Nina Živančević
inglês
SMRT FILOZOFA
Nikada nisam o tebi razmišljala sve dok nisi otišao
Sto je počišćen čaša prazna a tanjir
Pun grešaka samo si skliznuo kroz vrata
su bila zatvorena neko je na njih kucao
udjite rekoh
vetar ih je širom otvorio
a na njima starica izbrazdanog lica
pljuvala je krv donekle usamljena odevena
majci nalik ličila je na mene
osmehnula mi se i uputila mi
bezubu kletvu: Ja sam tvoja smrt, reče ona,
znaš šta, uzdahnula sam, nisam još spremna
nije mi još trenutak, treba da pročitam sve Stoike
da postignem Budino prosvetljenje…
spremi se brzo, prosiktala je, a ja sam je odgurnula, zalupila vrata
i pala na pod, zatim se probudila prekrivena užasnim znojem
upalila radio i slušala Baha
živela sa ljudima koji mrze poeziju
otkrića bejahu u modi glupost u trudnoći
I tu ti prsti Glena Gulda…
Jednom prilikom, reče on, susreo sam Boga
Kontrapunkt je najveća stvar, u muzici a i životu,
Pričao je on i zviždukao Bahove vesele varijacije
Peglao bore kristalnoj jasnoći zalivao leje domaćem životu
Hranio kućne miševe uzvitlanim očekivanjima
Koja nisu bila ni velika ni čvrsta niti pak hladna
Ona bejahu samo tihi odjeci glasnog
Stakata njene ludosti nesnosnog arpedja njegove veselosti
Tog gadnog kontrapunkta njegovog vašljivog obećanja…
Produção de áudio: Radio Belgrade 2
PHILOSOPHER’S DEATH
Never did I think of you before you were gone
The table was clean the glass empty the plate
full of my mistakes and you just slid through
the door was closed and someone was knocking at it
Come in I said
The wind pushed it open
That was an old woman with a ragged face
Spitting blood was somewhat lonely was dressed
Like my mother and looked like me
She smiled at me and toothless curse had reached
Me there, I am your death she said, oh I am not ready
Not ready right now have to read a lot of Stoics have to acquire my Buddha hood
Get ready she hissed and I pushed her away, slammed the door and fell down
Woke up covered with Gothic sweat
I turned on the radio and listened to Bach
Lived with some people who hated poetry
Serendipity in fashion stupidity in labour
Speedy fingers of Glen Gould
At one occasion he claimed he encountered God
Counterpoint is everything, like in music like in life
He said while humming along Bach’s exuberant variations
Ironing wrinkles of serenity sprinkling the lawns of domesticity
Feeding house mice thrilling expectations
They were not great they were not solid they were not cold
They were just miniscule whispers of that loud
staccato of her insanity that unbearable arpeggio of his complicity
that bloody counterpoint of his lousy promise