You want to know how I spend my time?
I walk the front lawn, pretending
to be weeding. You ought to know
I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling
clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact
I’m looking for courage, for some evidence
my life will change, though
it takes forever, checking
each clump for the symbolic
leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already
the leaves turning, always the sick trees
going first, the dying turning
brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform
their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?
As empty now as at the first note.
Or was the point always
to continue without a sign?

___

Želiš li da znaš kako provodim vreme?
Hodam po travnjaku i pretvaram se
da plevim korov. Treba da znaš
da ja nikad ne plevim korov — klečim i čupam
busenove deteline iz cvetnih gredica: zapravo
tražim hrabrost, neki dokaz
da će mi se život promeniti, mada
to traje čitavu večnost, proveravanj
svakog busena u potrazi za simboličnim
listom, a letu će uskoro kraj, lišće
već menja boju, isprva uvek na
obolelim stablima, venući blistavožuto
postaje, dok nekoliko tamnih ptica izvodi
muzičku završnicu. Da mi vidiš ruke?
Prazne su kao i kod prvog tona.
Ili je smisao oduvek bio u tome
da se istraje bez znamena?

(prev. Alen Bešić, 2023, Kontrast)

 

Pre no što mi iskopaše oko
I ja sam volela da gledam —
Ko i druga Stvorenja što imaju Oči,
A ne znaju drugi način nijedan —

Ipak, da mi je rečeno — Danas —
Da mogu za sebe imati nebo —
Na Srcu bi se otvorila rana
Velika koliko i ja sama —

Livade — moje —
Planine — moje —
Sve Šume — Zvezde Beskrajne —
Podneva koliko može stati
U moje oči omeđene —

Pokrete Ponirućih ptica —
Jutarnju Ćilibarsku Cestu —
Samo moju — da je gledam kad poželim —
Novosti bi me ubile na mestu —

Sigurnije je — valjda — sa dušom samo
Na Prozor kad se kroči —
Gde druga Stvorenja — nesmotreno
Suncu izlažu — svoje oči —

***

„Pouzdano se zna da je Emili Dikinson imala velikih oftalmoloških problema: zamor očiju, nemogućnost da dugo čita, zamućenja, diplopiju (udvojeni vid), glavobolje itd. Poetskom slikom se medicinska činjenica udvojenog vida predstavlja kao metafizička; pesnikinja veruje da bi je kristalno jasan vid (svet u svoj svojoj lepoti i istini) zasigurno ubio. Na kraju pesme, u svom maniru, ona pretpostavlja unutrašnji vid onom fizičkom, spoljnom, lako ranjivom.“

(Iz: Emili Dikinson, JA SAM NIKO! A KO SI TI?, ur./prev. Aleksandar Šurbatović, 2016, Mali vrt)

—–

Before I got my eye put out –
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes –
And know no other way –

But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me –

The Meadows – mine –
The Mountains – mine –
All Forests – Stintless stars –
As much of noon, as I could take –
Between my finite eyes –

The Motions of the Dipping Birds –
The Morning’s Amber Road –
For mine – to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead –

So safer – guess – with just my soul
Opon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes –
Incautious – of the Sun –

Možda ćemo nekad biti ćutljivi i lepi
kao šume isprane kišom.
Usamljene i strašne šume
u koje bi pustio telo i ne bi,
pa zato stojiš na njenom početku.

Neko je tamo, neko te tamo voli
iako postoje mesta do kojih se ne dopire
i postoje mesta na kojima te nikada neće čuti.

Nečije vreme šeta
kao gladna životinja među stablima.
I onda odjednom staje radi popodnevne svetlosti.
Njena smrt potom srasta s predelom
i pesnik ostaje bez odgovora
dok njgov jezik ljušti jabuku
ljušti i na kraju se nešto valjda dogodi s jabukom.
Ne znam šta.

Na panjevima je nešto drugo.
Uvek je nešto drugo.

Napustila me je odavno ova kuća.
Sastoji se samo od grdnih, ugljenisanih ruku,
što grlile su mi telo mekim glinama.
Njen malter beše mek i vlažan, pun žudnje.
Ako bih se iznova u njoj probudila,
bila bih njen prozor u zaborav.
Mogli bismo zajedno da srčemo more,
da osluškujemo pljuskanje talasa u našim telima.

_________________

Ez a ház már rég elhagyott engem.
Már csak hatalmas, üszkös karokból áll,
melyek puha agyagban ölelték testemet.
Vakolata lágy és nedves volt, tele vágyakkal.
Da he újra felébrednék benne,
feledésbe néző ablaka lennék.
Együtt szürcsölnénk a tengert,
hallgatnánk testünkben a hullámverést.

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
só heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.

And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.

Nekoliko fenomenalnih heksametara iz moje omiljene pesme na ENDLESS SUMMER VACATION Majli Sajrus. (Druga strofa nije heksametarska ali mi je isto lepa.) Kao koautor stihova je uz Majli potpisan i filmski reditelj Harmoni Korajn (Harmony Korine; GUMMO, SPRING BREAKERS).

You’re questioning the science ’cause you don’t understand
How I’m doing what I’m doing in a fucking handstand
You found it so impressive that I do it again
My other one is busy, so I use my left hand
We took it kinda fast but you put it in slow
I see your mother’s calling and you’re hitting ignore
It’s like you saw a unicorn, you don’t understand
How I’m doing what I’m doing in a fucking handstand
/
I wish I could crawl inside your heart
Take you captive and then sail away

(Miley Cyrus, „Handstand“, ENDLESS SUMMER VACATION, 2023, Columbia Records)

Godina koja okleva, kvaran martovski sneg,
Neumereno obilje goriva za rad vrtova,
Hrtovi zime što još se osvrću na uzmaku,
Pod mokrim krznom već nestvarni; to je praznik
Praznine, optočen romorom što kaplje
Sa krovova u zoru. Taj zvuk će da se zgusne
u mrlju koja vlaži zapadni sobni zid —
Tako praznina gusne u vidljivu suprotnost,
Najavu rastočenja. Je li to ono što motri
Ona žena krunisana i krilata, urezana
u pomni nered, na bakarnu ploču, u Nirnbergu
daleke da li hiljadu petsto četrnaeste?
Na jugu proleće raspliće čvorove mokrih vetrova,
Smrt ima mokru senku dok prolazi kroz zid.

_______________________

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

for Vasko Popa

At the vast car graveyard
Among the shark-finned Chevies,
I met my gum-chewing Ophelia
On a star-studded night.

Naked under the rusty pyramids,
She resembled a witch-roast
Voluptuously contorting
On a knife-slashed leather seat.

All you need is a cross,
I said, and not having one handy
Offered her a paper rose
Out of a lace-courtained hearse.

In the far off towers of Banking and Industry,
Our mothers wielded their mops
Under the huge portraits
Of the grim founders and their clever offspring.

(1985)

_____________________________________________________________

Васку Попи

На пространом гробљу аутомобила
Међу шевролетима ајкулиних пераја
Сретох моју Офелију са жваком,
Једне ноћи звездама осуте.

Гола под зарђалим пирамидама,
Личила је на вештицу на ломачи,
Док похотно се увијала
На кожном сицу, ножем распараном.

Још ти само фали крст,
Рекох, а како не беше ми при руци,
Понудих јој папирнату ружу
Из мртвачких кола чипканих завеса.

У далеким кулама Банкарства и Индустрије
Мајке су наше витлале крпама
Испод големих портрета
Мргодних оснивача и њиховог умешног потомства.