Marija Kolundžija 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 2 poems translated

from: الانجليزية to: الصربية

Original

Translation

Mirrors

الانجليزية | Jessica Care Moore

am I still woman with one breast gone?
hanging around one man too long
legs give into knees I can't locate
was it my spirit you ate when I cooked you dinner?
I try angles
still the mirror is always square
stare cross-eyed
so sometimes I can see two of me
laughing at myself
crying for no one else

I am looking for the man in me

trying to figure out why that second syllable
was attached to my
womb and

Today my body has no room for visitors, freeloaders or lovers
my frame holds fingerprints from being moved
hanged on nails
displayed on white walls for decoration
I see you looking in me trying to find sanity in vanity
while combing through your hair
I break in pieces just to fuck with you
I break in pieces just to fuck with you
so you will think of me for seven more years
even if you're not


good looking

Today I pressed my one breast against the glass/cut off one arm/
took off my left foot/bit off my one good bottom lip and
kissed myself the way you did
when I was considered woman
barer of children and water
my blood no longer colors the moon
no sperm will find a name
and I notice how woman it must be
to feel
just like a man

© Moore Black Press 2001
from: The Alphabet Verses The Ghetto
Atlanta: Moore Black Press, 2001
ISBN: 0-9658308-0-2
Audio production: 2001 M.Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Ogledala

الصربية

jesam li ja još žena s jednom odsečenom dojkom?
predugo se držeci jednog čoveka
noge mi u kolenima popuštaju, ne mogu odrediti
da li si to moj duh pojeo kad sam ti večeru skuvala?
probam uglove razne
ogledalo je uvek četvrtasto
bulji razroko
pa ponekad moj udvojeni lik
smeje mi se
i za drugima ne plače

I tragam za muškarcem u sebi

pokušavajući da shvatim zašto je taj slog koji nas u reči deli
zakačen za moju
matericu i

U mom telu danas nema mesta za posetioce, parazite ili ljubavnike
moja vanjština krije tragove prstiju kojima je okretana,
na nokte zakačena
i na belom zidu kao ukras pokazana
vidim te kako me gledaš i tražiš razum tamo gde tašta sam
dok kosu ti češljam
na komade se razbijam samo da bih se s tobom jebala
na komade se razbijam samo da bih se s tobom jebala
da na mene misliš i kroz sedam dugih godina
čak iako ne budeš

zgodan

Danas sam svoju preostalu dojku uz staklo pripila / jednu ruku odsekla/
levu stopu odstranila/ preostalu donju usnicu odgrizla i
ljubila sebe na način na koji si ti činio
kad sam ženom smatrana
roditeljkom dece i vode
moja krv više ne boji mesec
nijedno seme neće naći ime
i sada primećujem kakva to žena mora biti
da oseća
kao muškarac

Prevod sa engleskog Marija Kolundžija

Ghosts

الانجليزية | Sapphire

There are thirteen windows in this room.
I see the tops of trees and sky, my parents
run thru my mind; my father
scurrying like a mouse. My mother is sitting. Why have I come
here, and what do their ghosts
want with me. I know I’m not writing poetry

but trying to build a bridge back to poetry.
I will go home to a hot stuffy room.
I have lived with their ghosts.
The black haired mother, her parents
on her back. We had, all but one, come
to bury her twelve years ago. My father

died at seventy-five, a stroke, my father
myself? Or me, myself—where is poetry,
the feeling I used to have, will it come
in the middle of exercises? Finally I have a room
with windows. Finally my parents
are dead, are ghosts.

How they beat me, left me, laughed at me, are ghosts.
I see him frozen, hurrying, in a picture, my father.
I seldom saw my parents
together. My mother never mentioned my father’s poetry.
I found it after he died. I was in his room
before his funeral. I had come

from New York to bury this father, come
to throw dirt on the recovered ghosts
of memory, willing to believe as I lay down in his room
I was a liar. Then my sister says, my father
got her while she was in diapers. In his poetry
he talks of sunsets and doesn’t mention his parents.

My mother said he was ashamed of his parents.
When it is my time who will come?
I have no children except this poetry that isn’t poetry.
Our father’s penis is the ghost
we suck in our dreams. Still I miss that father,
raise him from photographs to come sit in my room.

Here at the writers‘ colony I attempt poetry in a room.
I see my mother and father at the top of the sky. My parents
have come here, home, to help me, ghosts.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Utvare

الصربية

Trinaest je prozora u ovoj sobi.
Vidim vrhove drveća, nebo i roditelje
što mi kroz glavu idu; otac
uplašen kao miš. Majka mi sedi. Zašto sam ja
ovde i šta njihove utvare
od mene hoće. Jer znam, ne pišem pesme

nego želim da sagradim most do njih.
Odlazim kući, u vrelu tesnu sobu.
Da s njihovim utvarama živim moram.
Crnokosa majka, njeni roditelji
za leđima. Svi osim jednog bili smo
na sahrani pre dvanaest godina. Moj otac

umro je sedamdeset pete, šlog, moj otac
to sam ja. Ili smo ja i moje gde je poezija,
i osećanja što sam ih imala, da li će se
pojaviti usred vežbanja? Napokon imam sobu
sa prozorima. Konačno su mi roditelji
mrtvi, duhovi.

Kako su me tukli, napustili, smejali mi se, ti duhovi.
Vidim ih zaustavljene, užurbane, u jednoj slici, oče.
Retko viđam roditelje
zajedno. Majka mi očevu poeziju ne spominje.
Našla sam je posle njegove smrti. Bila mu je u sobi
pre sahrane. Stigla sam

iz Njujorka da sahranim oca, došla
da otresem prašinu s prikrivene utvare
sećanja, spremna da poverujem kako ležim u njegovoj sobi.
Bila sam lažov. Tada sestra reče, da ju je otac
uzeo dok je bila u pelenama. U poeziji
on je govorio o sumracima, ne spominjući roditelje.

Majka je govorila da ga je sramota rođaka.
Kada mi otkuca poslednji čas, ko će doći?
Nemam dece, sem te poezije koja nije poezija.
Očev ud je utvara
koju sisamo u snovima. I dalje mi izmiče otac,
prisećam ga se iz fotografija koje polažem po sobi.

U književničkoj koloniji upražnjavam poeziju u sobi.
Majka i otac su mi na vrhu neba. Moji roditelji
stigli su i ovde, kući, da mi pomognu, utvare.

Prevod sa engleskog Marija Kolundžija