Miljenko Kovačićek 
ÜbersetzerIn

auf Lyrikline: 26 Gedichte übersetzt

aus: kroatisch nach: englisch

Original

Übersetzung

Poslije

kroatisch | Zvonko Maković

U pjesmama to uvijek izgleda drugačije.
Kada čitam rečenice koje drugi pišu,
sve mi se čini jasnim i laganim.
Kao list papira koji još odolijeva vatri,
koji jedva da osjeća znakove pepela
na sebi. U mojem dvorištu
pepeo je tako sveobuhvatan.
Poput varke, poput slike koja ushićuje.


Mnogi pišu o izgubljenoj ljepoti,
o nesreći koja dolazi iznenada i uvlači se
u neko tiho, napušteno srce.
Želio bih, međutim, nešto reći
o svojem dvorištu i velikoj rijeci
koja bi se trebala vidjeti s prozora.
O jasenu i dvjema lipama kojih
od neki dan više nema.


Mehanizam bajke postao mi je odjednom
sasvim nedokučiv.
Onaj pepeo koji se osipa s prozora,
ona crna čađ koja je još jučer
bila stol, krevet ili knjige,
nečiji život o kojemu se nije mnogo razmišljalo,
to mi stoji u grlu i zamagljuje vidik.
Kada zamahnem rukom,
hoću li još išta moći osjetiti?

© Zvonko Maković
aus: Prah
Audio production: 2006, Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Later

englisch

In poems it always looks different.
When I read sentences written by others,
everything seems clear and easy.
Like a sheet of paper which still resists fire,
which hardly feels the signs of ash
on it. In my yard
ash is so comprehensive.
Like an illusion, like a picture that inspires.

Many write about lost beauty,
about misfortune that comes suddenly and creeps
into a silent, abandoned heart.
However, I would like to say something
about my yard and about the big river
which you should see from the window.
About an ash-tree and two lime-trees which
disappeared the other day.

The mechanism of the fairy-tale has suddenly become
completely inconceivable to me.
The ash that falls from the window,
that black soot that only yesterday
used to be a table, a bed or books,
somebody’s life about which nobody thought very much,
that is stuck in my throat and blurring my sight.
When I wave with my hand,
will I still be able to feel anything?

Translated by Miljenko Kovacicek

Otisak olovke

kroatisch | Zvonko Maković

Štogod da dotaknem,
dodirne me vrijeme.
tako strpljivost, oprez

nepodnošljivu blizinu.
Meki predmeti postaju
osobine, a osobine tvari.

Samo tvari.
U bilježnici se odjednom
budim kao gipka ruka,

točnije – pokret. Budim se
u tekućini. Kao
melodija što odzvanja u

sobi usnulih mladenaca.
Lebdim i postojim uvijek
u bijegu. Jer sam uzdah.

Pomisli samo kako je dobra
priroda kada me mijenja poput
novca. Kad u svakom

mojem zrncu vidi dosljednost,
vjernost. Upravo tako:
dosljednost i vjernost.

© Zvonko Maković
aus: Prah
Audio production: 2006, Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

An imprint of the pen

englisch

Whatever I touch,
time touches me.
As well as patience, care,

intolerable closeness.
Soft objects become
characteristics, while characteristics become matter.

Only matter.
In my notebook, I suddenly
wake up like a supple hand,

or, more precisely – a motion. I wake up
in fluid. Like
a melody that echoes in

sleeping newlyweds’ room.
I float and exist always
escaping. Because I am a sigh.

Just think how good
nature is to change me like
money. When in each

of my grains it sees consistence,
devotion. Precisely:
consistence and devotion.

Translated by Miljenko Kovacicek

Mimo

kroatisch | Zvonko Maković

Otvorio sam vrata i, zastavši na pragu,
opazio kako svoje male pomake
doživljavam kao nešto savršeno klisko,
nešto lišeno odluka, lišeno pristajanja.
Vani je protjecalo vrijeme
koje sam sasvim jasno prepoznavao
kao gomilice dogadaja,
nečeg meni stranog,
nepoznatog i nedohvatljivog.
Ali isto tako i nepriželjkivanog.
Viđeno sam prisvajao tek u odbljescima:
bez prohtjeva.
Odbljescima upućenim nekom drugom koji
bi trebao biti ja,
ali to nikako ne može
niti to želi.
Nedefinirana svijest o vlastitoj praznini
pojavljivala se puna samodopadnosti.
Ono ispred, ono što se jasno moglo vidjeti
s mojeg praga, bila je tek neželjena daljina,
drugi pol jednog istog vremena koje
protječe zastajkujući.
Jedan kratak trzaj dovoljan je da
glatka opna stvarnog naprsne,
a iz finih pukotina da nahrupi strah –
taj jedini pravi osjećaj koji povezuje
viđeno s onim koji vidi.
Ali ne: nastoji se zadržati mir,
nastoji se ne remetiti tako dobro
iskonstruiran odnos pun dubokog nepripadanja.
Okrećem se i ne vidim nikoga iza sebe
kome bi bile upućene ljeskave krhotine
koje mi prolaze kroz oči.
Netko pokazuje rukom
na nekog tko prolazi.
Netko se zaustavlja u želji da se
nekome obrati i, kad to ne uspije,
svom licu nametne izraz priglupe komičnosti.
Netko, tko samo poskakuje u mjestu,
zaklonjen je slučajnom utjehom.
Netko, potpuno slučajan,
potpuno slučajno otkrije davno prikriveni prezir.
Iz nijemog čudenja polako izbija
zbunjenost.
To prije svega.
Zatim – neočekivana radost
što se može stvarno lučiti od izmišljotina.
Zatim sumnja u ispravnost takvog kategoriziranja.
Zatim opet panična bojazan
da je sve ipak nedokučivo.
Onda mirenje,
onda tupo predavanje,
onda se opna iznova skrućuje i stvari postaju
daleke, daleke...
Dvije zone nalik magnetskim poljima
bez snage privlačenja;
dva svijeta koja čak niti ne protuslove.
Dva bića koja su odavno
iskusila vlastitu prolaznost.
Dva dogadaja
koja se uvijek opredjeljuju za poziciju mimo.
Ni povrh, ni nasuprot.
Baš tako: biti na poziciji mimo.
“Baš tako: biti na poziciji mimo” –
To nije iznova napisana rečenica.
To nije rečenica.
To je biti mimo svega napisanog.
To je biti i nesvjesno netko nepoznat
i sebi i drugima.
To je rečenica nekoć napisana.
To je samo rečenica.
I to je, i to bi bilo, možda,
tek ono što se navikava razlikovati.
Izdvojeno – u okviru vrata.
Izdvojeno – na ulici koja se vidi s vrata.
Usredsređeno na svoje male sakupljačke strasti
koje netko imenuje stvarima
što teku kroz vrijeme.
Stvarima koje bi se mogle mimoići.
Stvarima koje se polako tope,
koje se bez sjećanja uvlače u riječi.
U riječi pune mirnog pribojavanja.

© Zvonko Maković
aus: Ime
Audio production: 2006, Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Past

englisch

I opened the door and, having stopped at the porch,
I noticed how I experience my movements
as something perfectly slippery,
something deprived of decisions, deprived of agreement.
Time was passing outside.
I used to recognize it quite clearly
as little heaps of events,
of something strange to me,
unknown and unreachable.
But also unwanted.
I accepted what was seen only in reflections:
without any demands.
In reflections directed to somebody else who
should be me,
but who can not
and does not want to.
The undefined awareness of my own emptiness
appeared full of self-sufficiency.
That in front, that could clearly be seen
from my porch, was only an unwanted distance,
another pole of one and the same time which
passes stopping now and then.
One quick jerk is enough for
a smooth membrane of the real to crack
and for fear to break out of the fine rifts –
this only real feeling that connects
the seen with the one who is seeing.
But no: efforts are made to keep the peace,
not to disturb such a well
constructed relation full of deep not belonging
to which shiny fragments that pass through my eyes
would be directed.
Someone points with his hand
to someone who is passing.
Someone is stopping wishing to
address somebody and, failing that,
imposes an expression of dumb oddity on his face.
Somebody, who is only jumping in place,
is protected by accidental,
quite accidentally discovers contempt hidden long ago.
Confusion
slowly breaks out of the mute surprise.
That above all.
Then – unexpected joy
that can really be separated from figments.
Then doubt about the correctness of such categorization.
Then again panic fear
that nevertheless nothing is reachable.
Then calming,
then blunt surrender,
then the membrane hardens and things become
distant, distant...
Two zones resembling magnetic fields
without the power of attraction;
two worlds that do not even contradict.
Two accumulations that felt their transience
a long time ago.
Two events (events written with a small letter)
that unconsciously decide for the position past.
“Exactly so: to be on the position past” -
this is not a sentence written again.
This is not a sentence.
This is to be past everything written.
This is also to be unconsciously somebody unknown
to oneself and to the others.
This is a sentence written once upon a time.
This is only a sentence.
And this is, and this would be perhaps,
just what is getting used to distinguishing.
Separated – in the door frame.
Separated – in the street that can be seen from the door.
Concentrated on its little collecting passions
which somebody names things
that flow through time.
With things that could be avoided.
With things that slowly melt,
that without memory creep into words.
Into words full of quiet fears.

Translated by Miljenko Kovacicek

Svega se sjecam

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Ako je to sve, svega se sjećam,
i kuća razbacanih u ono što se ne čuje,
i dječjeg govora, stiješnjenog, opsjednutog

u vrtu, medju jagodama
ugrizi života,
praštate li, dakle, najjednostavnije

Te oči uske !
Nije zaboravljeno !

Ubit će sve što volim,
čitam s materine ruke,
suhoća svijeta, riječi idu preko vode,
takav je to grad, razoren u predmete
Jedan po jedan
Toliko je ostalo od doma

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

I Remember Everything

englisch

If this is all, I remember everything,
houses scattered into what can not be heard,
children's speech, squeezed, possessed

in the garden, among the strawberries
bites of life,
do you forgive then, in the simplest way

Those narrow eyes!
It is not forgotten!

She will kill everything I love,
read from my mother's hand,
the dryness of the world, words go across the water,
this is such a city, destroyed into objects
One by one
So much remained from home

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Ime

kroatisch | Zvonko Maković

Naravno da te prešućujem:
na brzinu izmišljam laži
kojima bih poticao sjećanje
na vrijeme kad nismo bili ništa osim riječi,
riječi koje su bujale i bujale
pretvarajući nas u gipku masu
svirepe iskrenosti.
Hladno je.
Osjećam se bespomoćno
i uz to veoma glupavo
dok se razmećem nekom vrsti samoljublja.
Zatim
u najbezizražajnijoj kretnji
prepoznajem znakove
očajničke želje za blizinom bez proturječja,
za plodnom tišinom
koja nesigurnost pretvara u prevrtljivu
smjelost.
Teško da mogu definirati
to stanje kad nismo bili
ni sasvim tužni, ni lišeni ratobornog
straha.
Kad smo lutali utiskujući
u predmete lica smrti.
Drhtim u mliječnoj svjetlosti
i osluškujem jutro
što dolazi veoma sporo:
kao dah,
kao tečno buđenje.
Kad se zaklope oči
tada iz sjećanja naviru slike gradova
utisnutih na brežuljke,
ocrtane plavetnilom Umbrije.
To su prije gnijezda u koja pohranjujemo
iznenada prepoznati stid.
To su rahle uspomene
koje nas povezuju u neprekinuti sistem
finih obmana.
Ja sam taj koji je povikao
iz dubine ulice kao iz sna.
Ja sam taj koji je iz strpljivosti
izvlačio poučke,
a divlju odanost shvaćao
kao najsvetiji zakon.
Istina, apsurdan, ali neizbježan.
Znaš dobro iz kako gustog spleta odnosa
mogu iznijeti na svjetlo dana
ove riječi.
Lišće sasvim tromo opada s drveta
ispred prozora.
Ta tromost postaje odjednom metafora
za neko više stanje.
To nije tek navođenje činjenice, kao:
čitam ponovno Pavesea.
Mali pomaci na ljestvici nesigurnosti,
to je ono što želim reći,
čime završiti.
Međutim, netko izgovara:
“Naša krv je u hrastu”,
misleći pri tom kako je moguće
othrvati se nerazjašnjivim izmišljotinama.
Tu rečenicu nikako ne mogu prešutjeti
i uzimam je pun ustrajne prostodušnosti.
posežem još za čašom u kojoj
preostala kapljica
svjetluca kao zrno mržnje.
Sviće li?
Odlaziš, ali zakratko.
Sitni koraci odaju hrabrost.
Shvaćam ih kao znakove jasnih indicija,
kao nedvosmislenu odluku.
S praznine papira sada nadiru nova lica
koja bismo mogli zajednički posjedovati,
dijeliti ih
kao režnjeve zrela voća,
kao daške tamnog mirisa.
Dijeliti ih poput rečenica,
poput žustrih riječi od kojih smo jednom
ispleli kristalno prozirnu
ljusku
ispod koje više ne možemo umaknuti
bez posljedica.
Jedino što možemo jest da
promatramo predmete
koji nam ostaju uvijek izvan,
uvijek nedohvatljivi.
Da osluškujemo vlastito disanje,
čujemo možda rečenice trećih lica
i sve to doživljavamo
kao jedinstveni objekt
koga već i golo trajanje
obogaćuje posebnim značenjima.
I onda?
Onda –
život se polako počinje pamtiti.

© Zvonko Maković
aus: Točka bijega
Zagreb: Grafički zavod Hrvatske, 1990
ISBN: 86-399-0229-1
Audio production: 2006, Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

A name

englisch

Of course I keep you secret:
I quickly make up lies
with which I would spur the memories
of the time when we were nothing but words,
words that were swelling and swelling
changing us into a supple mass
of cruel sincerity.
It is cold,
I feel helpless
and besides very dumb
while I boast with a kind of love for myself.
Then
in the most expressionless movement
I recognize signs
of a desperate wish for closeness without contradiction,
for fruitful silence
that changes uncertainty into inconstant bravery.
I can hardly define
the state when we were
neither completely sad, nor deprived of a rebellious
fear.
When we wandered around printing the faces
of death into things.
I shiver in the milky light
and listen to the morning
that is coming very slowly:
like a breath,
like fluent rising.
When eyes are closed
out of the memory there flow pictures of cities
printed on the hillocks,
lined with the blue of Umbria.
These will sooner be the nests in which we store
suddenly recognized shame.
These are loose memories
that connect us into an uninterrupted system
of fine deceit.
I am the one who shouted
from the deep of the street as from a dream.
I am the one who drew out the moral
out of patience
and understood the wild devotion
as the most sacred law.
Absurd, indeed, but inevitable.
You know well from what a dense nexus of relations
I can bring these words
out into the daylight.
Leaves quite lazily fall from the tree
in front of the window.
This laziness suddenly becomes a metaphor
for a higher condition.
This is not only stating a fact like:
I am re-reading Pavese.
Little moves on the scale of uncertainty,
this is what I want to say,
in conclusion.
But somebody says:
- Our blood is in the oak, -
thinking in the meantime how it is possible
to resist inexplicable lies.
I cannot keep this sentence secret by any means
and I take it, full of persistent simplicity.
I still reach for the glass in which
the remaining drop
glitters like a grain of hatred.
Is the day breaking?
You are leaving, but only for a while.
Little steps reveal bravery.
I understand them as the signs of clear indications,
as an undoubted decision.
From the emptiness of the paper there stream new faces
that we could possess together.
share them
like slices of ripe fruit,
like gushes of dark scent.
Share them like sentences,
like eager words of which we once
knitted a crystal clear
skin
under which we can not escape
without consequences.
All we can say is that
we observe things
that always stay outside,
always unreachable.
That we listen to our own breathing,
we maybe hear sentences of third persons
and experience all that
as a unique object
which is enriched with special meanings
even by bare duration.
And then?
Then –
one slowly starts to remember life.

Translated by Miljenko Kovacicek

Sveti tjedan

kroatisch | Sibila Petlevski

Puhali smo balone punih šest dana,
mislili da je to jedini način na koji se može
dati okvir dahu. S neba je padala mana,  
slatka i mlaka kao mlijeko iz sise. Bože!
Pa mogli smo i poljupcima postići istu,
potpuno istu stvar, mogli smo i disanjem  
u staklo, da umjesto nas magla na čistu
zrcalu napiše da smo živi, da pisanjem
prenesemo toplinu bez dodira i glasa,
da budemo jednostavno tu, a ne u mreži  
krvi isprepleteni, ne poput gladnih pasa,
ne vječno gladnog srca koje iz grudi reži.
Puhali smo balone i onda ih nožem parali
punih šest dana. Sedmi smo se odmarali.

© Sibila Petlevski
aus: Spojena lica
Zagreb: HDP-Durieux, 2006
Audio production: David Gazarov, 2008

A Holy Week

englisch

We blew the balloons for six whole days,
thought there was no other way one could
frame the breath. Manna was falling from
the sky on our ways, sweet and tepid like milk
from a breast. Oh, God! We could have reached
one hundred percent the same with our kisses,
we could have done it also by breathing onto
the glass, so that fog would write our name
on a clear glass, and say instead of us we are
alive, so that our writing transfers the warmth
without a touch or a sound, and makes it possible
for us to be simply here and not entangled in a net
of blood, not like hungry dogs to be found,
not with forever hungry heart that roars from
our breasts and the lot. We blew the balloons and
then tore them with a knife for six whole days.
On the seventh we took some rest in our life.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek and Sibila Petlevski

DOB

kroatisch | Dražen Katunarić

                             Lucumoneu

Dob je mala fosilna životinja što živi u mraku
ćupa, obješena za konopac kao vedro vode,
po koži, obliku, slična istodobno krokodilu,
gušteru i kornjači. Visi nepomično. Hrana i
svjetlo joj škode, okusi nešto smiješno u
studenom i prosincu, za cijelu godinu.
Pokazuje se svijetu kad je ljudi sami otkriju u
ćupu, čistom slučajnošću podignu poklopac i
zagledaju u dno. Za sebe ponajviše zna ona
sama. Nijednom stvoru, a kamoli čovjeku ne
pada napamet narušiti sklad u tijesnu dnu,
otjerati Dob iz njezina ćupa
Sa starenjem joj godi da je znatiželjnici sve
manje otkrivaju, i netom oćuti svjetlost na
hrapavoj koži, Dob se nakostriješi u
suhom bunaru: "Ljudi, nemojte me više
dizati na konopac! Mene dolje nema!
Preostaje još nekoliko nedirnutih riječi!"
No, oni, radoznalci, ipak je dižu jer Dob
dolazi s godinama. Poigravajući se riječima,
golica ih pomisao da će ugledati nešto
nestvarno, hrapavo, ubogo i čemerno, pa
makar nanijeli bol životinji. A Dob na svjetlu,
ista je Dob u tami. Ista. Samo su riječi ostale
na dnu, svete.

© Dražen Katunarić
Audio production: Croatian P.E.N. Centre

THE AGE

englisch

                                            for Lucumone

The Age is a small fossil animal that lives in the darkness of the jar, hung on a rope like a pail of water, by its skin, shape, at the same time similar to a crocodile, a lizard and a turtle. It hangs motionless. Food and light are harmful to it, it tastes somewhat funny in November and December, for the whole year. It shows itself to the world when people find it in the jug themselves, raise the lid by pure coincidence and look into the bottom. Only the Age itself mostly knows about itself.
As it ages it is convenient to it to be more and more seldom uncovered by curious people and as soon it feels light on its rough skin the Age bristles in the dry well: - People, do not lift me on the rope! I am not down there! There are only a few untouched words!
But they, being courious, lift her nevertheless because the Age comes with years. Playing  with words, they are tickled by the idea that they will see something unreal, rough, poor and sorrowful, even if they cause pain to the animal. And the Age in the light is the same as the Age in the dark. The same. Only the words have remained on the bottom, the holy ones.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

UVOD U VUKA

kroatisch | Dražen Katunarić

Skijajući, prirodi dalek, htjedoh oteti njezino otajstvo. Ona
bješe za mene samo prohodno, utabano mjesto za prolaz nogu.
No tek u padu se raspoznaje što je tijelo, a što duša. Tek
u padu bijah spreman da se okrenem prirodi, jednom kad sam
zagnjurio i nogama i rukama u snijeg.
Sve se promijenilo, odjednom, zauvijek jedanput: ovlada divlja,
prijeteća tišina. Bijeli pokrov u tišini grana, sve svečano.
Na nekoliko metara od mene pojavi se vuk.
Sišao je na moju stazu i uputio se u dol. Vidio sam zvijer
kako bezbrižno umače šape u snijeg i ostavlja svoju sliku.
Njoj je pripadala bjelina, svako stablo, kora i tišina.

© Dražen Katunarić
Audio production: Croatian P.E.N. Centre

INTRODUCTION TO THE WOLF

englisch

Skiing, distant to nature, I wanted to take her mystery. To me,
she was only a passable, trodden place for the passage of feet.
But only in a fall does one recognize what the body is and what the soul is. Only in a fall was I ready to turn to nature, once when I
sunk my hands and feet into the snow.
Everything changed, suddenly, forever at once: a silent,
threatening silence took over. The white cover in the silence of the boughs, everything solemn.
A few meters away from me, a wolf appeared.
He descended onto my slope and set off to the valley. I saw the beast
carelessly dipping its paws into the snow and leaving its image.
All the whiteness, every tree, bark and silence belonged to it.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

VUK: NEIZGOVORENA RIJEČ

kroatisch | Dražen Katunarić

Sve što vidim u svijetu nije odmah i riječ. I prije nego
što je postao riječ, vuk je bio prijestupnik, derač kože. Otuda
moj nemir. Od malena su me plašili da ću sresti vuka. Danas
sam ga sreo i istom zaboravio kako se zove, kurjak. A htio
sam izgovoriti tu riječ bar u sebi. Proždre li me, da upoznam
ubojicu. Uzbuđenje raste čim mi se približi. Slogovi se prebrzo
množe, traže jedan drugom kraj, stoje na repu pa poskoče
do njuške i tad se sve zavrti u mozgu i promašuje.
Priznajem, ne mogu se odmarati u vučjem pogledu, njuška
nasuprot meni se grči, zubi sijevaju, traže u meni izlaz svoje
čežnje. Kako da pobjegnem od nesrazmjera divljine, dlaka,
igre mišića, valjda krvave, i mojih neizgovorenih riječi u
trbuhu? Tŕ trbuh je jedino što imamo zajedničko, naše unutra,
čar ispunjenja i nestanka, naša mater.
Toga časa ne mucam, u sebi govorim nešto o prirodi, a muči me
da nešto moram reći i vuku. No njegove oči već krule i
lišavaju moj govor smisla. Vučje škljocanje zuba u prazno
prekida moju rečenicu na pola, nastanjuje je nekim zijevom
između riječi, kao da bi sad sve trebalo iznova otpočeti u
nijemim otkucajima mraka.

© Dražen Katunarić
Audio production: Croatian P.E.N. Centre

A WOLF: AN UNPRONOUNCED WORD

englisch

Everything I see in the world is not immediately a word. And before
it became a word, the wolf was an offender, a flayer of skin. That is
where my restlessness comes from. Ever since I was small, they have been
scaring me that I would meet a wolf. Today I met it and forgot
what its name was, the wolf. And I wanted to pronounce this word
at least to myself. In case it devours me, to get to know the killer.
The excitement grows as soon as it approaches me. Syllables multiply
too quickly, look for each other’s end, stand on its tail and then jump
over to its snout and then everything starts spinning in the brain and it
misses.
I admit I cannot rest in the wolf’s glance, the snout opposite me convulses,
teeth shine, seek in me the outcome of their longing. How to escape from
the disproportion of wildness, hairs, the game of the muscles, probably bloody, and the unspoken words in my stomach? Well, the stomach is the only thing we have in common, our inside, the charm of filling and disappearance, our mother.
At that moment I don’t stammer, I say something to myself about nature and  it bothers me that I also have to say something to the wolf. But his eyes  already rumble and deprive my speech of sense. The snapping of the wolf’s teeth on an empty mouth interrupts my sentence half way through, inhabits it with a hiatus between the words, as if everything ought to be recommenced  in the numb beat of the dark.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

POTVRDA O RUŽI

kroatisch | Dražen Katunarić

Nikad ne odbaci ružu
bilo
kakvu
ali
ipak
ružicu

nikad ne odbaci ružu
osušenu
uvelu
s laticama, bez latica
potamnjelu
bez mirisa
obješenu klonulu bolesnu
zatvorenu i nezatvorenu

čak ni crnu

nikad ne odbaci ružu
ljubav
ljubu
ljuvenu
crvenu

nikad ne baci ružu
grijeh
grijeh
grijeh
preskoči prekorači

nikad ne baci ružu
otkrivenu
nađenu
izgubljenu i spletenu
oko trešnjina stabla

nikad ne baci ružu
trnovitu i dosta ljutu
nikad ne odbaci
ponuđenu

nikad ne baci ružu
jer
baciš li je
čičak će izrasti
na njezinu
grobiću

© Dražen Katunarić
Audio production: Croatian P.E.N. Centre

A Rose Certificate

englisch

Never throw away a rose
whatever
kind
yet
always
a little rose

never throw away a rose
dry
withered
with petals, without petals
darkened
without fragrance
hung depressed ill
closed unclosed

not even a black one

never throw away a rose
love
loved one
beloved
red one

never throw a rose
sin
sin
sin
skip step over

never throw a rose
discovered
found
lost and wound
round a cherry tree

never throw a rose
prickly
and very angry
never throw
an offered one

never throw a rose
because
if you do
burdock will grow
on
its
grave

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Žurim se, žurim

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Žurim se, žurim
muškarac i žena
dijete i starac
topću pred vratima
Sad jednom, sad drugom dajem ruku
i jednoga vodim pravo, drugoga ne puštam s mjesta
Ne oklijevam
Od lišca do lišca, tanka, savršena, prozračna
Ne uzimam ih za sebe, ni za djelić sebe,
ni koliko na vrh noža stane,
ni danas. ni sutra, ni ikada
kad ispred kuće ima
ljudskih poslova i ruža

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

I Keep Hurrying

englisch

I keep hurrying
a man and a woman
a child and an old man
are stomping at the door
I give my hand now to one, then to the other
and I guide one well, I don't let the other one move
I don't hesitate
From one little face to another, thin, perfect, airy
I don't take them for myself, not for a tiny part of myself,
not as much as can be put on the tip of the knife,
not today, not tomorrow, or ever
when in front of the house there are
human jobs and roses

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Zovem

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Zovem
riječima iz svojeg života
Ponekad kažu
ušutite usta
Ponekad
riječ
lijepi zreli plod
izrešetan čulima
obrću amo - tamo,
na vršcima prstiju,
neodlučni

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

I Am Calling

englisch

I am calling
with words from my life
Sometimes they say
shut up, mouth
Sometimes
they turn the word
over here and over there,
the beautiful ripe fruit
riddled with senses,
on their fingertips,
indecisive

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Ti si mi pod kožom

kroatisch | Sibila Petlevski

Nekim pojedincima duh ulazi u oči
u dva presudna trenutka, i nikad više:
kod poroda. Onda plaču. I na samome
kraju kad to drugi čine umjesto njih.
U svim međuprostorima, oči su škrape
u kršu neprepoznatljivih lica i jedino
onako kako nalaže vrijeme, tako kišnica
puni lokve iz kojih malo istječe, više se

procjeđuje. Između očiju postoji točka
u kojoj se u većini slučajeva potvrđuje
sljepilo, da bi onda na tom mjestu nada,
koja uvijek ostavlja svoje larve plitko
pod kožom, mogla otvoriti lažna vrata.
Prenesi me, ljubavi, preko praga, ali ne
u sobu, nego van. Podijelit ćemo radost
i sva će naša krivnja stati između dva oka.

© Sibila Petlevski
aus: Spojena lica
Zagreb: HDP-Durieux, 2006
Audio production: David Gazarov, 2008

You Are Under My Skin

englisch

The spirit enters the eyes of some individuals
in the fateful moments and never more:
at birth. Then they cry. And on the very
end when the others do that instead of them.
In all the inter-spaces, the eyes are cracks
in the limestone of unrecognisable faces and
only as time requires does the rain-water fill
the puddles from which little flows out, more of it

is filtered. Between the eyes there is a spot
in which in most cases blindness
is confirmed, so that in the same place hope,
which always leaves its larvae only
skin deep, could open the false door.
Carry me, love, across the porch, and not
into the room, but out. We’ll share the joy
and all of our guilt will fit between two eyes.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek and the author

Riječi

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Uporno vrve
u istom smjeru
ako im ne kažem
u bijelom snu pristajem na sve
izranja okata galaksija
sisanče kipućeg mlijeka
njuška i pipa
u tom slijepom dodiru ponekad me ima
a ipak sam s onim s kim sam
i učinit ću ono što sam naumila

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

Words

englisch

They steadily swarm
in the same direction
If I don't tell them
in a white dream I agree to everything
a big-eyed galaxy dives out there
a suckling of boiling milk
sniffs and touches
there is sometimes me in this blind touch
but still I am with whom I am
and I will do what I meant to

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Putna groznica

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Na stolu je popis onoga
do čega mi je stalo
Mažene stvari, odbačene stvari
Mile kroz poluživo kamenje i travu,
provuku se i uruše
I ptica se, na nebeskim raskrižjima
pjevajući, uruši sama u sebe
I čovjek, idući za samim sobom,
kao da je drugi,
pruži ruku
i uruši se
Pa, tko bi mogao baš ono nevidljivo
zaista htjeti, bez svjedoka
Ono sveprisutno prisvojiti
za vječno disanje

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

Travel Fever

englisch

On the table there is a list
of what I care for
Caressed things, thrown-away things
Creep through half-alive stones and grass
they pull through and fall in
And the bird, on heavenly crossroads
singing, falls into itself
And a man, going after himself,
as if he was another one,
reaches out his hand
and falls in
So, who could really wish just for
the unseen, no witnesses
To seize the omnipresent
for eternal breathing

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

prilozi za povijest odustajanja

kroatisch | Branko Čegec

Kada sam prestao pisati kritike
pisao sam ih u svakoj izgovorenoj rečenici.
Kada sam prestao pisati
svaki susret s riječima postajao je literatura.
Kažem “postajao je” jer ovog sam časa ponovno
s olovkom u ruci
i bilježim dnevnik vlastitih odustajanja
od jezika, od riječi, od stvari.
Oduvijek sam više volio nesigurnost;
mnogobrojni oblici samopouzdanja redovito su me
ispunjavali tužnim prostranstvima praznine
iza koje su virili tamni prsti hobotnice
i samoća raskošnih trikova ništavila,
koje sam jutros pročitao u pjesmi jednog prijatelja,
a u koje su se zaklinjali “očevi i djeca”
sretnih generacija. Visoko na horizontu, iza kojeg
vidim još jedino vlastiti lik
u ogledalu oceana, leti osamljena ptica.
To je moja izgovorena ili samo za trenutak
zaustavljena rečenica sukobljenih vibracija.
Svejedno se ponosim njome više negoli izgovorenim
značenjem.

aus: Ekrani praznine
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

Contributions to the History of Giving up

englisch

When I stopped writing reviews
I wrote them in every sentence that I uttered.
When I stopped writing
every encounter with words was becoming literature.
I say “was becoming” because at this moment I am again
with a pencil in my hand
and I am writing the diary of my own giving up
on the language, words, things
I have always preferred uncertainty:
numerous forms of self – reliance regularly
used to fill me with the sad space of emptiness
behind which the dark fingers of an octopus protruded
and the loneliness of lavish tricks of nothingness
which I read this morning in a friend’s poem,
to which “fathers and children”
of happy generations swore. High on the horizon, behind
which
I can only still see my own figure
in the mirror of the ocean, there flies a lonely bird.
That is my or just momentary
stopped sentence of confronted vibrations.
All the same, it makes me more proud than the pronounced
meaning does.

1988

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Pridjevi crne kraljice

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Još samo tako živim
nabrajam, izvolijevam,
kroz rukavce čula šišaju pridjevi
Ni imena, ni utočišta!
Zašto pljušti oko kuće mjesečina?
Zašto bez usana ljube?
Stoput je rečeno zašto
preko lirskog
žara
s urlikom mantre
k tebi padam
na zapovijed
- Neobično obično zaustavi se,
ti!

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

Adjectives of the Black Queen

englisch

I only just live so,
I enumerate, I choose,
through the dead ends of senses there loom the adjectives
Not a name, not a shelter!
Why is the moonlight pouring around the house?
Why do they kiss without lips?
It has been said why a hundred times
over a lyrical
fire
with a scream of a mantra
I fall to you
at your command
- Unusually simply stop,
you!

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

oči, uši, ogledalo

kroatisch | Branko Čegec

četrdeset zelenih zmajeva pozdravlja moj tupi dolazak.
idem samo tako. razvijam se kao krilo peloponeskog ždrala,
duboko oko za literaturu, razlivena površina; razrok je
i ustrajan svaki zarez, patlidžan, paprika, jug, gorgonzola;
kristali radničke djece i semantike koja se ne da zaustaviti:
govorim si kao da je povijest doista jedina svenazočna
alternativa, kojom se zeleni starci zmajeva, hip-hop,
razlijevaju melankoličnom površinom nevine, blijede,
sifilitične ljubljanice, pune mora i obala, uz koje pristaju
plahi brodovi kokaina & laškog goldinga.
rijeka samo stenje, suhih usana i tromih trzaja.
gdje je uopće ta rugobna statua povijesti?
imao sam je u lijevom džepu, ali je ispala,
imao sam je u oku, u uhu, u raspaloj converse tenisici,
punoj balkanskog znoja i jeftinih europskih contra sprayeva.
gdje je, uopće, ta bijesna i anemična štikla europa?
na sjeveru, zapadu, istoku i jugu. i između.
svuda gdje sam sâm. prelamam se u ogledalima,
u višebojnoj tišini vlastita glazbenog sjećanja,
koje mi ne da progovoriti. kao svakom strancu.

1986

aus: Melankolični ljetopis
Rijeka
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

Eyes, Ears, Mirrors

englisch

forty green dragons are greeting my blunt arrival.
I am  going just like that. I spread like the wind of a
Peleponnesian crane,
deep eye for literature, split surface, split surface, every
comma, eggplant, green pepper, south, gorgonzola is
strabismal and persistent
crystals of workers’ children and semantics that cannot
be stopped
I say to myself that history is really the only omnipresent
alternative, with which the green old folks of the
dragons, hip – hop,
spill all over the melancholic surface of the innocent, pale
syphilitic ljubljanica, full of the seas and of the coasts by
which
shy ships of cocaine & laški golding land.
the river only moans, with dry lips and slow jerks.
where is that ugly ststue of history at all?
I used to have it in my left pocket, but it fell out.
I used to have it in my eye, in my ear, in my rotten
Converse sneaker,
Full of Balkan sweat and cheap European antiperspirants.
Where is that wild and endemic high-heeled shoe
Europe at all?
in the north, west, east, south and in between.
wherever I am alone. I refract in the mirrors,
in the multi – colored silence of my own musical memory
which does not let me speak.just as it does not let any
foreigner.

1986

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Oplakivanje

kroatisch | Sibila Petlevski

kralj sam guštera rekao je nehajno
obješen o petlju repa i sve za što se
taj put držao bila je grana nekog grma
s trnjem većim od njega svijet je uvijek
po mjeri a ja sam kralj guštera rekao je
kao da nije spreman priznati da njegovi
mišići lagano gube ili namjerno ispuštaju
vezu s osloncem upletenim u tu krunu

od granja s koje je dugo visio u zraku
dok nije ispao kao zaustavljena slika
pokreta opraštanja skoro kao da se nije
ni pomaknuo sporo tako je ispao kao da
namjerava ostati zauvijek kao da može
biti i ne biti dočekan u ruke majke koja je
mislila da će uspjeti sačuvati u zagrljaju
ono čemu je trn oduvijek bio bolji oslonac.

© Sibila Petlevski
aus: Spojena lica
Zagreb: HDP-Durieux, 2006
Audio production: David Gazarov, 2008

Pietà

englisch

I am the king of the lizards he said that time casually
forming a noose with its tail and while he was
saying that - hanged by its tail -  all he was
taking hold of was a twig of some bush with thorns
bigger than himself. so he kept on saying - the world is
always in perfect measure with itself and I am the king
of the lizards - as if he was ready to admit that his muscles
had been losing contact, or intentionally disconnecting

with what served him as a prop. and his prop was intertwined
with the scepter made of twigs from which he has remained
suspended for a long time until he came out as a slow-motion
picture of the parting of the ways; so slow that it seemed
almost as if he intended to stay that way,  as if he could
and might not be received in the arms of the mother
who was convinced she would be able to keep in her arms
that to what a thorn has always been a better support.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek and the author

Odlučivanje gledanjem

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Ni žena, ni dijete, sretna zvijer
u plitkoj šumi, u izlogu ležim
tabanima okrećući grad
tako pođoh vidjet
čuti zrno , vapaj hrane
kao da ću lovit, stići, jesti
grizući za vrat
Ne
Ni danas, ni sutra, ni ikada

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

A Decision by Watching

englisch

Not a woman, not a child, a happy beast
in a shallow wood, I lie in a shop-window
turning the city with my feet
so I went to see
to hear a bullet, a scream of food
as if I would hunt, catch up with, eat
biting by the neck
No
Not today, not tomorrow or ever

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Nježnost

kroatisch | Sibila Petlevski

Paučina je razapela svoje savršenstvo
između zelenog izbojka i stare grane.
Slabije i jako zajedno drže konce.
Zaplelo se u niti prosvjetljenje i sada
taj prizor izgleda kao prašina u sunčevom
traku u obično ljetno popodne. A nije. 
Slučajnost stvara svoje svjetove na isti
način na koji plamen ljulja plavi i bijeli

okvir oko vatrene glave. Čini se lako kao
paučina. A nije. Noću bi se isto doimalo
drukčije: poput sitnoga kostura, obješenog
krila, poput anđela koji je izgubio vjeru
i poginuo kao što ginu kukci. Stvari izmiču
kontroli: nepromišljeno stupaju u ljubavne
odnose, zapliću se u prozirno tkanje usporedbi.
Nježnost je slična smrti: spaja sve sa svime.

© Sibila Petlevski
aus: Spojena lica
Zagreb: HDP-Durieux, 2006
Audio production: David Gazarov, 2008

Tenderness

englisch

A cobweb has spread its perfection between
a green sprig and an old branch. The weak
and the strong combine forces in keeping
the thread. Enlightenment got itself entangled,
and now it looks like a sun beam filled with
floating dust particles in an ordinary summer
afternoon. But it’s not. Chance makes its worlds
the same way the flame flutters its blue and white

frame around the head of fire. It seems light as
a cobweb. But it’s not. The same would appear
different by night: as a tiny skeleton, an angel
that had lost its faith and died as bugs die. Things
are getting out of control: they establish love
relations unthinkingly, entangle themselves in
the translucent texture of associations. Tenderness is
similar to death: it connects anything to everything.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek and the author

Nenapisana autobiografija

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Ponekad kažu da su ljudi
ponekad da su mačke
i ja sam na njih svikla
da mi se na pola puta nadju

Kažu da su bliski,
uštihani uz put,
i umirim se tada,
u rijetkom zraku i sama kiborg
doneseno biće

Kako se baš na pravom mjestu nađem?
Kako do tebe stižem?
Zatvorim oči, udahnem duboko

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

Unwritten Biography

englisch

Sometimes they say that they are people
sometimes that they are cats
and I am used to them
to having them at hand half way down

They say they are near,
dug in by the road,
and then I calm down,
in the thin air myself a cyborg
a brought creature

How come I find myself just on the right place?
How do I get to you?
I close my eyes, breathe deeply in

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Majka stvarnost

kroatisch | Sibila Petlevski

Svjetovi jedan drugom podmeću
kukavičja jaja i zato, svaki put kad
iluzije kojih je prepun naš dom, otvore
svoje male, pohlepne i ružne kljunove,
naša ih stvarnost hrani našim mesom.
Tolika količina boli može se prihvatiti
samo uz objašnjenje da kako god teško
bilo, sve ostaje u obitelji, među nama.

Kad nas ljube predugo im ostajemo
u ustima. Nisu što mislimo da jesu – naše  
sestre. Nismo im uopće slični dok letimo
u krug. U toj bezglavoj vrtnji u kojoj naši
krugovi dotiču krugove slijepih miševa, 
nije nam jasno lete li one ispred ili iza nas,
jesu li stvarno tako lijepe ili ih naša majka
previše voli. Marijo majko moli za nas.

© Sibila Petlevski
aus: Spojena lica
Zagreb: HDP-Durieux, 2006
Audio production: David Gazarov, 2008

Mother Reality

englisch

Worlds lay cuckoo’s eggs for each other
and therefore, each time when illusions
with which our home is overcrowded
open their small, greedy and ugly beaks,
our reality feeds them with our flesh.
This much pain can be taken only with
the explanation that no matter how hard it may be,
everything stays in the family, among us.

When they kiss us we stay in their mouth
for too long. They are not what we think they are –
our sisters. We don’t resemble them at all while we fly
in the circle. In this headless spinning in which
our circles touch the bats’ circles, it is unclear
whether they are flying ahead of us or behind us,
whether they are really so beautiful or our mother
loves them too much. Mother Mary, pray for us.

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek and the author

Dođe bilo kad

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Dođe bilo kad
budim se i liježem sama
Za trpezu zasjednemo
ručava i večerava moje tijelo
Zavirimo i u spise porodične
tu su recepti za sve što se ikad
za njegova usta spravljalo štedro
Što od njega hoću?
Igraj se, dijete, nije ti stalo!
Da izmamim osmjeh?
Ni jedan jedini!
Kad prazan glas zapjeva
ako je koja zaostala riječ

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

He Comes Any Time

englisch

He comes any time
I wake up and lie down alone
We sit at the table
he has my body for lunch and for dinner
We peep also into family documents
here are the recipes for everything that has ever
been abundantly prepared for his mouth
What do I want from him?
Play, child, you don't care!
To elicit a smile?
Not a single one!
When an empty voice sings
if any word has stayed behind

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

kristal

kroatisch | Branko Maleš

brda su čeličnih češljeva
čije su tunike klinasti jezici
kovino – krpo polupana
ko razvalina glina se razlila

pukotine žderu svijeću
u tamnom ledu jednjaka
naslagane su pčele
fotonsko je saće – kožnata riječ

gdje se sabire mrak
na čađavoj livadi
seljaci od toga češljaju mačeve
koji se slušaju kao biljna štiva

u jutarnjoj sapunici
leti lice
ko u bijeloj jedrilici sve se događa
i usta pjena – ko čipka kovrča

ko mraz šišti uže štuke
nokat srebra puca po kat
ćuk i ćup puše se uz potok
potok – kolac zime

trgovci čije kose oči
glasno govore o nategnutoj koži
u bisagama nose mladu algebru
i uši saga

o, blistav li si silos
ko losos
kolos slova!
ko uljez – prospe se ulje po porculanu

© Branko Maleš
aus: Tekst
Zagreb: August Cesarec, 1978
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža, 2008

crystal

englisch

the hills are of iron combs
whose tunics are wedge-shaped tongues
you are – you broken mop!
clay has split like a ruin

cracks are eating a candle
in the dark ice of the esophagus
bees are piled up
photonic honey comb is – a leather word

where darkness gathers
on a sooty meadow!
villagers comb swords of that
which are listened to as herbal readings

in the morning soap-suds
a face is flying
everything happens like on a white sailing boat
and foam has risen – like lace of curls

a rope of pike hisses like frost
a nail of silver cracks floor by floor
an owl and a jar are fuming by the creek
the creek – a stake of winter

tradesmen whose slanted eyes
loudly speak  of tense skin
carry young algebra in saddle – bags
and ears of a carpet

oh, you are such a shiny silo
like a salmon
a colossus of letter!
like an intruder – oil spills on porcelain

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek

Pa, što, ako nevješto živim

kroatisch | Sonja Manojlović

Pa, što, ako nevješto živim
Ako bauljam
na hiljadu očiju razmrcvarena
Gotovo pobijene, do kasno razvrstavam sićane slavuje
Otvaram i otvaram u njima ekrane daljine
Što, ako hoću disati, jesti
gdje ima hranjive juhe od zraka i knjiga
za koje ću zasjesti
bradu naslonit na dlan
dok ruka ne usahne
i kapci ne pripotvrde
Pa, što, ako od vas uzmem samo knjige
usta za naš poljubac

© Sonja Manojlović
aus: Upoznaj Lilit – izabrane pjesme
Zagreb: Konzor, 2002
Audio production: Udruga radio mreža 2008

So What If I Live Unskillfully

englisch

So what if I live unskillfully,
if I stagger
mutilated to a thousand eyes
Until late at night I classify tiny little nightingales, almost killed
I open and open the screens of distance within them
What if I want to breathe, to eat
where there is nourishing soup of air and books
at which I will sit
lean my chin on my palm
until my hand withers
and my eyelids confirm
So what if I take only the books from you
mouth for our kiss

Translated by Miljenko Kovačićek