Stipe Grgas 

Translator

I get up at 5
and am in bed before
that number.

That it may be is not enough
for a history.

I get up at 5
and seek before that
number-under the table
in the tepid water,
between three forks -
that joy will be
morning - that joy will be
a golden spoon
- it is not Jerzy, who
is not Josip, is not a squirrel,
which jumps in the dark
wood and writes joyous poems
for children.

I get up at 5
and am in bed before that number -
that’s not fine handwriting
for New Year or for autumn,
for a bottle of champagne, in Vari}akova street,
       over my room, looms
       the white stone of Krk, a man
       and a woman with a creel on her back, between
       fig trees, olives and the northerner -
       they’re almost at the top of letter A.
       (Which as we know ...)

Jerzy, Jerzy, the squirrel jumps
and blows out the candle
over the deep
water of the Danube.

a man sits in the winter garden
of australia and eats oranges. in
an hour the heat will set in.
fish in the swimming pool. a boy
who trims the garden. a japanese man
on his way to the new house. hong kong rocks
like hong/kong/hong/kong. if the happy
boys move the scaffolding, it will drop
two points. a man sits in the winter garden
of australia and eats oranges. in
an hour the heat will set in.
- those few closed doors, around
his arms, resemble a flock of birds
which circle the dead somewhere
in an entirely distant part of the forest.

an old man descends by car
Down the summer island roads and
All’s there: the sea and dust,
Sun and salt, he tirelessly
floats and the invisible megaphone
fills the glowing heat with cheap
Maltese songs, he
descends the island
at one speed
I am Lawrence of Arabia
- but what disturbs this
bright picture as it lasts
and where did the sweat come from
underneath the white shirt

Suddenly the mountain, high,
white with snow,
in front of me.

I look at it and it says: climb!
And I climb.
Collect snow.

Flakes of voice I gift to the whiteness.
The mute curtain of the sky grows
in each movement.

When, finally, I reach the top,
I lie on it to rest
and bow before the crown of the sky.

But the mountain gives me no peace and says:
in you I’ve lost myself,
now you are the mountain.

And as fast as lightning folds itself in,
flees into the earth,
into a grain of dust.

Amazed, I remain hanging in air
as some kind of star in a puppet theatre.

train goes. train goes. train goes. train goes. on
an edge of a field where a man makes love to three
women. train goes. train goes. train

goes. into the night in whose depth small grasshoppers grow
and light reaches your eye. train goes.
train goes. train goes. train

goes. to the place where i teach myself to think about
my left and my right thumb. train goes.
about cramps and afternoons. about joy. train goes. train

goes. where mary caresses herself with water. and poetry
is spoken in the hostel. train goes. train goes. train

goes. as the penitentiary chant. as the history
of prostitution. train goes. where the woman and man
change clothes.  train goes. train goes. train

goes. where you will extend your hand and say the hill
is on fire like the body. the white cliffs of the island of vis.
you’ll whisper bearded and black as a magpie. train

goes. you’ll whisper as a lover with his middle
finger in the woman who wants it. train goes. train
goes. train goes. train goes. train

goes. at the edge of a field where a man
makes love to three women. is that art. is that
an artist. is that it? train

goes. train goes. train goes. train goes. reading
the poems of american poets i know there’s a
poetry i’d like to write - train goes. train

goes. train goes. like the text of movement on an assembly
line - because, on the other side we, upright,  stubbornly
grow old. train goes. train goes. train

goes. after all why dream of change: train goes.
train goes. where i like the endings of german films.
train goes. because it has the music of eternity. train

goes. train goes. train goes. on the balcony
Stephen’s hair is one with the wind. train goes. train
goes. with Luke’s sentence on fish and birds ... train

goes. train goes. train goes. & sitting i recognize.
train goes. & the two women in seats in front of me.
train goes. & i know the story of their suffering. train

goes. train goes. & what is the tiny word for the door
through which they’ve passed. train goes. train
goes. train goes. train goes. train goes. train

goes. - but, do i know how to think. train goes. like how to love.
train goes. and furthermore about poetry. oh lyn. train goes.
it would be written in prose: the woman next to me. train

goes. gives the sign to the beauty. train goes. train goes.
of greenery around us. but neither would i about faith.
train goes. in a word. train

goes. i would not yield before fishermen. water-carriers.
postmen. train goes. train goes. but can i
close my eyes. or continue reading. train goes. train

goes. & as though nothing happened.
will i arise. train goes. and say, something about suffering &
their bodies. or keep quiet. train

goes. train goes. train goes. & the greenery continues
& the women, in front of me, are leafing a booklet
& wir bauen zügig. train

goes. & they laugh, exchanging small civilities ...
train goes. train goes. at the edge of a field
where a man is making love to three women

he, the Croatian poet,
enters the room and carefully stretches
the adhesive tape onto the windows,
first the cross, then the orderly squares,
sunlight breaks into shining
arrows, he checks the edges
and makes them tight

his wife enters, puts one quiet foot
in front of another, it’s good we didn’t
have to go below today, he doesn’t
dare to ask the english word for
bomb shelter. the dead dark of the room covers
the bed. he’d like to tell her sleep,
but is afraid, on the other side are her
leveled eyes

all i have i’ve got by looking,
and now its blackout

he wanted to write poems in which names
would resound like hot dogs in the mouth of a black woman

....

which touches us from the full
depth of your heavenly darkness

god, peace at last.

where is that world. pull out your fingers
from those wounds, incredulous Tom.

dark.

a man enters the vineyard,
sits and weeps at the edge of the island,
where God no longer awaits the stars
to reveal himself to the sea,
the woman rises and jumps into the sea,
One and the Other are silent

i now know that nothing could have
happened: a jump is a jump,
the sea merely the sea, a lone star
just God who doesn’t want to be
questioned about this thing
at all

houses at dusk. on track of houses. out-of-the-way houses.
houses alongside beltways. houses on the edge of airports. houses
500 meters from the last gas station. houses on
the other side of the hill. houses nearby the mechanical
lighthouse. houses at the level of the freeway. 3 houses on the hill.
houses alongside the railway tracks. abandoned houses,
houses for sale. houses which do not allow to be talked about.
houses with gardens. houses with the scent of Ethiopia. houses
with the sound of sand. parental houses. the house of my brothers.
and the house of my sister. married house. divorced house.
the house of “mad Orlando”. house of pleasure. the house
in which language strives with the wind of memory. the house
of crime. the house in which love was committed. the drunkard’s
house. and the house of the lover. love house. a whore
house. a house with a derelict yard. a house with
poor children. house with summer and winter
vacations. the house of Chekhov and the house of Gogol. the house
in which Joseph sleeps. the house from which Egypt flees. the house
in front of which a beautiful woman spreads her wash. the secrets of the house.
the houses of secret.

the house - I will return, it remarks.
               then a wild large white head emerges
               and chases me from your doors. I run.

the house - we’ll meet again, I say.
               I’ve been put into the golden triangle of vrap~e,
               stenjevac and popova~a, where grows the forgotten
               plant of goodness.

the house  - you’ll still drink your poison.
               the fieldworkers have discarded their blue blouses.
               in a (1981) car I enter my home place like a drawing
               out of a primer. only like this can women be old.
               only like this can snow be white. only like this
               can I think in a language which has left behind
               all resemblances to me.

the house - which I will call by the names of my friends.
               the house man. the woman house.
               the house son the daughter house.
               the house in the dangerous Sunday afternoon.
               the house from which someone comes and yells to me: hey!

tomorrow i’ll go to the stadium
blaž is coming
all will stand and root
while i will think
blaž blaž blaž
no i’m not a supporter
i’ll sit on the east benches
and buy seeds
when a goal is scored
all will fall into a trance
while i’ll watch quietly
blaž blaž blaž
blaž is a player
someone will ask
no he’s not he’s god
the players are in babylon
and are learning to talk
but nobody sees him
after the game i’ll take the tram
the fans will steal rides
and talk dirty
while I will persist being quiet
blaž blaž blaž