is this?

On the left, when you turn, on the hill Hober, is an old Latin graveyard.

And under Hober, an orthodox graveyard

Where our neighbours Serbs are burying their dead. So,

you can be buried there too.

Here on the right, hill Grkovina,

on it, an old Greek grave.

And a little further, a Muslim graveyard

(Still Turks had fenced it)

There are buried all who were dear to me. So,

I can be buried there too.

Quieter!

Do you know what kind of armies used to go by this road?

They came and went, Greeks, Romans and Ottomans.

And our lineages, odds and ends of history,

Once will be finally put down in readers.

Maybe, Mongols, Germans or Ugrians will come by again.

Let’s stop here

Let’s try a silence a little bit,

Let’s listen to destiny a little bit.

Let’s learn what the road is.