Charles Simic
inglês
TAKVE PESME PIŠEM
Trebalo bi da imam novog ljubavnika,
Ovog da se ratosiljam
Kao konzerve kojoj je istekao rok upotrebe.
Trebalo bi brza kola da vozim
Kroz prozor kosa da mi vijori
Kao kod kakve Rozamunde
Što na konju jezdi.
Takve pesme pišem.
Trebalo bi do podne da spavam,
Da se izležavam na širokom krevetu
Kao poleglo žito po „majčici“ zemlji.
Trebalo bi da ne marim za vreme;
Da ne kaskam, da ne žurim.
Da ispijam dan za danom, do dna – naiskap!
Noć po noć, kao cigaretu za cigaretom.
Pa, opuške – pod potpeticu!
Reči na žar. Vrućicu u pesme.
Takve pesme pišem.
Trebalo bi usku haljinu da nosim.
Ramena krznom da ogrćem.
Na visoke štikle da se penjem.
Da se nafrakam i nakinđurim,
Kao božićna jelka –
Da me ne prepozna ni rođena majka.
Trebalo bi da sam vedra, nasmejana, zavodljiva.
Da pevam i plešem do tri izjutra.
Da sam svesna svojih ženskih draži
Kad mi kakav pastuv priđe.
Takve pesme pišem.
Trebalo bi da me ne dotiču
Žaoke, bodlje, bumbara i osa.
Maramicom kao kap znoja sa čela
Da obrišem svaku boru, brigu.
Trebalo bi da imam dovoljno love
Za kiriju, porez i još pride.
Lova dobro dođe kad ponestane ostaloga.
Kad zature se poljupci, kad iscure reči.
S lovom mogu disati na kredit!
Trebalo bi telo svoje da sunčam
Na kakvoj steni,
Daleko od dokova Sunovrata.
Trebalo bi iz zemlje Apatije
U zemlju Želja da emigriram,
Sve da želim ničeg da se ne odričem.
Trebalo bi u mirišljavoj peni da se kupam
Žilet veni da primičem.
Takve pesme pišem.
Produção de áudio: Drugi program Radio Beograda / PEN centar Srbije
THE POEMS I WRITE
I ought to have a new lover,
Get rid of the one I have
As if he were a can with a past-due date.
I ought to drive fast cars,
My hair flying out of the window
As if I were some Rosamund
Riding on a horse.
These are the poems I write.
I ought to sleep till noon,
Spread myself over a great big bed
Like wheat over "sweet mother" earth.
I ought not to care about time,
Not to move slowly, not to hurry,
To drink each day down to its dregs,
Night after night—like a chain-smoker—
And step on a butt with my heel.
Words are embers. I burn myself into poetry.
These are the poems I write.
I ought to wear tight dresses,
Drape my shoulders with furs,
Wear high heels on my heels,
Paint myself and cover myself with jewels
Like a Christmas tree—
So my own mother doesn't recognize me.
I ought to be cheerful, smiling, flirty,
To sing and dance till 3 a.m.
Mindful of my sex appeal
When some stud approaches me.
These are the poems I write.
Thorns, bumblebees and bees with their stingers
Ought not to touch me.
With my handkerchief I'll wipe every worry and wrinkle
As if they were drops of sweat on my forehead.
I ought to have enough dough
For rent, taxes and a few more things.
Money comes in handy when there's nothing else.
When kisses are misplaced, when words all trickle out.
With money one can breathe on credit.
I ought to tan my body on some rock
Far from the piers of Disaster.
I ought to emigrate from the land of Apathy
To the land of Wishes
So I can desire all and renounce nothing.
I ought to bathe myself in scented bubbles,
Draw a razor to my vein.
These are the poems I write.