Zvonko Maković

хорватский

Tomislav Longinovic

английский

Jesam li išta tražio

Ljubav se rodi i nitko ne primijeti
koliko je strašna. Iz dana u dan darivaju je
ne sluteći pogrom što ga sprema.
Ljubav se stavlja na zidove kao slika.
Na kuće kao zastave za Dan Republike.
Ona je isprva hladna kugla, hladna jer je
od porculana, jer je lomljiva i pomaknuta.
Izmedu postelje i telefona ona pronađe
sićušan prostor koji joj je naklonjen,
koji će je zaštiti.
Nacrtao sam je i bila je zatvorena kružnica.
utiskivao sam u nju sva lica
koja sam poznavao, koja sam pomilovao
smiješeći im se. Odan sam jer znam što znači
vidjeti se u tuđem oku.

Prošupljene su zjenice besmislene.
One su obilježene žrtvama,
trivijalnim pogodbama.
Ljubav se uvuče u trbuh, u meso –
zatim odjekuje i prepoznajemo je kao riječi.
Ispružio sam se na tlu i zurio
u mrlju na tavanici.
Iz tog su stanja isparile nijanse,
to je stanje surovo i bezobzirno.
Od njega ne treba očekivati neke
osobite žudnje, cjelovita razotkrivanja.
Jesam li išta tražio?
Na licu mi je sjena koja se napaja
kapilarima, koja ostavlja bore oko očiju.

Znam da se ovdje mogu uspeti do krajnjih
visina, preobraziti se u čistu energiju.
Sada osjećam da svanjuje,
no to još ne mogu i vidjeti.
Ali, doći će, doći čas kad ćemo se
opustiti, osloboditi snova.
Kad ćemo biti lagani poput mirisa.
Osjećam se bezimenim i to me prividno
oslobađa obaveza.
Radije bih da sam bujica koja
naplavljuje neodređene pokrete,
koja opisuje zebnje i guta strah.

Govorim u prvom licu. Nisam dakle samo
instinkt, samo slučajan glas.
I rečenice su mi jezgrovite kao srce plamena.
To znam, to vidim i čujem.
Negdje sam pročitao:
kruh, šutnja, pamćenje, zenit, vječnost,
razlivena tjeskoba. Znao sam kako su to riječi
koje se ne mogu prešutjeti, kako ću ih
posvojiti bilo kad. Kako ću ih rasipati
poput sjemena osjećajuci pri tom više nego
slast, više nego radost što oplođujem.
Sada još podrhtavaju, jer ja drhtim.
Ljubav drhti. Prije nego se izgovori,
riječ je samo zrak, ali zrak koji drhti.

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

Did I Ask for Something

Love was born but nobody had noticed
how terrible it was. They shower it with gifts
every day without understanding that it is ready for a program.
Love is placed on the walls like a painting.
On the houses, like flags for the Republic Day.
It is a cold bowl at first, cold since
it is made out of porcelain, fragile and displaced.
Between the bed and the phone it finds
a tiny space that favors it,
that will protect it.
I drew it and it looked like an enclosed circle.
I engraved into it all the faces
I knew, I touched
and laughed at them. I am faithful since I know what it is like
to see oneself in the eye of another.

The hollow pupils are senseless.
They are marked by victims,
by trivial deals.
Love sneaks into the belly, into the meat –
then it echoes and we recognize it as words.
I stretched myself out on the floor and stared
at the spot on the ceiling.
The nuances have evaporated from that state,
that state is cruel and unscrupulous.
It should not be expected to yield some
particular desires, or complete revelations.
Did I ever ask for something?
There is shadow on my face that feeds
on the blood vessels and leaves wrinkles around the eyes.

I know that here I can reach the ultimate
heights, transform myself into pure energy.
Now I feel that it is dawning,
although I am not yet able to see that.
But the time will come when we will
relax, get rid of the dreams.
When we will be as light as the scent.
I feel nameless and that apparently
liberates me from responsibility.
I would rather be a torrent which
floods indefinite motions,
which describes forebodings and devours fear.

I speak in the first person. Therefore I am not just
an instinct, an accidental voice.
And my sentences are keen like a heart of a flame.
I know that, I see and hear that.
I have read somewhere:
bread, silence, memory, zenith, eternity,
overwhelming unease. I knew that those are the words
that would not remain unspoken, that I would
take them up some day. That I would spill them
like a seed feeling then something more than
pleasure, more than a joy of spawning.
Now they still tremble, because I tremble.
Love trembles. Before it is spoken,
the word is only the air, the trembling air.

Translated by Tomislav Longinovic