Damir Šodan 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 46 poems translated

from: hrvaščina, angleščina to: angleščina, hrvaščina

Original

Translation

Koliba

hrvaščina | Ivana Bodrožić

Saznala sam to iz treće ruke
o Kolibi i Kolibinoj ženi
koji je prodao 20 milijuna primjeraka
svoje knjige u kojoj je Bog duhovita crnkinja
Isus šlampavac arapskih crta lica
a Duh Sveti azijatkinja

Slavan i bogat pisac
koji je prije čistio WC-e
primao i slao pošiljke
bio noćni čuvar

Uglavnom,
njegova žena ima čudnu kosu,
iako, zapravo, ima potpuno normalnu kosu,
vjerojatno se radi o tome
da svatko od nas po nečemu želi
biti poseban, pa tako i Kolibina žena,
a ne samo po tome kako mu je
oprostila preljub,
o čemu on javno govori
kao jednom od dokaza božje ljubavi.

I za tu kosu u Americi ona ne može pronaći
ručnik odgovarajuće veličine,
(kad ga onako treba smotati u turban)
kakav je našla u Hrvatskoj
i odmah kupila deset komada koje
sad mora nekako dostaviti u Oregon

To znači ekstra kofer, a već ima puno, previše stvari

A Koliba putuje dalje, prvo u London
pa u Nizozemsku, pa nazad u London
pa tek onda preko ocena
jer on je velik i slavan pisac
svuda ide, propovjeda i potpisuje knjige

Nagne se prema svojoj ženi, njenoj neobičnoj kosi
i kaže nešto poput:
Draga, ništa se ti ne brini
ja ću sve srediti,
uzet ću te hrvatske ručnike prave veličine
odletjeti s njima u Veliku Britaniju
ostaviti ih u sefu hotela
a onda na povratku pokupiti
i donijeti
u Ameriku
tebi

Mi se svi smijemo, cerimo, Koliba je jeftin
i njegov bog je pravi američki prozivod
sve ljubi
i nikog ne kažnjava
dolazi u raznim bojama
a njegov život
sa seksulanim zlostavljanjem u djetinjstvu
jebeno upakovana priča

Kad smo potrošili smijeh
na licu ostaju grimase
djelić sekunde izbjegavamo međusobne poglede
jer njegova žena
ima muža
koji nosi ručnike
za običnu kosu
preko čitavog svijeta
jer vjeruje da je neobična
toliko žarko
kao što se vjeruje u boga
i nitko mu neće dokazati suprotno

Vjera je ljubav,
a ljubav je bog
tako je jefitno,
a tako nedostižno.

Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2021

Shack

angleščina

I heard it from someone else,
about Shack and Shack’s wife –
about him selling 20 million copies
of his book wherein God is a witty black woman,
Jesus a gimp with a Semitic face,
and the Holy Spirit an Asian woman

A famous and wealthy writer
who once cleaned toilets
received and dispatched parcels
worked as a night watchman

Anyway,
his wife has strange hair,
although her hair is in fact totally normal,
it’s probably that each and every one of us
wants to feel somewhat special
and so does Shack’s wife,
never mind how on top of everything
she forgave him for his adultery
which he talks about publicly
as one of the proofs of God’s love.

She couldn’t find a towel big enough
for that hair of hers in America
(when she wants to wrap it in a turban)
but she did find one in Croatia
so she bought ten of them right away
that now need to be shipped somehow to Oregon

That means that she needs an extra suitcase and she already has many, way too many things

Shack will travel further, first to London,
then to the Netherlands, then back to London
and then finally back home overseas
for he is a great and famous writer
who goes everywhere, preaching and signing books

Then he leans over to his wife and her extraordinary hair
and says something like:
Darling, don’t you worry about a thing,
I’ll take care of everything,
I will pick up those right-sized Croatian towels
fly with them to the UK
and deposit them in the hotel safe
so I can collect them on my way back
and bring them
to America
to you

We all laugh, grinning, for Shack is cheap
and his God is a real American product
He loves everybody
punishes no one
and comes in various colours
and his life
including the childhood sexual abuse
is one hell of a tale

When we exhausted our laughter
our faces still in silent grimaces
for a split second we avoided each other’s gazes
because his wife
has a husband
who carries towels
for her ordinary hair
across the world
because he believes this is something quite extraordinary
so passionately
as he believes in God
and no one can convince him otherwise

Faith is Love
Love is God
It’s so cheap
yet so unattainable.

Translated by Damir Šodan

Time line

hrvaščina | Ivana Bodrožić

Stavit ću sliku na fejsbuk
iduće ljeto.

Ići ću na godišnji odmor, ne kao ove godine,
ići ću na more, u apartman,
popet ću se na brdo odakle puca pogled
na beskrajno plavetnilo

okačit ću takvu sliku
more će gutati sunce iza mojih leđa,
a moja ramena će biti preplanula

sok će curiti iz raspuknutih smokava na tacni
ali one neće biti udarene, trule ili potamnjele
puknut će samo po sredini,
a ja ću to uslikati

promjenit ću profil picture
dobit ću dvjesto lajkova
bit će to čarobna fotka,
pomalo fade
jedva će me prepoznati
ustvari će biti zavidni

sklopit ću takvu galeriju
moji prijatelji će sjediti pred kompujterima
i pretraživati svoje foldere

ali nitko, nitko se neće moći mjeriti
s mojim zalaskom sunca,
zrncima pijeska na stopalima,
grbavom prastarom maslinom,
provalit ću, ako treba, u tuđe dvorište
slikati stol, stolice, verandu,
koru od lubenice, suncobran,
otvorenu knjigu zavrnutih korica
uflekanu od soli

ja ću biti najsretnija
točno će se vidjeti
i moja djeca će biti sretna
strpljivo će pozirati
anđeoskog smješka
svi ćemo pozirati
koliko god bude potrebno
dok nam žile u očima ne popucaju
od gledanja prema kameri
dok nam se lice ne ukoči
dok ne uhvatimo taj trenutak sreće
pa da ga okačim na fejsbuk.

© Ivana Bodrožić
from: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2021

Timeline

angleščina

I'll post my picture on Facebook
next summer.

I will take a holiday, not like this year,
I will go to the seaside, rent an apartment,
I will climb a hill with a view on all that
eternal blueness

I will post one of those photos
the sea devouring the Sun behind my back
and my shoulders tanned

juice will be dripping from the bursting figs lying on the tray
but they will not be bruised, rotten or mottled
they will just split in half midline,
and I will capture this with my camera

I will change the profile picture
and get two hundred likes
for that will be one magical photo,
slightly faded
and they will hardly recognise me
in fact, they will be envious
for I will assemble such a powerful gallery
and my friends will be sitting in front of their computers
searching through their folders

but no one will be able to beat
my sunset,
the grains of sand on my feet,
the ancient hunched olive tree,
and I will, if need be, trespass
into someone's yard, snapping photos
of their table, chairs, veranda,
watermelon rinds, parasol,
an open book with folded covers
stained with salt

I will be the happiest one
and it will be obvious
and my children will be happy
posing patiently
wearing angelic smiles
all of us will pose
for as long as it takes
until the veins in our eyes pop
from all that staring into the camera
until our faces grow stiff
until we catch that moment of happiness
so I can post it on Facebook.

Translated by Damir Šodan

[Voljela bih biti otac mojoj kćeri]

hrvaščina | Ivana Bodrožić

Voljela bih biti otac mojoj kćeri
s mekanim i mirisnim dlačicama na rukama
u koje zabija nos i opija se
tamnim, muškim, sigurnim

nositi broj 43, najmanje,
da mi se popne na prste
i bude najviša od svih
i ne klizi dolje

da se sakrije iza mojih leđa

da me zavodljivo gleda

da budem uporište kad više ničega nema,
zadnje, najzadnje
nepokorivo

da se znam smijati
praviti nered
igrati šah,
i koga je Perzej ljubio

nestati

očevi pouzdano znaju nestati
majke ostaju za mržnju

krivih usana
ukočenih ramena
općenito propadljivijeg tijela
s malo ili sasvim bez trikova

mrzeći svoje majke
koje nikada nisu znale
kako im biti očevi.

© Ivana Bodrožić
from: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2021

[I’d love to be a father to my daughter]

angleščina

I’d love to be a father to my daughter
with soft and fragrant little hairs on his hands
so she can bury her nose in them, getting drunk
on something dark, safe and masculine

my feet a size 43 European at least
so she can stand on my toes
feeling taller than everyone else
and not slip down

so she can hide behind my back

and eye me seductively

so I can be her anchor when all else is gone,
her last, very last unconquerable
resort

so I can know how to laugh
mess things up
play chess
and know who Perseus was in love with

how to disappear

for fathers know how to disappear convincingly
while mothers remain to be hated

with twisted lips
and stiff shoulders
bodies generally prone to decay
with very few if any tricks up their sleeve

while hating their own mothers
who never knew
how to father them.

Translated by Damir Šodan

[Trudna sam s pjesmom]

hrvaščina | Ivana Bodrožić

Trudna sam s pjesmom
nisam nikome rekla

noću imam grčeve u listovima,
ujutro dugo ležim u krevetu
jer znam, čim ustanem, pritiskat ću usta dlanovima.

Zaključavam se u kupaonicu, gledam se u ogledalo
uvlačim stomak, tražim tragove na licu
u očima.

Čudesno je kako postaju blaže a izražajnije,
kosa je sjajna, prelijeva se u nijansama,
puštam je niz leđa, napokon raste u dužinu.

Hlače zakopčavam do vrha šlica, dugme ostaje bez rupe,
ona već poprima oblik, dobija kralježnicu,
srce joj odavno kuca.

Ne znam još hoće li imati moje sanjive oči
ili tvoje svemoguće ruke,
ako bude dinja bit će muška,
ako bude lubenica bit će ženska.

Voljet ću je, lijepo me boli iznutra
iako će se svi zgražati nad njom
kad postane jasno
kako sam se zaoblila.

Ipak, kao i od početka Svijeta,
ništa se tu nije moglo,
čim smo se sreli,
znala sam da će nam se desiti.

© Ivana Bodrožić
from: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2021

[I'm pregnant with a poem]

angleščina

I'm pregnant with a poem
but I haven’t told anyone

at night I have cramps in my calves,
in the morning I lie long in bed
because I know, as soon as I get up, I will be pressing my hands over my mouth.

I lock myself up in the bathroom, I observe myself in the mirror
pull in my stomach, looking for signs on my face
and in my eyes.

It's miraculous how they become softer yet more pronounced,
my hair is shiny, glinting with nuances,
as I let it fall down my back, allowing it to finally grow long.

I zip up my pants, leaving the top button unbuttoned,
for she is already taking shape, growing a backbone,
her heart has already been beating for a long time.

I don't know if she will have my dreamy eyes
or your almighty hands,
a melon, it will be a boy,
a watermelon, it will be a girl.

I will love her, for she's hurting me so beautifully inside
although everyone will be disgusted by her
once it becomes clear
how round I have become.

Nevertheless, it's the way of the World,
and no one can change it,
for no sooner than we met, I simply knew
this would happen for us.

Translated by Damir Šodan

Ljeto

hrvaščina | Ivana Bodrožić

Voljela bih posaditi nešto da raste,
da bude puno sokova, crveno da se razmazuje po cesti.

Da ima svoj početak, tvrdo, duguljasto sjeme
koje se može valjati između kažiprsta i palca,
kotrljati po vlažnom dlanu,
kojemu treba
toliko i toliko
zemlje,
vlage,
svjetla,
i znaš da će rasti, pojavit će se zeleni vrh, probiti sivilo sjemena,
i sve ono kako već ide u dokumentarcima
koje su snimali s onim minijaturnim kamerama,
pa listovi,
pa sve deblja stabljika,
pa čudo pupova,
onda one tajne ljubavi i smrti,
uzimanja, oprašivanja, opadanja
pa na kraju
plod,
koža koja puca pod zubima, okus, precizno određen kao višnja
ili posve drugačije kao jabuka,
bez nijansi između
ili ili
voljela bih tako posaditi nešto da raste,
umorna sam od rasplinutih stanja, nijansi koje život znače
neprestanog i jeste i nije
i može biti i ne mora,
i bit će sigurno i možda nikada neće.

Samo kap višnjina soka u grlu,
mislim, spasila bih se.

© Ivana Bodrožić
from: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2021

Summertime

angleščina

I'd like to plant something that grows,
let it be full of red juices so you can smear the street with it.

Let it have its own beginning, its own hard, elongated seeds
that can be rolled between thumb and forefinger,
sliding down a moist palm,
something that needs
a certain amount
of earth,
moisture
and light,
so you know it will continue growing, sprouting a green shoot, piercing through
the greyness of the seed,
exactly like in those documentaries
they were shooting with the miniature cameras –
first the leaves,
then the ever-thickening stem,
then the miracle of budding,
followed by the mysteries of love and death,
appropriation, pollination, dropping to the ground,
and finally
fruit,
the skin tearing under your teeth, its taste,
precisely defined as cherry
or altogether different like apple,
with no nuances in between
either or
I'd love to plant something that grows,
for I'm tired of all this dissipation, the life-defining nuances,
the incessant yes and no
the could-be and not-necessarily-so
the sure-it-will-happen and maybe-it-never-will.

Just a drop of cherry juice in my throat,
I think, and I’d be saved.

Translated by Damir Šodan

In A Sentimental Mood

hrvaščina | Ivana Bodrožić

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
from: In a sentimental mood
Zagreb: Sandorf, 2017
Audio production: Haus für Poesie, 2021

In A Sentimental Mood

angleščina

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

Lov

hrvaščina | Monika Herceg

Trebali smo čekati da se u maternici preobrazi
svjetlost u masu, okrutnost u rođenje
nakon kojeg počinje pošumljavanje Bornea
Često uroniš lice u tugujuće panjeve
i znam da me pitaš
ima li zbilja smisla danas
na ovom mjestu
tjerati nekoga da preživi svijet

Majka je rekla
Kada mlijeko bude vrištalo
šuti hrabro kao odsječeno stablo
Rekla je tijelo je porozno
i ne treba mariti kad jednom
uzorak kuhinjskog stolnjaka
prepoznaš kao unutrašnjost srca
Loša majka nosi genetsku modifikaciju brižnosti
Loša majka ponekad rodi dobru majku

Druge žene rekle su
stopala će ti se povećati,
ne od poroda,
nego od riječi
Ispred trbuha proučavaju mi mjere
Kako javno poskakuju peruti,
crnogoricu ponad usana,
kako razrezujem jesen na trećine,
upuhujem čvrsti kostur u trbuh
poput staklara
izrađujući stabilnu armaturu

Gledaju dok milujem stomak
na materinjem jeziku
tepajući bukvi, vuku i koprivi
koji se kriomice
strovaljuju
u jedno biće

© Monika Herceg
from: Lovostaj.
Zagreb: Jesenski i Turk, 2019
Audio production: Croatian P.E.N. Centre

Hunt

angleščina

We had to wait for the light to transform
into a mass inside of the womb, for cruelty to turn
into birth
so that the afforestation of Borneo could begin
You often plunge your face into the grieving stumps
and I know that you’re asking me
if there is any sense in
forcing someone to survive in this world
here and now

Mother said
When the milk starts to scream
you must remain brave and silent like a felled tree
She said that the body is porous
and you should not mind
if you recognize the designs on the kitchen tablecloth
in the chambers of your heart
A bad mother bears the genetic mutation of solicitude
A bad mother sometimes gives birth to a good mother

Other women said
your feet would grow bigger,
but from words,
not from giving birth
Outside my belly they are studying my measurements
A public dance of dandruff,
the evergreens displayed above their lips,
I’m cutting up
autumn in thirds,
puffing a firm skeleton into my belly
just like a glass-blower
creating a stable armature

They observe me stroking my belly
in my mother tongue
baby talking to a beech, a wolf and a nettle
who surreptitiously
hurl themselves down
into a single being

Translated by Marina Veverec

ravnica

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

Putnici oprezno sjedaju
na klupe od skaja odlažući kapute boje kupine i suhe trave
Vlak posrće u noć poput slijepog pastira

U kupeu iz uglova suklja mrak koji se hrani bezvoljom
Uskoro ćemo, za pola sata, svi ujedno sljubiti lica uz prozore
u vlasti čudne vjere
da uz vlak, kroz anonimnu šumu
prateći naše osjećaje, čežnje, trče srne, divlje ptice
i bića koja se bude iz stabala

Na znak dirigenta, izmučene utrkom utvara
glave klonu u san

Mekana i crna ravan
dobiva ispupčine na kojima cvatu
noćni električni gradovi.

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

FLATLANDS

angleščina

Travellers sit carefully
On the fake leather benches taking off their coats with the colours
Of blueberry and dry grass
The train stumbles into the night like a blind shepherd
 
Darkness swiftly invades the compartment from all corners feeding itself
On our listlessness
Soon – in half an hour – we will glue our faces to the window panes
Overtaken by some strange belief
That through that anonymous forest
Following our desires and sentiments, roe deer, birds and other creatures awoken
Among the trees will be running along with our train
 
Upon the conductor’s sign, exhausted by this phantom race
Our heads will sink into sleep
 
The soft and black flatlands
Bears bumps budding with electric cities
Of the night.

Translated into English by Damir Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

pisanje na tipkama

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

dok pišem na ovoj spravi
posao udaranja u slova ne razlikuje se puno
od uspinjanja na neku zimsku planinu
sa štapom i dobrom opremom

kockasta slova su poput neosvojivih klisura

pišem u rukavicama od grube vune
nos mi je crven kao u tibetanske seljančice
a tlo na kojima su ova ugažena slova
crno od tvrdoće

premda su male šanse da ću se uspeti

zastat ću kod prve kolibe
iz koje posvud suklja dim
odmorit ću se uz crni napitak iz samovara

pa ću poći dalje po ledenim guturalima
koji se obično, tamo pri vrhu, grupiraju
u bijelu smrt

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

WRITING ON KEYBOARD

angleščina

As I am writing on this contraption
This business of hitting letters differs not much
From climbing some mountain in winter
Using a stick and some decent equipment
 
These square letters are like some unreachable cliffs
 
I type with gloves on made of rough wool
My nose is red like on some Tibetan village girl
And the soil where these letters were trampled upon
Is so hardened that it turned black
 
Though there is a slim chance that I will make it to the top
 
I will make a stop by the nearest hut
Spewing fumes all around
To rest a bit sipping that black liquid from samovar
 
So I can continue walking on the frozen gutturals
That generally there at the top
Coagulate into a white death

Translated into English by Damir Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

julija

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

bila je noć i ja sam napokon mogla biti
Julija koja je tražila ljubav u lišću i u površini
mora kraj hotela.
našla sam nekog mladića
ozbiljnog poput eshatologije, crne kose kao knjiga, bijelog lica
i očiju koje su se obećale onome svijetu.
skutrili smo se na hotelskom prozoru i udisali lovor.
zatim, kad je otkucalo vino u našim rukama
spustili smo se do mora i vijugali pored njega
ostavivši povijesna tijela dežurnom anđelu.
otišli smo u najcrnju šumu
pronašli tajni prolaz do morskog dna
gdje mi je pokazano kako dirigirati pticama
koje u noći poput plamenja zoblju morski pijesak.
u zoru, Julija je nestala iza tamne zavjese.
na zidovima su gorjela zlatna slova
koje je daleko sunce slalo utopljenim dušama.
dodirujući ih kradom uspela sam se na kat
gdje su se rojili umorni studenti glazbe, mladići
i djevojke, noćne Julije

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

JULIET

angleščina

It was night and I could finally be Juliet
Who sought love among leaves and on the sea surface
Nearby the hotel.
I found some young man there 
Eshatologically serious with book-black hair
White face
And eyes that promised themselves to the other world.
We cuddled in the hotel window inhaling scent of laurels.
Then as the wine began pulsating in our hands
We climbed down to the sea meandering by its side
Leaving our historic bodies to the angel on duty.
We walked into the blackest forest
We found a secret passage leading to the bottom of the sea
Where I learned how to conduct the choir of birds
Who at night pick at the sea sand like blazing flames.
At dawn, Juliet disappeared behind the dark curtain.
Golden letters were burning on the walls
Emitted by the faraway Sun for the sake of those drowned souls. 
Touching them stealthily I climbed upstairs
Where swarms of tired music students gathered, those boys
And girls, those nocturnal Juliets

Translated into English by Damir Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.stihoteka.com" ">www.stihoteka.com

tajna

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

Sastavila sam grobnu tajnu
da ponekad, krišom, odem živjeti u drugu zemlju
u tuđoj kuhinji gulim češnjak i kuham kavu
odlazim do manastira i palim svijeću
iza plota sabor breza na gluhom jeziku
lice se podvaja u zrcalu
okruglo i tužno prevlači se zlatnim pojanjem

noću napuštam tijelo, prste, svlačim koru
u hladnoj spavaonici vjetar nas dugom bradom pokriva
ujutro sam mlado drvo posađeno pred kućom
gola kost iz koje postaje dan

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

SECRET

angleščina

I have composed a mortal secret
To live sometimes secretly in another country
Peeling off garlic and boiling coffee in somebody else’s kitchen
Walking to the monastery lighting up a candle
In the backyard a congregation of birches converse in silent tongues
The face splits up in a mirror
Round and sad it veils itself with golden chanting
 
Come night I leave my body, my fingers, I peel off bark
In the cold dorm the wind covers us with its long beard
Come morning I am a young tree planted in front of the house
A naked bone giving birth to daylight

Translated into English by Damir Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

terorist

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

točno je 18 sati u Minneapolisu
u dvorani za osumnjičene ja i punašna crnkinja
ona unosi „hranu, zmije i insekte“ u SAD
a ja sam siromašna udavača
gospodin Kai gleda me odozdo u oči
otvara moju torbu punu miraza
u njoj se bijeli sumnjivi rukopis
želi znati što će mi 200 papira natipkanih na čudnom jeziku
to je fascinantna rekonstrukcija života
našega Spasitelja, kažem u sebi
drhtim, znojim se
prihvaćam ulogu nevjeste-terorista
nakon sat vremena otključavaju vrata
posvuda miris palmina ulja
stopala propadaju do gležnja u aerodromski tapison
odbacujem željezne proteze iz domovine i
tonem u ružičastu milost

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

THE TERRORIST

angleščina

It is exactly 18:00 hours in Minneapolis.
In the suspects waiting room I sit next to a plump black lady.
She tried to smuggle "food, snakes and insects" into the USA.
I am, on the other hand, a poor bride hunting for a husband.
Mr Kai peers down at me. 
He opens my bag brimming with dowry.
A white manuscript sticks out suspiciously.
He wants to know why I have 200 pages typed in some strange language.
That is a fascinating reconstruction of the life
of our Lord the Saviour - I say to myself.
I shiver and perspire.
I accept the role of a terrorist-bride.
An hour later someone unlocks the door.
Suddenly everything smells of palm oil.
My feet sink into the airport carpet.
I discard the iron prosthesis of my homeland
as I slide into a pink mercy.

Translated by Damir and Majda Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

nesanica

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

najednom, krovovi postaju plavi
noć se podvukla pod snježni pokrivač
odgovori na pitanja razlijevaju se u tamnoj tinti
na kamenu druge zemlje odmaram glavu
moja ljubav spava u susjednoj sobi
gdje raste crno drveće i crne ptice
nejasne i nepouzdane riječi na zimzelenom lišću
uskoro će se probuditi
u kuhinji će blistati njegove izvađene oči
na hladnom jeziku mulja izjavit će ljubav
daljini
plamenu koji se pali i gasi
sada spava, vida rane vodom iz mijeha noćnih orgulja
noć je malo pretjerala s crnilom
besani ukućani izvrću potamnjele dlanove

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

INSOMNIA

angleščina

Suddenly the roofs are turning blue
The night tucked itself under a snowy shroud
The answers to our questions are spilled in dark ink
I rest my head on the stone of some other country
My love is asleep in the next room
With black trees that grow and black birds
Words blurry and unreliable on evergreen leaves
Soon he will wake up
His gouged-out eyes will glisten in the kitchen
On the cold tongue of silt he will declare his love
For distance
For that flickering flame
But for now he is still asleep healing the wounds with the water from the night organ’s bellows 
The night has gone a bit too far with blackness
The insomniac tenants are turning up their darkened palms

Translated into English by Damir Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

misli se odmaraju

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

Misli se odmaraju na predmetima –
teške legnu na hrast, lake na listove lipe –
ili kao mehanizam pisaće mašine pod korom
kucaju

Ljubavnicima odgovara takav način
života, gdje termiti prelaze preko neravnina
okorjelih ljubavnih formula

opipati željezna slova
u sljepoočici dragog bića
uhvatiti posljednji od ubrzanih zareza
koji jure poput mrava iz usta –
ljubav je hladna i topla

lijena na suncu
zapisana rutinskim rukopisom na posve
nezainteresiranom lišću

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

THOUGHTS RECLINING

angleščina

Thoughts recline on objects –
the heavy ones lay on oaks, the light ones descend onto lime-tree leaves –
others clatter like a typewriter underneath
the bark
 
Lovers appreciate this way
of life where termites disregard the bumps
of notorious recipes of love
 
feeling iron letters
underneath the temples of loved ones
catching the last of the hurried commas
running like ants out of mouths –
love is both cold and warm
 
lazy in the Sun
written out in routine handwriting
across utterly disinterested leaves

Translated by Damir and Majda Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

kuća u miamisburgu

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

Cijele noći kukurikanje zrikavaca.
Nebo se savija oko zemlje.
Bog je familijaran i srdačno tapše
svoje goste.

Krijesnice svijetle 120 wata.

S Julijinog balkona promatram životinje.
Ljudi ovdje ne žive.
Ne žive ni u kućama ni u neboderima.
Spavaju u inicijalima tvrtke,
a zatim od stresa silaze u zemlju
gdje beru izvrnute plodove
s telegrafskih žica.

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

HOUSE IN MIAMISBURG

angleščina

Crickets chirp all through the night.
The sky gently envelops the earth. 
God is intimate and welcomes his guests
by patting them on the shoulder.
 
Fireflies shine like 120 Watt light bulbs.
 
From Juliet's balcony I observe the animals.
People do not live here.
Not in those houses or high-rises.
They sleep in the logos of their companies
as they descend from stress into the subterranean
picking fruits that hang from the telegraph lines
– upside down.

Translated by Damir and Majda Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

aerodrom

hrvaščina | Ana Brnardić

U visini listaju se štampane stranice neba
Dolje carinik traži otisak prsta
pečat rodnog stabalca
na papiru za turističku vizu

U licu mi sjaji žuti balkanski mjesec
Zaboravila sam ga ugasiti iznad oceana

Obitelj pored mene ima više iskustva
Tužnu pentatoniku skrili su u rukav
Službeniku podastiru ogromne količine
kalifornijskog osmijeha

Iza barikade nasmiješeni starci
s frizurama od šećerne vune
pružaju mi ruke i vode me u raj

© Ana Brnardić
from: Postanak ptica
Zagreb: Hrvatsko društvo pisaca, 2009
Audio production: Croatian PEN Centre

AIRPORT

angleščina

High above pages of the sky rustle
Down below a customs officer wants your fingerprint
The stamp of your family-tree
On your tourist visa application.
 
The yellow Balkan moon shines across my face.
I forgot to turn it off as we flew over the ocean.
 
The family next to me has more experience.
They hid their sad pentatonic up their sleeve:
Showering the official at the counter
With a healthy dose of Californian smiles.
 
Behind the barricade, cheerful old people
with candy-floss haircuts
extend their arms to take me to heaven.

Translated by Damir and Majda Šodan
Translation published in: http://www.versopolis.com/poet/23/ana-brnardi" ">www.versopolis.com

The Writings of the Mystics

angleščina | Charles Simic

On the counter among many
Much-used books,
The rare one you must own
Immediately, the one
That makes your heart race

As you wait for small change
With a silly grin
You’ll take to the street,
And later, past the landlady
Watching you wipe your shoes,

Then, up to the rented room
Which neighbors the one
Of a nightclub waitress
Who’s shaving her legs
With a door partly open,

While you turn to the first page
Which speaks of a presentiment
Of a higher existence
In things familiar and drab …

In a house soon to be torn down,
Suddenly hushed, and otherworldly …
You have to whisper your own name,
And the words of the hermit,

Since it must be long past dinner,
The one they ate quickly,
Happy that your small portion
Went to the three-legged dog.

© Charles Simic
from: New and Selected Poems
New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013

Tekstovi mistika

hrvaščina

Na pultu među mnogim
izloženim knjigama
je i ona rijetka koju moraš odmah
imati, ona od koje ti se srce uzlupa
 

dok čekaš da ti vrate sitniš
glupo se smijuljeći, da bi zatim iskoračio
na ulicu i poslije se mimoišao s gazdaricom
koja će te gledati dok budeš čistio cipele.
 

U iznajmljenoj sobi
u kojoj te zid dijeli od konobarice
koja radi u noćnom klubu
i brije noge iza otškrinutih vrata
 

okrenut ćeš prvu stranicu
koja govori o predosjećaju
nekog višeg oblika bivstvovanja
u sivilu svakodnevlja...

U kući predviđenoj za rušenje
iznenada utišanoj i onosvjetnoj...
prisiljen si šaptom izgovarati
vlastito ime i riječi pustinjaka

jer odavno je već prošlo vrijeme večere
koju su ukućani žurno pojeli
sretni što je tvoj skromni udio
pripao tronogom psu.

Prijevod: Damir Šodan
from the book Hotel nesanica, izabrane pjesme / Hotel Insomnia, Chosen poems

A Letter

angleščina | Charles Simic

Dear philosophers, I get sad when I think.
Is it the same with you?
Just as I’m about to sink my teeth into the noumenon,
Some old girlfriend comes to distract me.
»She’s not even alive!« I yell to heaven.

The wintry light made me go out of my way.
I saw beds covered with identical gray blankets.
I saw grim-looking men holding a naked woman
While they hosed her with cold water.
Was that to calm her nerves, or was it punishment?

I went to visit my friend Bob who said to me:
»We reach the real by overcoming the seduction
     of images.«
I was overjoyed, until I realized
Such abstinence will never be possible for me.
I caught myself looking out the window.

Bob’s father was taking their dog for a walk.
He moved with pain; the dog waited for him.
There was no one else in the park,
Only bare trees with an infinity of tragic shapes
To make thinking difficult.

© Charles Simic
from: New and Selected Poems 1962-2012
New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013

Pismo

hrvaščina

Dragi filozofi, mišljenje me rastužuje.
Zanima me, događa li se to i vama?
Čim zagrizem u noumenon
kakva bivša cura počne me opsjedati.
„Ali ona nije više čak ni živa!“ – uzalud dovikujem nebesima.

Zimsko svjetlo navelo me na ovaj put.
Vidio sam postelje s onim istim sivim prekrivačima.
I smrknute muškarce kako drže golu ženu
i polijevaju je šmrkom hladne vode.
Da li da je smire, ili kazne?

Posjetio sam prijatelja Boba, koji mi reče:
„Do stvarnog dolazimo odolijevajući zavođenju slikama.“
Bijah van sebe dok ne spoznah da je takvo uzdržavanje
za mene nemoguće. Uhvatio sam se, naime,
kako zurim kroz prozor.


Vani je Bobov otac šetao njihovog psa,
s mukom se krečući; paas je zastajao i čekao ga.
U parku nije bilo ničega osim golog drveća
s beskrajem tragična obličja
uza otežavanje mišljenja.

Prijevod: Damir Šodan
from the book Hotel nesanica, izabrane pjesme / Hotel Insomnia, Chosen poems

My Weariness of Epic Proportions

angleščina | Charles Simic

I like it when
Achilles
Gets killed
And even his buddy Patroclus –
And that hothead Hector –
And the whole Greek and Trojan
Jeunesse dorée
Are more or less
Expertly slaughtered
So there’s finally
Peace and quiet
(The gods having momentarily
Shut up)
One can hear
A bird sing
And a daughter ask her mother
Whether she can go to the well
And of course she can
By that lovely little path
That winds through
The olive orchard

© Charles Simic
from: New and Selected Poems
New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013

Moje klonuće epskih razmjera

hrvaščina

Volim kad
Ahilej
pogiba
čak i kad njegov kompa Patroklo –
ona usijana glava Hektor –
i cijela grčka i trojanska
Jeunesse dorée
biva manje-više
stručno poklana
pa kad naposljetku nastupe
Mir i tišina
(jer bogovi su načas
utihnuli)
da bi se odnekud začuo
pjev
ptice
i glas kćeri koja pita majku
može li do izvora
i naravno da može
onom krasnom malom stazom
što tako lijepo kroz maslinik
vijuga.

Prijevod: Damir Šodan
from the book Hotel nesanica, izabrane pjesme / Hotel Insomnia, Chosen poems

My Shoes

angleščina | Charles Simic

Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice nests.

My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
Toward their incomprehensible innocence.

What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The Gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?

I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.

Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.

© Charles Simic
from: New and Selected Poems
New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013
Audio production: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin / Haus für Poesie, 2016

Moje cipele

hrvaščina

Cipele, tajno lice moga nutarnjeg života:
dvije krezube duplje,
dvije dotrajale životinjske kože
s vonjem mišjih legla.

U vama moji mrtvorođeni
brat i sestra nastavljaju svoj život
podarujući me nevinošću
nepojamnom.

Kakve li mi koristi od knjiga
kad u vama je moguće iščitati
evanđelje mojih zemaljskih dana
i svu onu onostranost tek predstojeću.

Želim objaviti religiju
što je izumih u slavu vaše savršene poniznosti
s tom čudnom crkvom u izgradnji
čiji bit ćete oltari.

Jer asketski i majčinski vi istrajavate
u rodu s volovima, svecima, osuđenicima
dok strpljivo i nijemo oblikujete nešto
što nalikuje samo meni.

Prijevod: Damir Šodan
from the book Hotel nesanica, izabrane pjesme / Hotel Insomnia, Chosen poems

ANTARKTIK

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

blažena bjelina
udaljenih mjesta.
obična čista majica
u kojoj nisi nikoga ubio.
u pet ujutro u hotelskoj sobi
kopaš po torbi
tražiš pjenu za brijanje
i misliš na Antarktik.
Zbilja – gdje bi ti bio kraj
da si se kojim slučajem
oduvijek ovako rano
budio.

© Damir Šodan

ANTARCTIC

angleščina

Blessed be the whiteness
of distant places,
a clean, ordinary T-shirt
with no one to kill!
At 05:00 A.M. in a hotel room
you rummage through your bag
looking for shaving foam
and thinking of the Antarctic.
Indeed, there would have been no
stopping you, had you
always been ready
for such an early start.

Translated by Stephen M. Dickey und Damir Šodan

U KRUGOVIMA

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić

čovjek hoda mirnije prema noći
                                                       koji u svom srcu nosi mnoge ponoći
                                                                                        Edvin Rolfe

kojiput mi se čini da živim posuđeno vrijeme
moji prijatelji mrtvi rasuti po grobljima
izbrisani s ploče nijedan nije dohvatio tridesetu
ti ljudi s kojima sam dijelio kruh
spavao u istim bunkerima hodao kroz istu
travu i noć penjao se na tenkovima i padao
licem u zemlju pritisnut mecima i granatama
(o slatka mirna zemlja koja poznaješ naše molitve)
njihovi duhovi sada dolaze u posljednjim glasovima:
ima li još soka? pita jedan koji će poginuti napadajući
čuvaj mi brata kaže drugi koga će ubiti tenk
treći se pokušava sjetiti tko je i odakle dolazi
dok mu se mozak polako gasi (pogođen je u glavu)
što ima tamo? pita četvrti i steže čašu bevande
pogleda uprtog u brda u kojima ga čeka zasjeda
a peti šuti ali njegove oči mogu reći:
                                   smrt.

kojiput mi se čini da sam prekinuo lanac
probudim se u noći bez zraka kroz
otvoreni prozor šumi četrnaest katova
(iz drvenih sanduka penje se miris spaljenog mesa)
Krist Iskupitelj je uvijek svježa rana u crnim oblacima
električne krijesnice jurcaju i proklinju i slave
vrijeme kada su se svinje hranile ljudima
ima dolje jedna kuća koja je prije sto godina bila plava
a sada nema krova i prozori su joj otvorene duplje
iznutra je ruševina ali čudno noću oživi
zaboravljeni balkoni pune se cvijećem i svjetlošću
okrugle crnkinje u turbanima naslanjaju se na
zahrđalu ogradu i mali odjeci njihova razgovora
šapuću da je tristo tisuća ljudi mrtvo na onim poljima
gdje su moje čizme ostale bez đonova
gdje su moje oči potonule u blato svemira a
srce mi je kao željezno uže otkinuto od sidra
prozviždalo kroz zrak u slijepim krugovima:
                                                bez cilja, bez cilja.

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

IN CIRCLES

angleščina

Sometimes it seems as if I'm living on borrowed time
my friends are dead and scattered across graveyards
wiped of the slate just like that, none of them even thirty
those people I used to break bread with
those people I slept in the same bunkers with
those people I walked the same grass with, climbing onto tanks and falling down
hitting my face against the ground showered with bullets and shells
(oh sweet quiet earth you know our prayers)
their ghosts still come back with the last of the echoing voices:
is there more juice? asks one who will die in an attack
take care of my brother, says another who will be killed by tank
the third one is trying to remember who he is and where he's coming from
while his brain slowly switches off (he'd been hit in the head)
what's over there? asks the fourth clutching a glass of red watered wine
his gaze fixed over the hill where an ambush has already been set up for him
and a fifth is silent but his eyes are able to pronounce:
Death.



sometimes it feels as if I'd broken off the chain
I wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air
hearing the hum of fourteen storeys through the open window
(the smell of burnt flesh rising out of wooden caskets)
Christ the Redeemer is a lasting fresh wound among the black clouds
electric fireflies scurry, curse and celebrate
the time when pigs fed on human flesh
down there is a house that once, a hundred years ago, used to be blue
now it is a roofless ruin with frameless windows like empty eye sockets
the inside is all wrecked but somehow at night it becomes alive
the forgotten balconies fill up with flowers and light
while round black women with turbans lean against
corroded fence and tiny echoes of their conversation
whisper that there are three hundred thousand dead people on those fields
where my boots lost their soles
where my eyes drowned into the mud of the universe
where my heart was like an iron rope cut off from its anchor
whizzing through the air in blind circles:
aimless, aimless.

Translated by Damir Šodan

PREKO PUTA SPINOZINE KUĆE

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

gledam tako
neke dame
u uličici
preko puta Spinozine kuće
i prisjećam se
kako smo prije otprilike deset ljeta
negdje u isto vrijeme
ovamo prispjeli

trbuhom za kruhom
ili udovima za plodovima
(kako tko voli)
demokratskog Zapada:   

one pod okriljem
puteno-novčane razmjene,  
a ja ukorak s člancima, paragrafima i alinejama
svoje ugledne Institucije.

i već na prvi pogled
biva mi jasno
da nas i nakon desetljeća
zdrobljenog u tuđini
još uvijek vežu iste stvari:

klizno radno vrijeme
nepovjerenje prema drugim strancima
i slični oblici
prostituiranja.   

vidim Heloïse
kako i dalje nezainteresirano veze
i Alinu
kako užurbano vrti stanice na crvenom tranzistoru
i Amru i Jammilu
kako se prodorno smiju
gladeći ćelu nekom krupnom
crnom prijatelju  

dok ja guram
svoj bicikl
(kao usudbenu popudbinu)
i mislim se kako
od Spinozina prozora
pa do zadnje kabine s crvenim svjetlima
u ovom času slobodno
cvjeta i širi se
(hirovima euklidske geometrije)
tisuću cvjetova
jednog nevidljivog
Bermudskog trokuta
slijepljenog od ljudskih latica
zaglibljelih u takozvanom
boljem životu
kao kamenje u bubrežnim tjesnacima
naših trećesvjetskih ljuštura
što smo ih kao dotrajale salbunare
doteglili ovamo iz svojih Bjelorusija, Ukrajini, Ugandi,
Kirgizija, Ganâ, Rumunjski, Kroacija...  

da bi se sad motrili nijemi
kao one jegulje
u akvarijima
po kineskim restoranima.    

i sve da nas netko
izvrne naopako
ispljuska i priključi
na kozmičke poligrafe
ne bi nažalost iz nas uspio istresti
niti jednog jedinog retka
velike Baruchove Etike.

© Damir Šodan

ACROSS THE STREET FROM SPINOZA'S HOUSE

angleščina

so here I stand again
observing certain ladies
in the small alley
across the street from Spinoza's house
remembering
how some ten years ago
some of us landed here
‘round about the same time

in desperate search for jobs
craving with every limb those ripe fruits
of the democratic West  
(or however you'd like to put it);  

these ladies in the context
of monetary and flesh exchange
and myself pursuant to articles, paragraphs and subparagraphs
of my esteemed Institution.

and at the very first sight
I begin to realize
that even after a decade
wasted in a foreign country
we still have a lot in common:  

flexible working hours
suspicion towards other foreigners
and similar modes
of prostitution.

I see the absent-minded Heloïse
still weaving some embroidery
and Alina
swiftly changing stations on her red transistor-radio
and Amra and Jammila
laughing uproariously while patting the bald head 
of their big black friend

while I push
my bicycle
(like a wheel of destiny)
thinking how
from Spinoza's window
all the way to the last booth with red lights on
at this very moment
freely and easily
blooms and opens  
(on the whims of Euclidian geometry)
a thousand flowers
of some invisible Bermuda triangle
composed of human petals
dipped deep in the mud
of a so-called "better life"
like stones trapped in the kidney channels
of our third-world bodies
which we dragged over here
like decanted sand boats from our Byelorussias, Ukraines, Ugandas,
Kirgisias, Ghanas, Romanias, Croatias ...

only to end up staring at each other
in silence like those eels
in the aquariums
in Chinese restaurants.

and even if somebody would
turn us upside-down
slap us all over and connect us
to some cosmic polygraph
he unfortunately would not be able
to squeeze out
a single line
from Baruch's great Ethics.

Translated by Damir Šodan

SÃO PAULO

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

pola sata ga nadlijećemo.  
pod nama favele i dimnjaci
bairros s mirisom feijoade od crnog graha
dokone rezidencijalne četvrti
s ljepoticama u fio dental bikinijima
betonske avenije s razularenim korporacijama
ulične bande naoružane stingerima
transeksualci poklonici duha Oxumarea
jata prašnjave djece na bicicletama
i obavezne naljepnice
s likom Isusa
na automobilskim branicima.

ovdje se business
odvija isključivo helikopterima.   
svi neboderi downtowna imaju heliporte na krovovima,  
ali ako ste stranac
za njih ste tek novčanik na nogama!
— čujem glas sa susjednog sjedala
i baš u tom trenu
(dok ona diže glavu s mog ramena)
spomenem se odnekud
Bajsićevog Cendrarsa:

konačno
neke tvornice
predgrađe
mali tramvaj
žice visokog napona
ulica pretrpana ljudima
u večernjoj kupovini
plinometar
ulazimo napokon u stanicu
São Paulo
osjećam se kao da sam na kolodvoru u Nici
ili kao da silazim na Charing Crossu
u Londonu
eno svih mojih prijatelja
dobar dan
— to sam ja.

© Damir Šodan

SÃO PAULO

angleščina

for half an hour we fly over it.
down below us chimneys and factories,  
bairros with the smell of feijoada made with black beans,  
lazy residential quarters with beauties in fio dental bikinis,  
concrete avenues with billboards advertising gargantuan corporations,  
street gangs armed with stingers,
transsexuals worshiping Oxumare,
flocks of dusty kids riding bicicletas,
obligatory bumper-stickers
with Jesus' picture ...

here businesses are being run
exclusively via helicopter.   
there are heliports on most downtown high-rises,
but if you are a foreigner
you are no more than a walking wallet ...
I hear a voice coming from the next seat
and at that very moment
somehow I remember
Bajsić's Cendrars:

finally  
here are some factories
a suburb
a nice little trolley
electric lines
a street crowded with people
doing their evening shopping
a natural gas tank
Finally we pull into the station
São Paulo
I feel like I'm in the station in Nice
or getting off at Charing Cross in London
I find all my friends
hello
— it's me.

Translated by Damir Šodan

KAMČATKA

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

sanjala sam da se Kamčatka
odvojila od kopna i da pluta
oceanom slobodna.

svi mediji su to prenijeli.
(Japancima je preporučeno
da ostanu u kućama.)

trčala sam gradom da te nađem
prije početka sveopće kataklizme,
ali ti si se spremao u kino

s nekim nepoznatim ženama.
jedna od njih mi je ukrala kaput.
bila sam tako nesretna.

svu noć sam vikala.
ali me nitko nije mogao čuti.
kao da sam umrla.

© Damir Šodan

KAMTCHATKA

angleščina

I dreamed that Kamtchatka
had broken off from the mainland
and was floating freely across the sea.

all the media covered the event.
(the Japanese were advised
to remain indoors.)

I ran through the city trying to find you
before the whole world fell apart,
but you were getting ready to go

to the movies with some women
I did not know. one of them stole my
coat. I was so desperate.

I screamed all night long,
but no one could hear me.
as if I'd been long dead.

Translated by Stephen M. Dickey und Damir Šodan

ENDOKRINA LIRIKA

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

godine 1934, nakon što mu je umrla
pokroviteljica koja je tijekom 40 godina
podupirala njegovo pisanje i politički angažman,
star i sam, nobelovac W. B. Yeats,  
počeo je patiti od visokog krvnog pritiska
i slabog srca, do te mjere da je u pitanje
umalo došao i njegov stvaralački zanos.

ali Yeats, taj mistik
koji je s podozrenjem gledao
na svaki neosobni vid nauke
načuo je negdje za najnoviji
postupak rejuvenacije i na učas prijatelja
pronašao u Harley Streetu, u Londonu,
nekog australskog seksologa
koji je na njemu u proljeće iste godine  
izvršio tzv. Steinachov zahvat    
(varijantu vazektomije, prvi put oprobane u Beču,
koja je navodno vraćala zatomljeni nagon).

operacija je po svemu sudeći uspjela,
budući da se William u pismima prijateljima
ne bez ponosa povjeravao
kako mu se vratila seksualna želja
i da se zaljubio u mladu i talentiranu
pjesnikinju Margot Ruddock
kojoj je tada bilo svega 27
naspram njegovih zrelih 69.

cinični Dublinci prozvali su ga
smjesta “stari žljezdomat”.
međutim, W. B. je ponovno počeo pisati
pjesme i to je bilo važno.
jedna od tih novih pjesama
naslovljena Nagon glasi:

Misliš da je strašno u starosti bijesu
i požudi se podati, i njihovom plesu,
kad u mladosti ne bijahu počast za mene,
a sad jedini na pjesmu me nagone.

William je uskoro sastavio
i Oxford Book of Modern Verse
i počeo raditi na novom izdanju Sabranih pjesama
takvom silinom “kao da je potpisao”
– tvrdili su očevici – “novi ugovor sa životom!”  
umro je tek pet dugih godina poslije
od srčanog udara na
– of all places –   
Francuskoj rivijeri.

© Damir Šodan

ENDOCRINE LYRIC

angleščina

In 1934, having lost his patroness
who for forty years supported his writing
and political engagement, W. B. Yeats,
the Nobel Prize winner, old and alone,
began suffering from high blood pressure
and failing heart to the point
that his creativity almost waned.

But Yeats, that mystic
who would frown upon
any form of impersonal science
had heard somewhere about the latest
rejuvenation treatment and to the horror
of his friends found an Australian sexologist
on Harley Street in London who in the spring
of the same year performed on him
the so-called Steinach operation.
(A kind of vasectomy, first tested in Vienna,
which allegedly restored dormant drive).  

The operation appeared successful,
judging by letters to his friends
wherein William proudly claimed
that had he regained his sexual desire
and fallen in love with a young and talented
poetess Margaret Ruddock
who was then all of 27,
in contrast to his ripe 69.

The cynical Dubliners immediately began
calling him a “gland old man”,
but W. B. set out writing poetry again
and that was what mattered the most.
One of those new poems entitled ‘The Spur’
goes like this:

You think it horrible that lust and rage
should dance attention upon my old age.
They were not such a plague when I was young;
What else have I to spur me into song.

William soon compiled
The Oxford Book of Modern Verse
and began working on a new edition of his Collected Poems
so intensely “as if “ – said witnesses –
“he was given a new lease on life”.  
Five long years later he died
of heart failure on the French Riviera,
of all places
Imaginez?!

Translated by Damir Šodan

DURRUTI 1936

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

huligan-heroj, vođa anarhista,
željezničarov sin, gerilac s očima djeteta
na licu poludivljaka, proleter-propagandist
Buenaventura Durruti ustrajavao je više od svega
na biranom izrazu i njegovoj čistoći.

kad bi on uzeo riječ svi su razumjeli o čemu govori.
Emma Goldman kaže da je oko njega sve vrilo kao u košnici  
i da je navodno uvijek bio dobre volje.

Durrutijeva kolona
gradila se na duhu libertarijanstva i dragovoljne žrtve.
na njegovom pogrebu koji je Barcelonu
veličanstveno zavio u crno
i crveno u Via Layetana slilo se grandioznih 500.000 duša.

čak je i ruski konzul
bio duboko ganut
prizorom te mase dignutih pesti
koja se klela u tog anarhista
što je vjerovao da samo generali vladaju silom
i da disciplina kao mlaz prosvjetljenja
dolazi uvijek i jedino
iznutra.

© Damir Šodan

DURRUTI 1936

angleščina

Hooligan-hero, anarchist leader,
son of a railway worker, a guerrilla
with the eyes of a child and the face of a savage
proletarian propagandist, Buenaventura Durruti
insisted most of all on clarity of expression.

When he had the floor everybody understood.
Emma Goldman said that she found him a veritable beehive
of activity. And he was allegedly always in a good mood.

Durruti’s Column
was built on self-sacrifice and libertarian spirit.
His funeral magnificently draped all of Barcelona in black  
and red. A glorious crowd of half a million
poured down Via Layetana just like that.  

Even the Russian consul
was deeply moved
at the sight of that crowd with fists in the air
who swore in that anarchist
who believed that only generals rule by force
and that discipline always comes
like a spout of enlightenment
exclusively from within.

Translated by Damir Šodan

TOLSTOJ

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

se, kažu, u šumi preobratio.
jednog dana u kasno proljeće
osluškivao je neke čudne zvukove
i sjetio se koliko je samo dugo
zaboravljao Boga
i njegove radosne darove.
eto, to bi joj večeras čitao
dok se ona skida
poput oprezne mačke
(i mrzeći tvoj Martini)
misli da je veličina grudi
Kraj svijeta
s kojeg svaki put odskočiš
samo zato
da bi mu se na koncu
opet spremno vratio.
ali Tolstoj je prigrlio
jednostavan život seljaka!   
a ti njene uljne, alohtone,
maslinaste noge
kao da su korjenike ozdravljenja;  
dva stupa soli
s kojih uporno propovijedaš
svoju do-zla-boga trulu  
teologiju oslobođenja. 

© Damir Šodan

TOLSTOY

angleščina

Tolstoy converted in the woods, so they say.
one day in late spring
he heard some strange noises
suddenly remembering it must have been ages
since he began forgetting about God
and his joyous gifts.
that's what you would want to read to her
as she undresses slowly like a cautious cat
thinking (and hating your Martini)
that the size of one's breasts
is the End of the World
from where you jump off into the abyss
only to return to it again readily
when all is said and done.
but Tolstoy embraced
an ordinary peasant's life!
in the same manner that you hug her oily, allochtoon
olive legs as if they were the roots
of your entire well-being; two columns of salt
wherefrom you persistently profess
your liberation theology.  
lame as lust.

Translated by Damir Šodan

LISABON

hrvaščina | Damir Šodan

njen mobitel ponovno zvrči.  
u kasno ljetno popodne u Rua Garrett
s nogom preko gole noge & licem

Monice Vitti (iz Antonionijeve L’Avventura)
dok lista Marie Claire & ispija svoj espresso
ona nema razloga za brigu. A poesia está na rua

s fasade za njenim leđima pod hrpom
poderanih postera proviruje stari plakat
iz doba Salazara; u areni nedaleko od stadiona

upravo muče (“ali ih nikada ne ubijaju”)
bikove. njihov otegnuti urlik uvlači se
na balkone, zalazi u begonije i klima uređaje,

dok s radija lagano dopire vječna Amalia . . .
jer fado je fado je fado je fado
taj mali čekić duše

koji kucka o unutrašnje zidove lubanje
diskretno kao njene potpetice
o izlizane lučke pločnike.

& tad ponovno diže pogled da se uvjeri
da je još uvijek motrim podjednako znati-
željno kao maloprije. nešto dalje

na slobodnom mjestu za Pessoinim stolom
njena klinka slaže Pokemone.
koje li udaljenosti pomislim

i sjetim se Friedrichove rečenice:
“kad istjeruješ vraga pripazi
da ne istjeraš ono najbolje.”

© Damir Šodan

LISBON

angleščina

Her mobile phone buzzes again.
On a late summer afternoon on Rua Garrett
she sits with her bare legs crossed in the image

of Monica Vitti (from Antonioni’s L’Avventura)  
leafing through Marie Claire sipping her espresso
with not a single worry in the world. A poesia está na rua

behind her, letters from an old placard peer out
from underneath the layers of torn-up posters,
a reminder of the Salazar era; in the arena

not far from the stadium, the torture of bulls
has just begun (“but they never finish them off”).
Their lengthy howls penetrating balconies, begonias

and air conditioners while the radio plays the eternal Amalia . . .
for fado is fado is fado is fado
that tiny hammer of the soul

knocking on the inside walls of your skull
discreetly like her high heels across the worn-out
harbour pavements.

Once again she raises her eyes to make sure
that I am still watching her as curiously as
I was just a moment ago. A little further away

at that free spot at Pessoa’s table
her girl is lining up Pokemons.
Some distance this is – I think to myself

remembering Friedrich’s sentence:
When you are chasing out the devil,
make sure you don’t chase out the best!

Translated by Damir Šodan

Tijelo

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

Otok nas je proždirao iznutra,
cvilio i strugao po žilama i živcima
poput fantomskog gusarskog jedra.
Sjedeći nasred ceste u kukuljici od paučine,
ti rađala si mrtvo dijete,
bez razuma zapomagala tuđim glasom.
Krv ti se slijevala po bedrima,
topila kamenje i mrave
i začas bila si samo izbočina,
strano tijelo u čistoj prašini.

Bio sam mrtav na tren, bio sam ništa,
kao što to tijelo može biti,
i teški su bili krici,
mrvili još tople bubnjiće,
kosti i kožu u ničiju kašu.
Bio sam tvoj u trenu, bio sam ništa,
kao što tijela to mogu.

Moram li još išta priznati?

Svijet ima onoliko svjetova
koliko je smrti, koliko je
zračnih džepova u zemlji
od istrunulih rođenja.

Nama više ne treba ni jedan.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007

Body

angleščina

The island kept eating at us from inside,
moaning and grinding at our veins and nerves,
like some phantom pirate's sail.
Sitting amid the road in a cobweb cocoon
you gave birth to a stillborn
crying madly in somebody else's voice.
Blood was dripping down your thighs,
melting stones and ants
and in no time you were a mere bump on the road,
a strange body in clear dust.

I died for a moment reducing myself to nothing
as only a body can, but those cries,
oh how they were hard.
Shattering our still warm eardrums,
our bones and skins into nobody's mush.
And in a second I was yours, reduced to nothing,
as only bodies can be.

Must I confess anything else?

The world contains as many worlds as deaths,   
as many air pockets in the earth
conceived by rotten births.

We don't need another one.

Translated by Damir Šodan

Dvostruki život

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

Plutamo po svijetu u kojem se
ne govore imena, ni razlozi nesreće,
šuti se iz daljine i blizine,
govoriš na svojoj strani kreveta,
na svojoj strani života
koji sastavljaš i rastavljaš
kao masku za sjene
pod našim ukočenim tijelima.

Priznajem, iza mene je teorija sreće
u poljupcima na crno
i praksa nemira u svakom napuštenom danu.
Priznajem, negiram i tebe i sebe,
cijeli jedan život, pola tvoj, pola moj,
i Bogu nas za smrt nježno imenujem.

Plutamo po svijetu u kojem se
ne oprašta ništa, ni moć, ni nemoć,
voli se iz daljine i mrzi iz blizine,
šapćeš sad sama za sebe,
za drugu stranu života,
pola tvog, pola mog.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007

Double Life

angleščina

We float in the world in which
names are not said, neither are reasons for misery,
everyone’s silent from close by and from afar,
you speak on your side of the bed,
on your side of life,
which you assemble and disassemble
like a mask for shadows
under our stiff bodies.

I admit, behind me is a theory of happiness
in smuggled kisses
and the practice of unrest in every abandoned day.
I admit, I deny both you and me,
one whole life, half yours, half mine,
and give our names to God gently to take us.

We float in the world in which
there’s no forgiveness, neither for potency nor impotence,
everyone loves from close by and hates from afar,
you whisper now alone for yourself,
for the other side of life,
half yours, half mine.

Translated by Damir Šodan

Kao snijeg

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

Noću ne mogu spavati
pa slušam kako rijetki duhovi
Zagrebom voze vrijeme.
Ponekad naglo zakoče
kao da su izgubili cestu,
niz moju kralježnicu, niz oblake,
niz snijeg.

I prijatelji su mi rekli “laku noć”,
ali opet ne mogu spavati.
Zamišljam nas na svadbi
u nekom restoranu na rijeci
kojom u svako godišnje doba
teče čisti snijeg koji nitko ne vidi.

Ja poželjela sam vjenčanicu,
a ti si mi obećao nevidljivost.
Nikoga nije bilo da ti proturječi,
nikoga nije bilo da me ne vidi,
samo ja i ti, ti bez mene, ja bez tebe,
kao svaki napušteni snijeg.

I kod kuće, kaže majka,
pada snijeg koji nitko ne vidi
i roditelji su mi zabrinuti.
Nebo se spustilo tik do zemlje,
ljudi su se smanjili na nokat,
i ovi ovdje, i oni tamo,
blizu i daleko.

Noću ne mogu spavati
pa slušam kako rijetki duhovi
slušaju snijeg, kao snijeg.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007

Like Snow

angleščina

At night I can’t sleep
so I listen to rare ghosts
driving time through Zagreb.
Sometimes they hit the brakes
as if they’ve lost the road,
down my spine, down the clouds,
down the snow.

And my friends have told me ‘good night’,
yet I still can’t sleep.
I imagine us at a wedding
at some restaurant on a river
down which at every time of year
pure snow flows which no one sees.

I wished for a wedding gown
and you promised me invisibility.
There was no one to stand up to you,
no one was there not to see me,
only I and you, you without me, I without you,
like every abandoned snow.

At home, says my mother,
it snows too and no one sees it
and my parents are worried.
The sky came down almost to the ground,
people shrunk to the size of a fingernail,
and these here, and those there,
near and far.

At night I can’t sleep
so I listen to rare ghosts
listening to snow, like snow.

Translated by Damir Šodan

Ožiljak

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

Koliko imaš ožiljaka ne mogu ni zamisliti.
Opet su javili da ti je otac mrtav.
Je li to dobra ili loša vijest?

Iz “carskog reza” na tvojoj ruci
ne tako davno rođen je nakazni kralj
koji oplakuje tvoju samoću kad noću kipi
poput trule lubenice zaboravljene na stolu,
poput napuštenog znanstvenog rada
o jezicima koji te to više izdaju
što ih više učiš i znaš,
o svakodnevici koja nudi malo i lažno.

“Dobri dečki i ideali su zakopani”, kažeš.
“Užasno sam nepravilna”.

Vapno je u svakoj tvojoj riječi,
kao mrtvački šlag koji nudiš svijetu i meni,
solidarnost sa zlim koja te održava na životu
i stalno vraća na početak,
u novi dolazak na svijet iz ožiljka.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007
Audio production: Croatian P.E.N. center

The Scar

angleščina

How many scars you have, I can't even begin to imagine.
Again they told you your father is dead.
Is that a good or a bad news?

Not so long ago, from the caesarean cut
on your hand, a freak king was born
mourning your loneliness at night when he festers
like a rotten watermelon forgotten on the table,
like an abandoned PHD thesis
on languages that betray you
the more that you study and master them,
on everyday life that offers little and false.  

"Good guys and ideals have been buried", you say.
"I am terribly uneven".

There's lime in your every word,
a deadly cream you're offering to me and the world,
the solidarity with evil that keeps you alive
incessantly returning you to the beginning,
to a new birth out of the scar.

Translated by Damir Šodan

Put prema tebi

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

“Naučit ću živjeti, živjet ćemo skupa”,
ponavljali smo u sebi, svatko za sebe.
Znali smo da je tako iako se nismo gledali,
a zatim kao po naredbi ušli u more
do ramena i počeli ga ljubiti
u krug oko sebe, oko svijeta.

Polako sam putovao prema tebi,
gledao te kao lijepu plašljivu seljanku
u haljini lyonskih krojača, kraljicu Indije,
slušao kako iz tebe progovara
okrutna Jeanne d'Arc i kuler Sai Baba.

Polako si mi se približavala, mjerkala me
kao tihog filigranara planeta i sunaca,
okruženog kartama, kutomjerima i daljinom,
prihvaćala kao nekoga tko je mogao biti
Galileo Galilei ili Hieronymus Bosch.
 
Naučit ću umrijeti, umrijet ćemo skupa,
kao po naredbi ući ćemo u more
i vrtjeti se u krug, tonuti, moliti,  
sanjati pod vodom, slušati jedno drugo,
šutjeti jedno za drugo, mrziti se
zbog dubine koja će nas izobličiti.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007

PASSAGE TOWARDS YOU

angleščina

"I will learn to live, we will live together",
we kept repeating inside each for himself.  
We knew that was the case although we did not look at each other.
Then, as if upon an order, we entered the sea
up to our shoulders and began kissing it
all around ourselves, around the world.

I journeyed slowly towards you
watching you as a beautiful timid village woman
in a dress made by Lyon tailors, like the queen of India,
as I listened to cruel Jeanne d'Arc and the cool Sai Baba
speaking out of you.

You approached me slowly, eying me
as a quiet filigree maker of planets and suns,
surrounded with maps, rectangles and distance,
accepting me as someone who might have been
Galileo Galilei or Hieronymus Bosch.

I will learn to die, we will die together.
As if upon an order we shall enter the sea.
Inside we shall reel and drown and pray
and dream under the water, listening to each other,
keeping silent for each other, hating each other
because of that depth that will disfigure us.

Translated by Damir Šodan

LIMB

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

Oko nogu ti lete ptice i ti ih brojiš
za vječnost, a ja ne znam jesi li gore
ili dolje i zoveš li me, zavodiš opet
grudnjakom od bodljikave žice.
Nema sumnje, bez ičega svetog u blizini  
tvoj hod je savršen jer ne dolaziš nikamo.

Moj su novi vid kugle zagonetki,
u njima roje se urušeni dani,
crni psi, svijećnjaci i psalmi.
Bez prestanka ponavljam:
“Drugo ime mi je Limb,
drugo ime mi je Limb...”

Oko glave ti lete riječi, pjesme
i ja ih čitam u jednoličnom tonu,
s povezom na očima od bodljikave žice:
“Ljubičasto je vražja boja
i Bog je olovo i med,
a ja tvoja luda imenjakinja.
Ostaješ moj ranjivi jazz.
Na drugoj strani nevremena”.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007

LIMBO

angleščina

Birds fly around your legs and you count them
for eternity, but I can't figure out if you are above
or below, if you're calling me or not, or if you're just
seducing me with that barbed wire bra.
Positively, with nothing sacred in the vicinity
your walk is perfect because it's void of course.  

My new eyesight is the balls of riddles.
Therein swarm decrepit days,
black dogs, candelabras and psalms.
While I am repeating incessantly:
"My other name is Limbo,
my other name is Limbo..."

Words and poems circle around your head.
I read them in a monotonous voice.
With eyes blindfolded by barbed wire:
"Violet is the devil's colour.  
God is all honey and lead
and I am your mad namesake.
You remain my vulnerable jazz.
On the other side of the storm." 

Translated by Damir Šodan

Sarajevo

hrvaščina | Ivan Herceg

Miljacka je rijeka za koju kažu da postoji,
a ja je u daljini samo naslućujem.
Ti si stvarna i u noći tečeš tako brzo.
Kosa ti je crna, marama nevidljiva
i netko te čvrsto drži za ruku.
Gledaš me dugo i prodorno jer znaš
da treba zapamtiti tako mnogo.

U ovom smo gradu jednako daleko
jedno od drugoga kao i od Perzije i Europe,
jednako daleko od svih mrtvih i svih živih.

Volio bih ti nježno gasiti cigarete na rukama.
Da za me glumiš Satana na pozornici
nekog isluženog doma kulture.
Tako bismo se riješili jedne linije života,
jedne sudbine, jedne linije ljubavi…
Ostale bi još samo one na mojim dlanovima.

Koliko je grobalja u Sarajevu,
a koliko na cijelom svijetu?
Pita li se itko.

Nitko. Jer svi kradu istinu.
Zato te sada, miraždžijko, molim
da mi zadnjim snagama odsiječeš ruke.

© Ivan Herceg
from: Nepravilnosti
V.B.Z. Zagreb, 2007

Sarajevo

angleščina

They say that the Miljacka river does exist,
but I can only sense it in the distance.
You, on the other hand, who flow
through the night so swiftly, are real.  
Your hair is black, your scarf invisible,
your hand firmly held by someone.
You're giving me that long piercing look
knowing there's so much that needs to be remembered.

In this city we are equally distant
from each other; halfway between Persia and Europe;
equally distant from all living and all dead.

I wish I could gently put out cigarettes on your arms.
I wish you would act the part of Satan for me
on the stage of some abandoned cultural centre.
Thus we would get rid of one life line,
one destiny, one string of love...
so that only those lines on my palms would remain.

How many cemeteries are there in Sarajevo?
How many in the entire world?
Does anyone ask himself.

Nobody asks that. Everybody steals the truth.
So, I'm begging you, miraždžika,
to please cut off my hands
with that last atom of strength.

Translated by Damir Šodan

31. ROĐENDAN

hrvaščina | Dorta Jagić

ako tog jutra, pa makar ti bio 31. rođendan
nisi ustala iz torte
iz kreveta kao božje dijete
u kožuhu s izvezenim crvenim klizaljkama
brige ti se tokom dana
gomilaju kao krpice za naočale
nešto kao razlivena stara koža vuka skori se na torbici
na patent zatvaraču hlača
hvata se po noktima, mobitelu, novčaniku
i ometa signale iz svemira
koje ti šalje uskrslo vrhovno biće
u takvim se danima prejedeš piletine za ručak
i sjedneš pisati prosječne kokošje pjesme
zbog rastuće napetosti u vratu
i vodostaja rijeke cetine
nazoveš urednika, sestričnu i preostalu živu baku
a zamusano se čudovište
šćućuri u maternici, tiho plače i pije crnu kavu
u sumrak zavija pod pazuhom
a navečer te raspori i napuni kamenjem
iako je ono to koje je mrtvo
i smiješno
sutradan lovci i geometri na prozoru mjerkaju
koliko ovoga puta brizi nije uspjelo
produžiti život slavljenici bar za jedan
krvav lakat

© Dorta Jagić
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

31st BIRTHDAY

angleščina

if that morning
even if it is your 31st birthday
you dont get out of a cake
or bed as a Gods child
wearing a leather waistcoat with embroidered red skates
your whole day is littered with worries,
as if with tissues for cleaning eyeglasses
and something like a spread out peace of well-worn wolf skin
hardens on your purse
and on the zipper of your trousers
catching your nails, your mobile phone and wallet
disturbing cosmic signals
sent to you by some ressurected supreme being
on days like that you stuff yourself with chicken for lunch
and sit down to write average chick poems
due to that growing tension in your neck
and the rising water level of Cetina River
then you call your editor, your cousin and your only living grandma
while the messy monster squirts inside
your womb crying quietly and sipping on black coffee
whining below your armpit at dusk
only to rip you open and fill you up with stones at night
even though it is him who is actually dead
and ridiculous
the next day hunters and surveyors ogle from window
now worry failed yet again
to extend the life of the birthday girl
by at least one more
bloody elbow.

Translated by Damir Šodan

VESLO JE PROŠLO KROZ VODU U KOVITU CRNIH LEDENIH IGLICA

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić

Ušao sam u sobu i našao te kako spavaš
tako nepomična da mi se učinilo kao da si mrtva.
Da živimo i dvjesto godina uvijek bi ostalo stvari
koje nismo stigli reći jedno drugom.

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

AN OAR WENT THROUGH WATER IN A WHIRL OF BLACK ICY NEEDLES

angleščina

I entered the room and found you asleep, so still
I thought you were dead.
There would still be things we could say to each other
Even if we lived two hundred years.

Translated by Damir Šodan

SVETICE IZ NIČIJEG KALENDARA

hrvaščina | Dorta Jagić

kako na nebu tako i na zemlji
kad namaže usne uljem
i izuje se kao gazivoda
uđe u rijeku i skoči uvis svakodnevno
izgovoriti uživo
dokumentarac o nezamislivom čudu
najprije ona pa
mali vepar koji čeka da se rodi ispod kamena
dozvan

© Dorta Jagić
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

A LADY SAINT FROM NOBODY CALENDAR

angleščina

as in Heaven, so on Earth
when she rubs her lips with oil
she grows big and takes off her shoes
like a water-walker
wading into the river
to jump from joy
every single day
for being able to speak out
the unsurpassable inconceivable wonder
first she
than that little wild boar
waiting under a stone
to be summoned
into existence

Translated by. Damir Šodan

RANJENIK ISKUŠAVA BOGA

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić

lutao sam šumom neprijateljskog kraljevstva
i naletio na žicu skrivenu u travi
pješadijska rasprskavajuća odskočna mina PROM2
u djeliću sekunde pred eksploziju
očekivao sam od Boga da me zaobiđe ta čaša
kada me detonacija izbacila u zrak vidio sam komade
željeza komade moje odore komade mog mesa kako hvataju
orbitu / pijesak zvijezde porculan četiri kuta vjetra tartan
žilete led / Josepha Conrada kako prosi Freyu djevojku sa
Sedam Otoka / moje neprijatelje mačke kako kradu kisik
planete i ruju po smeću / sve svjetionike u plamenu od
Novih Hebrida do Obale Papra / predsjednika Zimbabwea
Canaana Bananu
kako sluša njemački radio / tisuću prepariranih ribljih glava
koje prorokuju stranim jezicima / Amadeusa Mozarta kako
slaže aviončiće od novina –
nikada nisam volio Mozarta i to me bacilo dolje na zemlju
a zbor bečkih dječaka je zapjevao:
“vrč ide na vodu dok se ne razbije
vrč ide na vodu dok se ne razbije”

Bože, daj da me zaobiđe ta čaša molio sam
u bolničkim kolima
daj da živim još malo bar kojih 100 godina
ne želim umrijeti sada kada je došlo naše vrijeme
htio sam da moja odlikovanja blistaju poput petrolejskih
platformi koje osvjetljavaju noćne letove preko Atlantika
i da moja karizma veterana bude električna
pusti da mi limuzina klizi kroz narod kao što je Moby Dick
klizio pred očima bespomoćnog kapetana Ahaba
nikada nisam rekao da ne želim prodati dušu
samo sam licitirao cijenu
daj da budem pozvan na prijam kod predsjednika
toliko je jela koja nisam probao
toliko ima ljudi na zemlji čiju sudbinu nisam
uzeo u svoje ruke
želim otimati i držati lekcije pokradenima
želim lagati i smijati se prevarenima
želim svoje mjesto u arci kako bih mogao
gledati poplavu sa koktelom u ruci
jer bolje je podmetati požare nego biti spaljen
bolje je ponižavati nego biti ponižen
zato stavimo karte na stol – život je samo jedan

daj mi sto kurvi ljudožderki sa Bornea
daj mi da se kupam u pročišćujućim vodama mladosti
daj mi snagu da zauvijek trajem poput nevidljivog
otrova u krvnim žilama ljudi
daj mi neke njihove dijelove kičme ruke oči mozgove srca
bubrege
moje su ruke kipara žedne rada
– osmijehnut ću vam se, zelena Hrvatska polja,
osmijehom žeteoca

a pred vratima bolnice mačke ruju po smeću
skovale su zavjeru da ukradu sav kisik planete
željezni utori na fasadi su prazni
tu su 50 godina visjele tri zastave
jedna za proždrljivost druga za pohlepu
treća za kukavnost
umjesto njih digli smo našu zastavu od tri boje
crvenu za krv Kristovu mineralnu
krv naših poginulih zaštićenu podzemnu krv koja kipi
bijelu za nadu da se borimo za bolju civilizaciju
plavu za drsku pustolovinu, prijateljstvo čvrsto poput
onih prekomorskih telegrafskih kablova na koje
ponekad naiđu ribari kada im mreže zalutaju
dosta duboko
ali mačke su došle noću i izvele podli trik
crvena boja opet stoji za proždrljivost bijela za
pohlepu plava za kukavnost

zato, prijatelji, jedno je izvjesno,
i na vratima drugog svijeta one su čuvari
te iste mačke, lukave mačke koje se ponekad
preoblače u političare, mačke koje i dalje
kopaju po smeću i kuju zavjeru da ukradu
kisik planete

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

THE WOUNDED MAN IS TEMPTING GOD

angleščina

I wandered around the forest of the enemy kingdom
and stumbled upon a piece of wire hidden in the grass
it was a buried PROM2 tripwire-activated
bounding anti-personnel mine
and in the split second before the explosion
I wanted God to make that cup pass me by
but when the detonation threw me in into the air I saw pieces
of iron, pieces of my uniform, pieces of my flesh whirling
in orbit / sand stars porcelain four winds tartan
razors ice / Joseph Conrad proposing to Freya the girl from
the Seven Islands / my enemies cats stealing the planet oxygen
digging through garbage / all lighthouses ablaze all the way
from the New Hebrides to the Pepper Coast / the President of Zimbabwe
Canaan Banana listening to the German radio / thousands of mumified fish heads
prophesying in alien tongues / Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
making airplanes out of a piece of a newspaper -
I never liked Mozart and that's what threw me down on the ground
while the Vienna boy's Choir sang:
"a jug goes to the water until it breaks
a jug goes to the water until it breaks"



God let that cup pass me by I thought there in the ambulance
let me live for a little bit longer at least for another 100 years
I don't want to die now that our time has come
I wanted my medals to shine like oil platforms
lighting up the night flights over the Atlantic
and my veteran's charisma to become electric
let my limousine slide through the crowd like Moby Dick
slid before the eyes of helpless captain Ahab
I never said I did not want to sell my soul
I was only negotiating the price
let me be invited at the presidential party
ther are so many dishes I never tasted
there are so many people on this Earth whose destiny
I never took in my hands


I want to rob and preach to the robbed ones
I want to lie and laugh at the deceived ones
I want my place in the Ark so I can
watch the flood with the cocktail glass in my hands
since it is better to set fires than to be burned
it's better to humiliate than to be humiliated
so let's lay all the cards on the table - we have but one life
give me a hundred cannibal whores from Borneo
let me recover myself in the purifying fountains of youth
give me power to last forever like the invisible poison
in the veins of all humans


give me parts of their spines hands eyes brains hearts kidneys
my hands are the hands of the sculptor thirsty for a work
- I'll smile at you, the green pastures of Croatia
with a smile of a harvester


in front of the hospital alley cats rummage through garbage
they have conspired to steal the oxygen of the entire planet
the iron holders on the facade are empty
fifthy years ago three flags hung there
one for the gluttony another one for greed
and the third one for misery
instead of them we hoisted up our tricolor
the red is for the Christ's mineral blood
the blood of our dead the guardian subterranean blood boiling
the white is for hope that we are fighting for a better civilization
the blue one is for our blazen adventure, for frendship firm as those
overseas telegraph cables that fishermen sometimes find
when their nets get lost somewhere
really deep
but the cats came overnight and did their dirty trick
so the red stands for gluttony once again
the white for greed
and the blue for misery


so, dear friends, one thing is certain:
those very cats are the guardians of that other world as well
these cunning cats that sometimes transform into politicians
the cats that are still rummaging through garbage
conspiring to steal the oxyge

Translated by Damir Šodan

NAŠLI SMO SE OPET SVI ZAJEDNO

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić


             Iz duhana, iz kave, iz vina
             pojavljuju se u rubu noći
             kao oni glasovi koje čuješ pjevati negdje
             daleko niz ulicu, koju pjesmu,
             ne možeš razaznati

             Julio Cortazar “Los amigos”


u snu mi je došlo da smo se našli opet svi
zajedno za dugačkim drvenim stolom postavljenim negdje
u pustoši u planini
za bijelim drvenim stolom sa kariranim stolnjakom crvenih šara
oko nas visoravan, visoka trava. sjedimo tihi

koncentrirani na prozirne limunove cvjetove
koji lebde muklim svibanjskim nebom
padaju
u čaše iz kojih pijemo hvataju se za blato naših uniformi i klize
niz led našeg oružja nestaju u travi
oštrih sunčevih bridova prepletenoj oko naših čizama starih
nekoliko tisuća godina. neki od nas
piju čisto ja miješam vino sa radenskom nabijenom mineralima
kvarcnim kristalima hučećim vodopadima

neki u vino dolijevaju običnu vodu na stolu je vrč koji se puni
na bunaru vodom bistrom poput
zraka koji nas okružuje kroz čiju prazninu vidim raspukline
u snjegovima
koji se tope na najudaljenijim vrhovima crnih staklenih
planina. gledajući odavde
sasvim je očito da je zemlja okrugla. slani vjetar
koji se noću digao s mora šulja se plošno površinama
nevidljivim labirintima
s namjerom da iznenadi njemačkog ovčara
graničara neprijateljske patrole zaspalog u sjeni
jedinog drva na visoravni
(nikome od nas nije previše stalo do pasa)

palim cigaretu šibicu bacam u travu duhan mi ulazi u pluća
snagom koja muti vid.

sjedimo bez riječi  pod nogama nam negdje
duboko pod zemljom
ključa lava budućih vulkana – tlo se rodilo
nakon što se zarobljeno snijegom prekriveno cijele zime
prevrtalo crpilo iz mrtvih organizama
obnavljalo probijalo korijenje – zgrušavalo i širilo,
stvaralo izdanke gorkih boja.

sjedimo spokojno gledajući kako rastu plodovi planinskog limuna.
hrana na stolu je skromna kao što je uvijek bila:
nekoliko kruhova, trideset tvrdokuhanih jaja. tu su i mape
(zemljopisne karte nekih drugih područja) plus sedam

motorolinih radio uređaja pet-šest prvih zavoja tri noćna
ic vizira dva dnevna dalekozora + sedam vojnih busola.

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

WE HAVE ALL GATHERED TOGETHER AGAIN

angleščina

Out of tobbaco, coffee, wine,
              they appear at the edge of night
              like those voices you hear singing
              somewhere far down the street,
              but you cannot recognize the song.

               Julio Cortazar “Los Amigos”

it came to me in a a dream that we have all gathered together again
at the long wooden table set up somewhere
in the middle of nowhere in the mountains
at the white wooden table covered with a chequered table-cloth
with red embroideres
we are sitting silent on a plateau surrounded with tall vegetation

focusing on the transparent lemon blossoms
floating around in the dreary May sky and
falling down
into our glasses and sticking onto the mud on our uniforms sliding
down the frozen barrels of our rifles dissapearing in the grass
among it’s shiny sharp blades wrapping around our boots
several thousand years old. some of us
drink pure wine while I drink it mixed
with bubbling water pregnant with minerals
those quartz crystals of roaring waterfalls
some pour ordinary water into wine; there is a jug on the table
that we fill at the well brimming with water as crystal
as the air around us so vacant that through it I can see the cracks
in the snow
melting as the furthest of those glassy blak mountain tops.
from here it is

perfectly clear that the Earth is round. the salty wind
that rose from the sea overnight tiptoes across its flat surface
passing through invisible labyrinths
in an attempt to surprise the German shepherd
asleep in the shadow of the only tree that grows on this plain
(none of us is worried too much about the enemy dogs.)

I light up a cigarette and throw the match into the grass filling my lungs with smoke
so powerful that it blurs my eyesight.

we’re sitting silent sensing the lava of future volcanoes churning
somewhere deep down bellow our feet
- the soil is born again having spent the entire winter locked under the snow
rolling in its sleep and sucking on dead organisms
renewing itself and sprouting roots – hardening and widening,
bearing bitter, coloured sprouts.

we sit there placidly watching the fruits of the mountain lemon tree ripening.
the food on the table is modest as it always has been:
a few loaves of bread, thirty hard boiled eggs. there are the maps
(maps of some other far regions) plus seven

Motorola radios and five to six bandages, three infra red night visors, two regular
                                                                                                      binoculars
for daily observation + seven military compasses who point nowhere safe.

Translated by Damir Šodan

NAKON ŠTO SAM SPUSTIO TELEFON

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić

vidim te: otvaraš dvostruka vrata
koja vode na terasu i sjediš
u stolici okrenuta borovima
djeca slažu tvrđavu od kocki
na četvrtini deke
kling, dižeš slušalicu s kavom

skoro je noć: zvijezde su vani
dječak ti trči u krilo i govori
“volio bih vidjeti što ima tamo gore”
zajedno čekate da mu se smiri srce
puhnuo je vjetar i misliš o džemperu
taktak, muhe se zabijaju u lampu

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

HAVING PUT DOWN THE RECEIVER

angleščina

I see you: opening a double doors to the patio
and sitting into the deck chair
facing the pine trees
the children are building a Lego tower
on a quarter of a blanket
Cling!- you raise your coffee cup

it's almost night: the stars are out.
our boy runs into your lap saying:
“I’d love to see what’s up there.”
you wait together until his heart calms down.
a gust of wind, you thinking of a sweater
Tick-tick: flies hit the lampshade

Translated by Damir Šodan

MEDENI MJESEC

hrvaščina | Dorta Jagić

nedjeljom navečer poslije bogoslužja
u maglovitom tramvaju uvijek mogu početi stvaranje
iz ničega.
nema čak ni gradonačelnika, nema ni kanarinca.
nema ni ostavljenoga ljubavnog pisma
kontrolorki karata u štanc-aparatu
nema suhog ručnika, paste za roze cipele,
ženskog zahoda.
nema ni jedne kartonske kutije s ostavljenom
djevojčicom i porukom.
po turobnoj golotinji čeških prozora i stolica
očito je da kingovi jedači vremena
prvo u tramvaju sat pomaknu na zimsko vrijeme.
mogla bih plakati nad odbačenom kriškom kruha
i čašom crnog vina na stepenici
kraj prednjih vrata.
ne da mi se jer nema ni glazbe ni grijanja,
ni onog scenarista s htv-a
koji ne vjeruje da je čovjek bio na mjesecu.
nema ni lažnih magistara s platfusom
ni zaostalih mina ispod sjedala.
u hladnoj dvanaestici od nikoga gledana
od nikoga smetana
vučem kabel skroz od Boga do trajnoga dragoga
do susjeda muža koji se zove skoro kao ja.
želim ga napokon dovući i posjesti, bar do
posljednje stanice.
znam samo da je ciganski lijep i
da se kreće pomoću kistova.
ali na pustim stolicama nema nikoga
tko bi mu pročitao prava i stavio lisice
u slučaju da uđe na sljedećoj stanici.
a ako me kao i uvijek drsko upita je si li se udala
kud ću sa svim tim harmonikama i svadbenim posuđem
na medeni mjesec
još prije kvaternikovog trga

© Dorta Jagić
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

HONEYMOON ON A TRAM

angleščina

On Sunday nights after the service
on a foggy tram I can always begin to create
from nothing.
not even a mayor is here, or a canary.
there is no love letter that
the female ticket inspectors have left on the ticket machine
no dry towel, not pink-shoe polish,
no ladies' room.
not a single cardboard box with an abandoned
little girl and a note.
by the look of the pathetic bareness of Czech windows and seats
it is obvious that the first thing that king's time eaters
do on a tram is shift their clocks to winter time.
I could cry over a slice of bread that somebody has thrown away
and a glass of red wine on a stair
by the front door.
I do not feel like it because there is no music or heating,
or that screenwriter from HTV
who does not believe that man went to the moon.
not fake M.A.'s with flat feet
or leftover mines under the seats.
on a cold tram number twelve seen or bothered
by nobody
I am dragging a cable all the way from God to my permanent dear
to the neighbour husband called almost like me.
I wish I could finally drag him over here and sit him down,
at least to the last stop.
all I know is that he is as handsome as a Gypsy and
that he uses paintbrushes to move.
but there is nobody on the deserted seats
to read him his rights and handcuff him
in case he comes in at the next stop.
and if he happens to ask me the same cheeky question Are you married
how am I supposed to go on my honeymoon
with all these accordions and wedding dishes
before the Kvatrenik square stop

Translated by Damir Šodan

LIJEPO JE

hrvaščina | Marko Pogačar

Lijepo je disati proljetni zrak na Soči
i pri tom ne biti mamuran.
upijati kapljice s izvora i onda u njima teći.
lijepo je dobro se osjećati. imati snage
za bilo kakav oblik vjere koja ne naudi drugome,
dakle, ne imati.
također je lijepo živjeti u Bosutskoj
i vjerovati da ona postoji.
svakog jutra ući u trgovinu i kupiti kruh, jesti ga
nad novinama koje si našao u pošti.
lijepo je kad te pošta pronalazi i kad ti možeš pronaći poštu.
pronalaženje je, općenito, lijepo.
pronaći poznato lice kada prolaziš pored stadiona
ili lošeg sveučilišta. podsmijeh je lijep.
lijepo je pronaći točku.
nož za mazanje koji si odavno izgubio i sad je svilen.
bataljun paradnih anđela spušta željezne uši
i to već graniči sa strašnim. sve graniči sa strašnim,
i to je također lijepo.
odlijepiti žvakaću s đona lagane cipele, zlo koje ti
poremeti ravnotežu i objasni gravitaciju.
Newton je lijep. Brodski je lijep.
barikade su srce umjetnosti i to je nepotkupivo.
kad svira savršen punk kad se ugleda Anna Karina kad se
pomrači mjesec kad se podignu zastave kad se
razdijeli mrtvo more. šetati je lijepo. utopiti se.
što je za mene lijepo za druge je opasno.
teško disati jer je zrak zasićen borovima. govoriti hrvatski.
klizati. također vrijedi i obrnuto.
lijepi su prozori koje možeš otvoriti
i kroz njih dotaknuti oblake. Mosor je lijep.
lijepo je hodati, penjati se i vjerovati u vrh, znati
koje je godine završio rat kada je dan oslobođenja poštovati
dan žena majčin dan voljeti ljubičice,
skidati se. padati. biti siguran da padaš, a onda se prenuti.  
buditi se. rezati. ispucavati nepotrebno duge rafale tvog imena,
biti sustavno tragičan.

© Marko Pogačar
from: Poslanice običnim ljudima
Zagreb: Algoritam, 2007
Audio production: Literaturwerkstatt Berlin 2010

IT'S NICE

angleščina

It's nice to breathe spring air on the Soča River
without a hangover.
soaking up the drops from the spring and flowing inside them
is also nice.
feeling good is nice. having strength
for any form of faith harmless to others,
therefore not having it.
living in Bosutska Street is nice too,
as well as believing that it really exists.
entering the store every morning to buy bread
and then eating it over newspapers you've found in the post is nice.
it's nice when post finds you and when you can find the post.  
generally speaking finding something is nice.
finding a familiar face when you're passing by a stadium
or a bad university is nice. derision is nice.
finding a point is nice.  
the butter knife you lost a long time ago is still silky.  
the battalion of parade angels lowers their iron ears
and that already verges on horrible. everything already verges on horrible.
however, that's also nice.
peeling off a coagulated piece of chewing gum from the sole of a light leather shoe,
the evil that disturbs your inner balance
explaining the meaning of gravity.  
Newton is nice. Brodsky is nice.
barricades are the very heart of art and that's incorruptible.
hearing perfect punk, seeing Anna Karina
eclipsing the Moon hoisting up banners
parting the Dead Sea. walking is nice. drowning too.
what is nice for me is dangerous for others.  
like breathing heavily because the air is thick with the smell of pine trees.
or speaking Croatian. or skating. vice versa is also true.
windows that can be opened to allow you to touch clouds are nice.
Mount Mosor is nice.
walking is nice, climbing up and believing in the summit, knowing
the year when the war ended and the date of the Liberation Day
observing Women's Day and Mother's Day and loving violets
taking one's clothes off. falling. being sure that you're falling and then jerk suddenly,
waking up. cutting things up. shooting out unnecessarily long bursts of your name,
while being systematically tragic.

Translated by Damir Šodan

KARDINAL KUHARIĆ NA TELEFONU 9827

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić

Badnja večer je
i banda pijanaca degustira šipone i
silvance u ilegalnoj vinariji na groblju
pune se plastične i staklene flaše svih dimenzija
i auti se zalijeću preko rubova ulica
večeras kada šume staklene kosti staraca
u crkvi je propuh jer netko je ostavio
vrata otvorena
babe se opravdano ljute
broji se tko je zapalio više lampica
i ja bih isto da sam star
palio lampice i pravio se
lud
govori se da je ta predblagdanska
potrošačka groznica
uvezena s materijalističkog zapada
i da se gubi smisao
onog svetog dana kada se riječ utjelovila
a meni se čini da je najgore prošla perad
koja je redom ostala bez glava
prije šest godina hranili su nas
pečenim volovima
a sada nam spremaju masovni spektakl
s besplatnim kobasicama i
estradnim zvijezdama
i Tito nas je hranio
svinjskom glavom koju je
ukrao s tavana
i od toga nas je dugo
bolio trbuh
počinje padati snijeg i ja sam isto
pijan kao i drugi čestiti
Hrvati
naš put u budućnost je
nacionalhumanizam
mrtva
priroda sa svinjskom glavom
faraon
duboko diše u spokoju
svoje zimske palače
razmatra možda opet neku osvetu
a kardinal Kuharić je na telefonu 9827
samo snimljena božićna poruka –
ne odgovara na pitanja.

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

CARDINAL KUHARIĆ AT 9827

angleščina

It’s Christmas Eve
and a gang of drunks is tasting bottles of Šipon
and Silvanac at the illegal winery at the cemetery
filling plastic and glass flasks of all sizes
Cars rush over the edges of pavements
Tonight when glassy bones of old men are humming
there’s a draft in the church as someone left
the door open
Grannies are protesting angrily and justifiably so
counting who lit up more of those tiny candles
I would be also lighting tiny candles
and playing dumb
if I were old
They say this pre-holiday shopping frenzy
has been imported from the materialistic West
and that gradually every sense has been lost
of that sacred day when the Word became flesh
but if you ask me it is the poultry that fared the worst
having been decapitated
each and every one of them
Six years ago they fed us ox roast
and now they're staging mass spectacles for us
with free sausages
and cheap pop stars
Tito fed us a pig’s head
that he stole from the attic
and our stomachs ached afterwards
for decades on end
Now it’s starting to snow and I am also drunk
like the other honest
Croats
Our path to the future is called
national-humanism
— still life
with a pig’s head
— while the Pharaoh
breathes deeply
tucked inside his winter palace
perhaps contemplating another revenge
while Cardinal Kuharić is at tel: 9872
— just a recorded Christmas message —
giving no answers.  


(1997.)

Translated by Damir Šodan

APOKRIFI O TITU

hrvaščina | Tomica Bajsić

Tito glođe svinjsku glavu na tavanu
jednim okom vreba ulicu da ga roditelji ne uhvate
baš me briga / misli / pobjeći ću biciklom

Tito ilegalno u bečkom tramvaju
obukao je svoje najbolje sivo odijelo
misli: što sam ja gori od tih studenata?

Tito je Walter / John Smith / Fantomas / Caspar
Hauser / Howard Hughes / Tito je alias / alias je Tito
koliko imam imena / divi se Tito sam sebi

Tito jaši Romanijom
iza njega starina Nazor posrće kroz snijeg
Vladimire Vladimire / misli Tito dobrohotno

Tito maše okupljenoj djeci iz Mercedesa
crvene marame im vezane kao omčice oko vrata / i sunce
će se jednom ugasiti / misli Tito filozofski

Tito je elegantan u smrti
spisak neutješnih po abecednom redu:
akrobati u cirkusu / činovnici / djelatnici
Instituta za historiju radničkog pokreta /
engleska kraljica / filmski radnici / hipiji /
Ilich Ramirez Sanchez a.k.a. Carlos / krojači /
kubanska industrija cigara / lijepe žene /
ljudi koji nose brkove / medvjedi nosorozi lavovi /
nastavnici u osnovnim školama / nogometaši /
oficiri iz vatrogasnih domova / odlični učenici /
operni pjevači / povijesne ličnosti / predsjednici

ribičkih društava / prodavač kukuruza na radnom
mjestu br. 7 / punkeri / rezervni milicioneri /
Sai Baba / šahisti / šefovi kućnih savjeta /
umirovljeni stariji vodnici / zeleni
Tito se opet pojavio u balonu iznad istočne Afrike
spušta dalekozor na krdo zebri
prugasti đavli / misli Tito / svi su isti

Tito kaže NE Staljinu a Staljin
njemu baš me briga / ko te jebe
umiješ li računati?
imam ih dvadesetjednu tisuću osamstopedesetšest
umrvljenih u lišće Katynske šume / imam ih tristo tisuća
zakopanih krišom
imam ih deset milijuna likvidiranih likvidacijama
imam sve njihove papire / fotografije njihove djece / pisma puna
neopravdanog optimizma / njihove olovke / sitan novac
imam ih sve čitko provedene kroz knjige

© Tomica Bajsić
from: Južni križ
Goranovo proljeće, 1998
Audio production: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

TITO APOCRYPHA

angleščina

Tito gnaws a pig's head in the attic
eyeing the street in fear that his parents might catch him
I don't give a damn / he thinks / I'll escape on my bicycle

Tito riding a tram in Vienna under cover
wearing his best grey suit thinking:
why should I be any worse than those students?

don't marry her
marry me

Tito riding over Mt Romanija
followed by old Nazor stumbling through the snow
Vladimir Vladimir / thinks Tito benevolently


Tito waving at the rows of kids from his Mercedes
red bandannas are tied around their necks like nooses / the Sun
will once grow dark / ponders Tito philosophically

Tito is elegant even in death
here are the mourners listed alphabetically:

bears rhinos lions / chess players
cineastes / circus acrobats / clerks
corn seller at work station no 7
Cuban cigar industry / employees of the Institute for the History
of the Working Class Movement / the English Queen
Greenpeace activists / heads of the tenant's councils
historic figures / hippies / honour students
Ilich Ramirez Sanchez a.k.a. "Carlos" / men with moustaches
officers from firemen's clubs / opera singers
presidents of fishermen's societies / pretty women
primary school teachers / punks / reserve policemen
retired warrant officers / Sai Baba
soccer players / tailors

Tito showed up again in a balloon above eastern Africa
pointing his binoculars at a herd of zebras
those devils with stripes / thinks Tito to himself / they are all the same

don't marry her
marry me

Tito says NO to Stalin and Stalin
responds I don't care anymore / who gives a fuck
do you know how to calculate?
I have twenty one thousand eight hundred and fifty six of them
ground into the leaves of the Katyn forest / I have three hundred thousand
secretly burried ones
I have ten million of those liquidated in liquidations
I have all of their IDs / the photographs of their children / the letters
filled with unwarranted optimism / their pencils / small change
I've got them all neatly placed on file

Translated by Damir Šodan