Dorta Jagić

hrvaščina

Damir Šodan

angleščina

MEDENI MJESEC

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
Avdio produkcija: Tomislav Krevzelj, Udruga radio mreza 2011

HONEYMOON ON A TRAM

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