Goran Čolakhodžić

Poetry

1. Pots / Posude

   

   

   ENGHRV

   Pots, earthen, cracked,
   reusable nonetheless, lying long
   in the rain and open air, flake 
   beautifully, just like skin. They function
   as parts of a natural
   echoing machine, reflecting responses
   with their bottoms. Their use 
   is for water to pass through them
   and to linger inside, and for demonstrating
   clearly the roles of earth,
   since they were made of it, lifting up
   rot, germination, specimens of plants.
   In a corner of the garden, under the hedge,
   empty pots lie (here 
   is their room), waiting for spring, 
   to be housed anew, until then
   calling softly for moss,
   something more permanent. 

    

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   Posude, zemljane, napukle,

   ipak upotrebljive, dugo stojeće

   na zraku i kiši, ljušte se

   lijepo, kao i koža. Djeluju

   kao dijelovi prirodnog stroja

   za odjekivanje, svojim dnima

   odbijajući odzive. Služe

   tome da voda kroz njih prolazi

   i zaostaje, i da naočigled

   pokazuju funkcije zemlje,

   budući od nje, dižući gore

   truljenje, klijanje, primjere bilja.

   U kutu vrta, pod živicom,

   leže prazne posude (tu je

   njihova soba), čekaju proljeće

   novih udomljenja, dotle

   potiho zazivajući mahovinu,

   nešto stalnije.

2. The Hunt / Lov

   

   

   ENGHRV

   I hunted hares
   abundantly and inaudibly: 
   the crosshair killed, there were no shots,
   furry bags fell promptly down
   on the parched grass in the dusk. They remained
   stiff, eyes open, with not a drop of blood
   on their clenched wounds: in fact ridiculous,
   innocuous in their death which had not
   taken over life, and so was see-through. 
   I did not run out of bullets,
   and neither did they of death: they produced it constantly
   in ditches and on mounds. 
   Autumn is falling, it’ll be that. 

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   Lovio sam zečeve

   obilno i nečujno:

   nišan je ubijao, nije bilo pucnja,

   krznene su vreće padale bez odgode

   na suhu travu sumraka. Ostajali su

   kruti, otvorenih očiju, bez kapi krvi

   na stegnutim ranama, zapravo smiješni,

   neopasni u toj smrti koja nije

   preotela život, pa je bila prozirna.

   Meni nije nestajalo metaka,

   a ni njima smrti: stalno su je producirali

   po humcima i jarcima.

   Spušta se jesen, bit će da je to.

3. Last Mowing / Zadnja košnja

   

   

   ENGHRV

   The last mowing another quiet ritual.
   It is not obligatory, but it is good,
   and pleasant too, because it re-enacts August,
   the time when mowing is as contagious as yawning,
   when you start the engine and begin,
   and when you stop for the first time
   you hear the entire motor choir from the near
   distance, from all the four corners of the world.
   All of us conquering grass, mimicking cows,
   mimicking  some neighbours in the suburbs of Chicago.

   But the last mowing is more beautiful and manly:
   you are alone in it, it’s often dusk and there is fog.
   You do something unpleasant and painful to the grass
   for its own good, like a doctor or a father. 
   You take care of the machine, you clean it before it turns in,
   you pour out the gasoline, dealing with – as you never do,
   being a philologist, a scribe and a gay – oil and steel. At last
   you lock the door, breathing out an “everything’s ready”;
   now winter may come, now long nights without growth
   spent far away from the earth,
   that’s why you sigh. 

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   Zadnja košnja još jedan tih ritual.

   Ne mora se nužno, ali je dobro,

   a i lijepo, jer vraća u kolovoz,

   vrijeme kad je košnja zarazna kao i zijevanje,

   kad upališ motor i kreneš,

   a kad prvi put staneš,

   čuješ čitavi motorni zbor iz bliske

   daljine, od svake strane svijeta.

   Svi svladavamo travu, igramo se krava,

   igramo se susjeda u predgrađu Chicaga.

   Zadnja je košnja ljepša i muškija:

   sam si u tome, često je magla i sumrak.

   Obavljaš nešto travi ružno i bolno

   u njezinu korist, kao liječnik ili otac.

   Vodiš računa o stroju, kupaš ga pred san,

   izlijevaš benzin, baviš se, kao što se ne baviš nikad,

   jer si filolog, pisar i gej, uljem i čelikom. Na kraju

   zaključavaš vrata, izdišući jedno „sve je spremno“ –

   sad može zima, sad mogu duge noći bez rasta

   provedene daleko od zemlje,

   odatle uzdah.

4. We were talking about your death / Stajali smo i koristili perfekt

   

   

   ENGHRV

   We were talking about your death

   in the past tense

   or actually not about death, since it was behind us,

   but we dealt with it as fluenty as we did with verbs.

    

   We still had a few issues to solve,

   related to seedlings and Spring in the sun;

   a few remarks before we went to work,

   not a single uplifting word – that's how you show trust.

    

   Not until noon, after the morning mist lifted,

   when you cut the plant roots with your shovel,

   did I remember I'd cried, also, at night, awoken,

   briefly, having turned over the sorrow in the dark like the earth

    

   during autumn digging; it went

   back into the humus, like a worm.

   Now we both push our hands into the willing darkness,

   everything has happened whil it still hasn't, earth is good.

   Translated by R. McCaffery, G. Čolakhodžić, & S. Van de Peer

   Stajali smo i koristili perfekt

   razgovarajući o tvojoj smrti –

   zapravo ne o njoj, jer se već bila dogodila,

   njome smo baratali tečno kao glagolima.

    

   Trebalo je riješiti pitanje-dva

   u vezi sjetve i proljeća, sunca;

   nekoliko napomena prije odlaska na rad,

   izostanak hrabrenja tvoj je izraz uzdanja.

    

   Tek oko podneva, poslije magle,

   dok si lopatom rezao korijenje,

   sjetio sam se da sam noću i plakao, probuđen,

   kratko, prevrnuvši tugu u mraku, kao i zemlju

    

   pri jesenskom kopanju; ušla je

   natrag, u humus, kao gujavica.

   Sada obojica guramo šake u podatnu tamu,

   sve se dogodilo dok još i nije, dobra je zemlja.

5. I have an unsolved issue / Imam nešto neriješeno s gradom

   

   

   ENGHRV

   I have an unsolved issue with the city,
   that is, I think that during the day we’re unable 
   to tell each other everything. I make up for it, willy
   or nilly, at night, when the hedges draw closer
   and the hills start rolling beneath my feet. 
   There is usually a lot of drives streets vaults arcades
   also a lot of bronze, made green by the wet darkness
   in the rarely mown parks. 
   It keeps sending me on errands from façade to façade
   by inconveniently connected tram lines
   and often it spells out the names of buildings and squares
   in completely arcane languages. 
   It rolls me down sidewalks, chucks me over to entrances,
   hiding, nonetheless, its inner courtyards –
   the proof that it can dream lucidly, if I
   clamber where I have to through passages and underpasses.
   And then in the morning it makes me laugh
   and deride, because I know that it multiplies braggingly
   in me all night long, pulling wool over my eyes, blaring propaganda,
   trying to appear larger blacker deeper
   to build itself endlessly, illusively in vain.

    

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   Imam nešto neriješeno s gradom,

   odnosno, mislim da danju nismo u stanju

   reći si sve. Nadoknadim, hoću

   ili neću, noću, kad mi se primaknu živice

   i brda se počnu kotrljati pod nogama.

   Bude tu podosta prilaza ulica volti arkada

   bude i podosta bronce, zelene od vlažnog mraka

   u rijetko košenim parkovima.

   Stalno me šalje od pročelja do pročelja

   nezgodno vezanim linijama tramvaja

   i često sasvim neznanim jezicima

   ispisuje nazive zgrada i trgova.

   Valja me po pločnicima, dobacuje haustorima,

   krijući ipak unutarnja dvorišta –

   dokaz da on može sanjati lucidno, ako već ja

   bauljam kud moram kroz hodnike i pothodnike.

   I onda me ujutro tjera u smijeh

   i u podsmijeh, jer znam da se hvalisavo množi

   u meni cijele noći, zamazuje mi oči, trubi propagandu,

   trudeći se napraviti većim crnjim dubljim

   graditi se beskonačan, uzalud u privid.

6. Redshift (I) / Pomak prema crvenom (I)

   

   

   ENGHRV

   I have lived until now among
   a couple of buildings, on some twenty streets,
   in three or four hectares of woodland and meadow.
   I haven’t thought – vast spaces are over there,
   and a considerable part of them belongs to me.
   long have rectangles encircled the horizon,
   reproducing the specimen of space visible from here.
   now, from this high, dark viewpoint,
   I observe the centre from the margin, I realize
   the patterns of repetition, the forms of permanence. 
   poorly drawn, the trapeze of the city from here to rapska street,
   from it to the mosque, from there
   to a point in the east (find the angle
   opposite the known α) and again to the room where,
   momentarily alone, locked up and calm, I look
   out of the wide windows. the trapeze will be repeated
   infinite times, or a little less, in order to create the city.
   it is only from high places, at a small zoom,
   that the generic quality of space becomes apparent. 
   there will be spawned endlessly that couple of buildings,
   some twenty streets, three or four hectares of woodland and meadow.
   endlessly those light-bulb factories which, 
   with their lights fused together into a single unique copper smudge,
   will, every evening, make up the west 

    

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   živio sam dosad između

   nekoliko zgrada, na dvadesetak ulica,

   u tri ili četiri hektara šume i livada.

   nisam mislio – u onom je smjeru prostranstvo,

   a meni ga pripada zamjetan dio.

   dugo su pravokutnici zaokruživali obzor,

   reproducirajući odavde vidljivi uzorak prostora.

   sada, s ovoga visokog, tamnoga gledišta,

   promatram s rubnika središte, uviđam

   šprance ponavljanja, oblike stalnosti.

   loše iscrtan, trapez grada odavde do rapske,

   od nje do džamije, odande

   do neke točke na istoku (traži se kut

   nasuprot poznatog α) pa opet do sobe u kojoj,

   zakratko sâm, zaključan i miran, motrim

   kroz široke prozore. on će se bezbroj,

   ili nešto manje puta, ponoviti, kako bi stvorio grad.

   tek će s visokih mjesta, pri malome zoomu,

   postati jasna generičnost prostora.

   unedogled će se nastvarati nekoliko zgrada,

   dvadesetak ulica, tri ili četiri hektara šume i livada.

   unedogled onih tvornica žarulja, koje će,

   u jednu jedinstvenu bakrenu mrlju stopljenih svjetala,

   svake večeri činiti zapad

7. From „Mature Landscapes“ / Iz „Zrelih krajolika“

   

   

   ENGHRV

   1.

    

   In the morning, space is not yet healed 
   from people, from errands, as are not
   the mucosa of the lustful,
   and already we wait for the day to return,
   for the void to be filled.
   In the throat, on the eyes: the acridity of early dawn,
   the necessity to move, to start off, the breaking away
   from sleep, the clenched fist in the stomach
   before coming to visit, before climbing
   the stairs, washed with dirty water, that lead
   to school    (as child, as teacher)
   to hospital    (I fear)
   to prison    (I remember the dread in my dreams).
   And those bare columns oblige us in some way, somehow they say
   “It’s not that simple”,
   they pierce, they exhaust. In the morning,
   when we most directly face illness 
   and its finality, 
   when the bare dawn in our lungs
   comforts us most and makes the harshest demands.*

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   1.

    

   Ujutro prostor nije još zarastao

   od ljudi, od poslova, onako

   kao ni sluznice požudnih,

   a već se čeka vraćanje dana,

   punjenje praznine.

   U grlu, na očima: ljutina rane zore,

   nužnost kretanja, polaska, trganje

   od sna, stezanje u želucu

   prije posjeta, prije uspona

   po prašnjavom vodom opranim stubama

   škole               (kao dijete, kao učitelj)

   bolnice                        (bojim se)

   zatvora                        (sjećam se straha u snovima).

   I goli nas stupovi nečime obvezuju, nekako govore

   „Nije to tako jednostavno“,

   probadaju, iscrpljuju. Ujutro,

   kad se najviše srećemo s bolešću

   i njezinom krajnjošću,

   kada nas gola zora u plućima

   najviše tješi i najteže zahtijeva.

8. Writ / Pismo

   

   

   ENGHRV

   The key is never to draw a map.
   A scale is a discourse of tricks, and the map
   is not the territory; but still
   don’t draw a map,
   don’t let the map draw, 
   nor give it land.
   Make Map Lackland sign
   the Great Map, and then
   wake out of the river and the island.

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

   Važno je nikad ne crtati kartu.

   Mjerilo je diskurs varki, a karta

   nije teritorij; ali ipak

   ne crtajte kartu,

   niti dajte karti da crta,

   niti joj darujte zemlju.

   Tjerajte Kartu Bez Zemlje da potpiše

   Veliku kartu, a onda se

   probudite iz rijeke i otoka.

9. With Hands-Graveyards / Rukama grobljima

   

   

   ENGHRV

                                   Do not love me.

         My hands are a summer graveyard of mosquitoes

                                                                                                    T. Augustinčić

    

   It’s easy to love someone when you don’t know

   how he spends the last five minutes before going to bed,

   when you firmly believe he lies down angelically,

   an innocent sleep quenching all his urges.

   One has to be always drunk, however, with mixtures

   of laughter and indignation, of longing and disgust,

   of sex and wounding. In October evenings, my hands

   are graveyards of mosquitoes, the very living palms

   with which I, as a crocus does spring, cup your face

   and all your softness and your firmness

   as a mouth enfolds limbs.

   Now you tell me how you can love me,

   when I caress you with graveyards,

   when I lead you through love across two fields of execution

   hiding this from you?

   I sense that you are a master of merging,

   that’s why I love you with bloodstained palms.

   Translated from the Croatian by the Author

                          Ti nemoj mene voljeti.

                          Moje su ruke ljetno groblje komaraca

                                                                          T. Augustinčić

    

   Lako je nekoga voljeti kad ne znaš

   kako provodi zadnjih pet minuta prije spavanja,

   kad si uvjeren da liježe anđeoski

   i da mu nevini san odmah gasi sve nagone.

   Treba se, međutim, opijati smjesama

   smijeha i snebivanja, čežnje i gađenja,

   seksa i ranjavanja. Moje su ruke u listopadske večeri

   groblja komaraca, oni isti živi dlanovi

   kojima ti, kao šafran proljeće, obuhvaćam lice

   i sve tvoje mekosti i napetosti,

   kao što usta obujme udove.

   I hajde sad reci kako me voljeti

   kada te milujem grobljima,

   kada te dvama poljima stratišta vodim kroz ljubav

   i krijem to od tebe?

   Slutim da si majstor stapanja,

   zato te i volim krvavih dlanova.

10. A Connoisseur’s Song / Ušuškavanje

    

    

    ENGHRV

    In the autumn nights are longest.

    I give them more space,

    preparing winter stores for their arrival

    (in fact they eat nothing but a bit of fat –

    they make you thin and lean – but they stay long.)

     

    They are so luscious. Well-trained and unconstrained,

    now we try out new positions

    in which to sleep, more or less acrobatic,

    defensible or indefensible, subtly different.

     

    A blanket over my side might provoke

    the sensation of a forest floor under my back/your palm on my thigh,

    a book beside the head can change the angles of space,

    thus also the perspectives of dreams. And then I experiment

    with the distance of the cell phone from my head: dreams are waves,

    interference depends on frequency,

    what can’t I do with them to change the landscapes of night?

     

    And then I lie in the dark

    and wait, always endlessly dreading the moment

    of falling asleep, because it can’t be cut out, cognized, negotiated with,

    because it’s the same as death.

     

    Autumn presses down heavily, keeping me asleep,

    often without dreams, since there’s no room for them

    between my head and the strata of clay, the bricks of night.

    My head lies in grey loam, my feet in plums,

    night in the orchard.

     

    In the morning I make plans for going to bed.

    That’s how I know that it’s late in the year,

    that earth, brain and larvae

    are contracting according to season.

    Translated from the Croatian by the Author

    Ujesen su noći najduže.

    Dajem im najviše oduška,

    spremajući zimnicu za njihov dolazak

    (zapravo ne jedu ništa, osim nešto sala –

    od njih se suši i suče – ali dugo ostaju).

     

    Posebno su slatke. Već uvježbani i oslobođeni,

    sada isprobavamo nove položaje

    za spavanje, više ili manje akrobatske,

    obranjive i neobranjive, vrlo suptilno različite.

     

    Deka preko boka možda će izazvati

    osjećaj šumskoga tla pod leđima/tvojega dlana na bedrima,

    knjiga kraj glave može izmijeniti kutove prostora,

    time i gledišta snova. A onda pravim pokuse

    s razmakom glave i mobitela: snovi su valovi,

    interferencije stvar su frekvencije,

    kako tek mogu njima izmijeniti krajobraz noći?

     

    I onda liježem u mraku

    i čekam, uvijek beskrajno strepeći od trenutka

    zaspavanja, jer se ne može isjeći, spoznati, s njim pregovarati,

    jer je isto što i smrt.

     

    Teško poklopljenog drži me jesen u snu,

    često bez snova, jer za njih nema mjesta

    između glave i sloja gline, cigle noći.

    Glava je u sivoj ilovači, noge u šljivama,

    noć u voćnjaku.

     

    Ujutro planiram večernje lijeganje.

    Po tome znam da je kasno u godini,

    da se zemlja, mozak i ličinke

    sezonski grče prema unutra.

11. From „Or, A Life in the Woods“ / Iz „Ili, Život u šumi“

    

    

    ENGHRV

    Ten years ago I bought Žumberak. After Croatia, when streets had grown rather empty, even at peak hours, after Slovenia, which had been considered eternal. Slovenia had always been a presence*, the dampness of her forests radiating from the west, she used to bleed across the fields and streams in the borderlands. But now it was no more real than Great Carantania, out of which often came snow, carried by the wind, born on cold glassy fronts. Now she radiated less and less, so that high up in Žumberak one could live long, without fear. I bought it for twenty euros and took the roads into my care – I took care they should decompose swiftly and appropriately, disappearing without making any further damage. I found a secluded spot far up near Sichelberg, a point where no meteorites ever strike, alike to an oak tree split by lightning. There I have nine bean-rows and a hive for honey bees, and in the evening I listen to the rustle of barn owls. The preparations were done well and thoroughly, now I have something to rely on. Now those books on permaculture, ordered on the Internet while it still existed, finally pay off. Fears about ploughing and urea were shown to have been justified, raised beds and mixed hedges were proven to be crucial. In order to assert myself, I walled my land in with a belt of dogwood and blackthorn, all the way across the field, while from the woods I am separated by a woven fence. Here is where I stand guard.  At night, down the slope at whose foot I have nestled there blows a light northern wind, bringing false voices, reducing distances. Hear I stand upright in long afternoons, announcing myself to the shadows moving at the edge of my field of vision. Here I welcomed Hedgehog, that summer evening when fireflies, seen for the first time after half a century, were defining the plane with their green points. He was dragging himself towards me like a living molehill, pretending a poor guy. I did not let myself be fooled, I’ve known for long that Hedgehog is a bourgeois, that he owns multiple houses while glorifying that single little one. I did give him the garden, though, for that we struck a bargain. Together now we are waiting to hear the noise of an engine on the drive, together, at night, under the moonlight, we observe the passage of the tower’s shadow over the closed garden.

     

    * Slovenia was always a presence;

    the humid allure of its forests

    an asset in the west.

    Slovenia you could always count on

    and had to account for.

    The closer to the border,

    the more of it in the soil

    and in the waterways

    a breath of foreign.

    We've made it mystic, have been doing so;

    at all times we've been

    wary and keen,

    Slovenia always a being.

                            Jacob Frass (1990. – 2014.)

     

    Translated from the Croatian by the Author

    Prije deset godina kupio sam Žumberak. Nakon Hrvatske, kad su ulice znatno opustjele, čak i u vrijeme špice, nakon Slovenije, smatrane vječnom. Slovenija je uvijek bila prisutnost, zračila šumskom vlagom sa zapada, širila se pograničnim poljima i potocima. Ali sada nije bila ništa stvarnija od Velike Karantanije, iz koje je često, po vjetru, na staklastim frontama dolazio prvi snijeg. Sada je zračila sve slabije, pa se visoko u Žumberku moglo poživjeti dugo, bez straha. Kupio sam ga za dvadeset eura i uzeo ceste pod svoje, pazio da se brzo i primjereno raspadnu, da odu ne praveći dodatnu štetu. Skrovito sam mjesto našao daleko gore kraj Sichelberga, točke u koju nikad ne udaraju meteoriti, kao ni u munjom raspolovljen hrast. Ondje imam devet redova graha i košnicu mednih pčela, a navečer slušam šuštaj kukuvija. Priprema je riješena dobro i detaljno, sada se imam na što pozvati. Sad su se najzad isplatile knjige o permakulturi, naručene preko neta, dok ga je još bilo. Opravdanim su se pokazali strahovi od oranja i ureje, ključnima su ispale uzdignute gredice, kombinirane živice. Da pokažem tko sam i što sam, svoju sam zemlju ogradio pojasom sviba i trnine, sve preko polja, dok me od šume odvaja pleteni plot. Tu je moje mjesto straže. Noću s padine u kojoj sam se ugnijezdio popuhuje vjetar sjeverac, donosi lažne glasove, smanjuje udaljenosti. Ovdje uspravan stojim u duga popodneva, dajući se na znanje sjenama koje se kreću na rubu pojasa vidnosti. Ovdje sam dočekao Ježa, one ljetne večeri kada su krijesnice, prvi put viđene nakon pola stoljeća, zelenim točkama definirale ravninu. Vukao se prema meni kao živi krtičnjak, glumeći jadnika. Nisam se dao zavarati, odavno znam da je Jež buržuj, da je vlasnik više kuća dok od jedne bijedne pravi boga. Ipak sam mu dao vrt, za nj smo se pogodili. Zajedno sada iščekujemo buku motora na prilaznom putu, zajedno noću, pod mjesečinom, pratimo prelazak crne sjene tornja preko zatvorenog vrta.

12. Sometimes I remember the fact that meetings are numbered / Povremeno se sjetim izbrojenosti susreta

    

    

    ENGHRV

    Sometimes I remember the fact that meetings are numbered, and that makes me sad. I am made sad by the fragments of space, therefore of the city, that, while I will have all the reason to believe that I’m changing, will have to remain always the same, same in all the three or four points of visit: at six, at ten, at three, at eight. And then that’s it, we’ll have no more opportunities to touch each other, although they might have the chance, somewhere and up to a certain point in time (which is a product of space), to be same. (They do not be, they same.) A deeply yellow afternoon sky where there is nothing but a husk of the city – afternoon and windows, afternoon and windows, blurred sheep-like clouds reflected in them. I do not know what they’ll do without me; the important thing is not-knowing, not I. Will they be affected by the changing of the times (the change being a matter of heated debate), will that Parisian guy whom I left, at the beginning of this century, in an early autumn afternoon in a quiet cul-de-sac on the edge of the city’s centre, to dig trenches for drainage pipes, dig and dig out, will he need some lunch, will he ever talk to anyone again? Above all – will I find that at six, at ten, at three, at eight he will have something to say to me, will he break, break like the day? I always demand more from scripted NPCs, but they have escaped time perfectly, not escaping sadness, though, a deep sadness. They do not know about action-reaction: that lack opens up for them the copious reservoirs of melancholy. They are the proof of my childhood, of its faces and its Junes. Their suffering, because they are not conscious of suffering, is far greater than that of men, says Nietzsche, and then I down my drink, pick the only non-impasse option on the conversation wheel, leaving still, coming back hours later, or weeks, Their suffering, because they are not conscious of suffering, is far greater than that of men, just like in my childhood, at six and at ten, I smack my lips, down the drink and let’s say leave.

    Translated from the Croatian by the Author

    Povremeno se sjetim izbrojenosti susreta i to me rastuži. Rastuže me fragmenti prostora, tako i grada, koji će, dok ja budem imao ozbiljna razloga vjerovati da se mijenjam, morati uvijek ostati isti, isti u sve tri ili četiri točke posjeta: u šest, u deset, u tri, u osam. I onda gotovo, nećemo se više imati prilike dodirnuti, iako će možda oni imati prilike negdje i do neke točke u vremenu (koje je rezultat prostora) biti isti. (Oni ne bivstvuju, oni istuju.) Duboko žuto popodnevno nebo ondje gdje više nema ničeg osim ljuske grada – popodne i prozori, popodne i prozori, mutne ovčice oblaka u njima odražene. Ne znam što će bez mene; važno je što ne znam, ne ja. Hoće li na njih utjecati promjena doba (koja je predmet žučne rasprave), hoće li onaj Parižanin kojeg sam početkom stoljeća ostavio u rano jesensko popodne u tihoj slijepoj uličici na rubu središta grada da kopa jarke za odvode kopati i iskopati, hoće li trebati ručak, hoće li i s kim više razgovarati? Najviše – hoću li ga naći u šest, u deset, u tri, u osam, a da mi ima što reći, hoće li se slomiti, puknuti kao zora? Uvijek tražim više od scripted NPC-ja, ali oni su vrhunski umakli vremenu, svejedno ne umakavši tuzi, dubokoj tuzi. Ne znaju što je akcija-reakcija: taj manjak im obilno otvara spremnike sjete. Oni su dokaz mog djetinjstva, njegovih lica i srpnjeva. Njihova je patnja zbog nesvijesti o patnji daleko gora od ljudske, kaže Nietzsche, a ja onda iskapim piće, odaberem jedinu nebezizlaznu opciju na kotaču razgovora, jednako odlazeći, satima, tjednima kasnije dolazeći, Njihova je patnja zbog nesvijesti o patnji daleko gora od ljudske, baš kao u djetinjstvu, u šest i u deset, puknem jezikom, iskapim i recimo odem.

13. Sometimes I dream of cubes / Ponekad sanjam kubuse

    

    

    ENGHRV

    Sometimes I dream of cubes, long and white, diaphanous,

    approachable from all sides,

    worthy of colourless sketches for the creation of a city.

    Never, however, do I enter,

    preferring to roam the rocky paths, sunny-

    cold, which usually

    open to the right onto distant plains full of

    wind.

     

    Long I circumambulate the spacious plinths of those buildings

    which are a part of relief,

    of hills, slopes, roads cut through the macchia

    connected by a bridge of stone.

    It is a gentle country, where sun settles down slowly in the air

    free of any sound,

    while touches of human craftsmanship only add

    peace.

     

    The archaic parapet along the road by the buildings

    has long surrendered itself to grapes:

    plump berries lie in the cracked light

    and shadow of the stern granite,

    bending the rays of the long sun into strings

    that enrich them with juice,

    so that they perfectly quench one’s thirst on that walk towards

    morning.

    Translated from the Croatian by the Author

    Ponekad sanjam kubuse, duge i bijele, zračne,

    sa svih strane obilazne,

    dostojne bezbojnih skica za stvaranje grada.

    Nikad, međutim, ne ulazim;

    radije lutam po kamenim stazama sunčano-

    hladnim, koje se obično

    zdesna otvaraju dalekim ravnima punima

    vjetra.

     

    Dugo obilazim prostrane plinte tih zdanja,

    koje su dio reljefa,

    bregovi, padine, usjeci cesta kroz makiju

    spajanu kamenim mostom.

    Blag je to kraj gdje se taloži sunce u zraku

    čistom od ikakva zvuka,

    a dodiri ljudskoga majstorstva dodaju

    mira.

     

    Arhajski podzid uz planinsku cestu kraj zgrada

    davno se predao grožđu:

    debele bobice leže u napuklom svjetlu

    i sjeni strogog granita,

    svijaju zrake dugoga sunca u strune

    koje ih bogate sokom,

    tako da vrsno utažuju žeđ na tom hodu do

    jutra.

14. Everything in time / Sve polako

    

    

    ENGHRV

    In May the fig tree blooms inside its branches,

    under the bark. The first rank of green belly-buttons

    comes, therefore, up front.

    You can count

    the years in advance, all the way down to the roots.

    The fig's wood is full of future Septembers

    like the butt of an old gun is of ammo: heavy bullets

    fly out and darkly burst, driving feathers and chirping and mirth

    into the chests of birds.

    In still unpunctured bellies

    each fig carries a bug of its choice.

    In one of them is hidden a spider,

    in another a tiny, stripy wasp that will not wake up

    for a year or two more; in some there's a group of ants

    much like poppy seeds. In their sweet sleep

    they mutter, shift and grow.

    All of this slowly rises up

    to meet the sun and the shade of imminent autumns.

    Translated from the Croatian by the Author

    U svibnju smokva cvate u granama,

    ispod kore. Prvi od nizova zelenih pupaka

    dolazi, dakle, na red.

    Mogu se brojati

    godine unaprijed, sve dolje do korijena.

    Smokvino drvo je prepuno budućih rujnova

    kao kundak stare puške metaka: teška zrna

    izlijeću i praskaju tamna, zabijajući pticama

    perje i cvrkut i sreću u prsa.

    U još neprobušenim trbusima,

    svaka smokva nosi kukca po izboru.

    U jednoj je zapretan pauk,

    u drugoj je mala i prugasta osa koja se godinu-dvije

    još neće probuditi; ponegdje grupica mrava

    nalik na sjemenke maka. U slatkom snu

    mrmljaju, meškolje se i rastu.

                Sve se to lagano podiže gore,

    k suncu i sjeni neumitnih jeseni.

15. From a balcony in the forest / S balkona u šumi

    

    

    ENGHRV

    In Versailles the shiny metal

    of contemporary Europe

    clangs and sings to honour peace:

    shrunken to a shadow, the Great War

    evokes spring, poppies, mass.

     

    Under the chestnuts, in a gloom somewhat

    dispelled by the fact of France, suddenly we realize

    how many heroes there are on the programme,

    at least two or three marches more

    than the elegies.

     

    An orchestra of steel that, with dubious gusto,

    plays every passage marziale. Slowly,

    we turn south: above the treetops the heat-

    lightning of summer.

     

    Later, at midnight, round the edge of the continent,

    seven silent funnels of fire. Above

    the dewy grass, slowly rise the bubbles

    of anti-aircraft flares. Then the long jets

    of nightly projectiles, like the clicking

    of a roulette.

     

    Of all the numbers, red and black,

    the least is that green nothing

    that in this round

    no one has bet on.

    Translated from the Croatian by the Author

    U Versaillesu svijetli metal

    moderne Europe

    udara i pjeva miru u čast:

    smanjen na sjenku, Veliki rat

    priziva proljeće, makove, mise.

     

    Pod kestenima, u sivilu koje

    malko rasvjetljava Francuska, shvaćamo

    koliko program sadrži junaka,

    barem dva-tri marša

    više nego tužaljki.

     

    Orkestar od čelika sa sumnjivom slasti

    izvodi svaki pasaž marziale. Polako

    se okrećem na jug:

    nad vrhovima granja munje ranog ljeta.

     

    Kasnije, pred ponoć, po rubu kontinenta

    sedam gluhih lijevaka od vatre. Iznad

    rosne trave, spori mjehuri

    rasvjetnih raketa. Zatim dugi snopovi

    noćnih projektila, kao štektanje

    ruleta.

     

    Između brojeva, crvenih, crnih,

    najmanje je ono zeleno ništa

    na koje u ovom krugu

    ne igra nitko.