In A Sentimental Mood

Jazz je tako krhak
Obukla sam laganu ljetnu haljinu
stavila kap parfema na zapešća
(nikad ne razmazuj, uništavaš molekule mirisa)
na izlasku si me poljubio u leđa.

Spremili smo se,
onako kako mi to znamo,
nabavili muziku za auto,
kartu razvili na koljenima,
zemlja se rascijepila, put se otvorio,
rijeke se razlile.

Ljeto je. Svi se spuštaju prema vodi,
ili gledaju gore u svijetlo plavo nebo
tražeći vedrinu zaborava, stabla postaju ringišpili,
a mi idemo dolje, ka zemlji,
pa još malo ispod.

Što to tražimo, reci mi,
dok stojimo iznad ploče
ispod koje su davno zakopani Oste i Stojan
otac i sin,
čije živote rekonstruiramo u igri koju
razumijemo samo nas dvoje,
prstima se dodirujući meko po nadlakticama.

Nismo izašli na ples,
tamo preko je Omarska, koliko još očeva i sinova,
kostiju ispod, i onih škripavih iznad
koje još uvijek mašu, naređuju željezu da ide amo ili tamo.

Jazz je tako krhak, ljubavi,
Vremeplov nasred glavne prijedorske ulice,
Paris caffe, Current Jazz, uvijek, ujutro i uvečer,
osim na Vidovdan, dan za slavlje ratova
kad čudovište sve proguta,
rukama mi pokazuješ kako.

Jazz se sakrio,
bojažljivo šušnuo metlicama
pred krstovima i kristovima,
pred glasnim očevima i sinovima

pod prozorom naše hotelske sobe
pod kojim urlaju agresivni muškarci,
gone svoje čelične zvijeri,
psuju i pljuju,
a mi drhtimo pod jednom plahtom,
toliko tankom
da nas boli svaki zvuk, zlokobni glasni smijeh,
pravimo se hrabri s Coltraineom u ušima,
da nas odvedu spremne
u tvornicu željeza,
ako bude trebalo,
da ih ovaj put nadglasamo.

© Ivana Bodrožić
Extraído de: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Produção de áudio: Haus für Poesie, 2021

In A Sentimental Mood

Jazz is so fragile
I put on a light summer dress
rubbed a drop of perfume between my wrists
(never smear for that's how you destroy the molecules of fragrance)
and upon leaving you kissed me on the back.

We packed up,
- our way -
we selected music for the car,
spread out the map over our knees,
then the earth split open, the road ahead unfurled,
the rivers spilled out of their riverbeds.

It's summer. Everyone's going down to the water,
or else staring up at the light blue sky
welcoming the joy of oblivion, as the trees turn into carousels,
and we descend, down to the ground,
and a bit further underneath.

What are we searching for, tell me,
as we stand above the tombstone
where Oste and Stojan, father and son,
were buried a long time ago,
whose lives we reconstruct in this game
that only the two of us understand,
as our fingers softly touch our upper-arms.

We did not go out dancing,
over there lies Omarska, how many more sons and fathers,
how many bones below, how many more creak above
still waving, ordering iron to go this way or that.

Jazz is so fragile, my love,
a Time Machine parked amid the main street in Prijedor,
Paris Caffe, Current Jazz, always, mornings and evenings,
except on St Vitus' Day, the day for celebrating wars
after the monster has already devoured everything,
the way you're showing me with your hands.

Jazz hid itself somewhere,
it rustled its brushes cautiously,
before all those christs and crosses,
before all the loud sons and fathers

below our hotel room window
aggressive men howl,
herding their beasts of steel,
spitting and swearing,
as we shudder underneath a single sheet,
so thin
that every sound hurts, every loud ominous laugh,
pretending we're brave with Coltrane in our ears,
so they can find us ready when they come
to take us to the iron plant,
if need be
to outscream them
this time around.

Translated by Damir Šodan