Enes Halilović

ENES HALILOVIĆ (Novi Pazar, Srbija, 1977)

poezija / poetry:

Srednje slovo (UPS, Novi Pazar, 1995)

Bludni parip (Agena, Beograd, 2000)

Listovi na vodi – prvo izdanje (Prosveta, Beograd, 2007)

                           drugo izdanje (BKG, Beograd, 2008)

Pesme iz bolesti i zdravlja (Konras, Beograd, 2011)

Zid (Albatros Plus, Beograd, 2014)

priče / stories:

Potomci odbijenih prosaca (Rad, Beograd, 2004)

Kapilarne pojave (Treći Trg, Beograd, 2006)

drame / plays:

In vivo (Prosveta, Beograd, 2004)

Kemet (Narodna Biblioteka “Stefan Prvovenčani”, Kraljevo, 2010)

romani / novels:

Ep o vodi (Albatros Plus, Beograd, 2012)

Ako dugo gledaš u ponor (Albatros Plus, Beograd, 2016)

iz knjige / from the book:

Enes Halilović: Leaves On Water (dvojezično izdanje / bilingual edition, Treći Trg, 2009)

prevela / translated by: Danijela Jovanović

PRELUDIJUM

Vidio sam dojilju koja budi dijete da ga nahrani.

Rekoh, da je gladno ne bi spalo.

A ona veli,

Spi, ali gladno je,

Jer meni su nadošle grudi.

Ni ti koji uzimaš ove stihove

Nisi probuđen svojom voljom.

Niti ja pišem radi sebe.

A PRELUDE

I saw a nurse waking up a child to feed it.

I said, if it were hungry it wouldn’t be asleep.

And she said,

It sleeps but it’s hungry,

Because my breasts became swollen.

Neither you who take in those lyrics,

Were awakened by your will.

Neither I wrote for my sake only.

ONI KOJI UMIRU

Taj bludni, taj ludi Neron 
Iz hramova uzimao bogove od zlata,
Pa ih pretapao. Trebalo mu zlato.

Omer el-Faruk sjećao se doba kad je u zabludi bio,
I smijao se ovome:
Do podne je obožavao boga napravljenog od hurmi -
Popodne bi ga, gladan, pojeo.

Zato u mojoj biblioteci Borhes kaže:
Neka je slava Onome koji ne umire.

Those Who Die

That lustful, that crazy Nero

From temples he took gods made of gold,

And then he melted them away. He was in need for gold.

Omer El-Farouk remembered the time when he was in error,

And laughed at this:

Until noon, he worshipped God made of dates –

In the afternoon, hungry, he would eat Him.

That is why in my library Borges says:

Blessed be the One who does not die.

U POTRAZI ZA STILOM

Ti nemaš odluku ni u sopstvenom palcu.
Zato baci novčić
(niz vrijeme, 
u prostor).

On će lako pročitati ishod na nebu
I čekaće ga zemlja
Koja spokojno prihvata odredbu.

Onaj ko dobije pismo
Izgubio je glavu.

In Search of a Style

You don’t have a decision even in you own thumb,

So, toss the coin

(through time, in space)

He will easily read the outcome on the sky

And the earth which placidly accept the decree

will be waiting for him.

The one who gets tails

Looses the head.

PARIS

Na stijeni, dahom Sredozemlja okovan, sebi sliči

na sina Japetovog. Zagledan u vale, Paris

kazuje:

Ja sada želim samo stoku da čuvam.

Ne, nikada više jabukom ljepotu da vagam. Nikada,

Jer kad zlatnu voćku držah u ruci

( Zalud mi riječi Afrodite)

Ne slutih vojske što kreću na Troju,

Ne slutih srdžbu Here i Atene.

I znam. Vi nikada niste ni postojale, nikada ni na ovom

Ni na onom svijetu.

Osvanule ste u glavi pjesnika, vi ste buncanje obično.

I ja sada želim samo stoku da čuvam

I da se od buncanja skrijem.

O, sakloni me

Zmija i vrabaca, i vjetra oko Troje,

I Kalhanta koji misteriju smišlja, ne radi Grka

No radi sebe i trpeze carske,

Sakloni me

Ljudi što iz jednog trbuha donose pobjedu i poraz

Pa najzad i tog konja koji nevidljive uzde nosi.

PARIS

On the rock, chained by the Mediteranean breath, he looks to himself

Like a son of Japheth. Peering at the waves, Paris

Is saying:

From now on I only want cattle to tend.

No, never again beauty with apple to weight. Never,

Because when golden fruit I had in my hand

(Aphrodite’s words were in vain)

I did not foresee armies set out for Troy,

I did not foresee the wrath of Hera and Athena.

And I know. You never existed, not on this,

Nor on the other world.

You dawned in a poet’s head, you are just a raving.

And now I only want cattle to tend.

And to shroud from ravings.

Oh, protect me

From snakes and sparrows, and wind around Troy,

And Calchas who plots a mystery, not for the Greeks sake

But for his own and an emperor’s feast,

Protect me

From the people who bring victory and defeat in one belly

And lastly from that horse that wears an invisible curb.

O MASTEJU

                                   Danijeli Kambasković – Sawers

Znamo da je postojao nekad pisac Valgije Ruf,

Ali ništa mu od spisa nije došlo do nas.

Legenda jedna kazuje da je sin mu Mastej

Skočio u vodu da spasi

Listove koje vjetar odnese njegovom ocu.

I utopio se Mastej,

Pa istorija književnosti nema sad čime da vaga.

Da bar znamo kakav je čitalac bio sin mu Mastej,

Slutili bi kakve elegije

Zgubi Valgije Ruf.

ABOUT MYSTES

                                    to Danijela Kambasković – Sawers

We know that a writer Valgius Rufus once existed,

But none of his writings had reached us.

One legend says that son of his Mystes

Jumped into water to save

Leaves that wind took away from his father.

And Mystes drowned,

So the history of literature does not have with what to weight.

If we at least knew what kind of reader Mystes was,

We could foresee what kind of elegies

Valgius Rufus lost.

SLUČAJ

Pozajmih knjigu od njega
A na unutrašnjoj korici, na kraju knjige,
Otkrih pisca.

I on mi priznade da nikad nije objavio
I da piše samo na zadnjim koricama debelih knjiga.

Želi da ga nađe samo onaj ko ga ne traži.

I to u 1002. noći Šeherzade,
Ili na ušću Tihog Dona,
Ili tek na Itaki.

A Case

I borrowed a book from him

And on the back cover, at the end of the book

I discovered a writer.

And he confessed to me that he had never

Published anything

And that he wrote only at the end of the thick books.

He wants to be found only by the one who does not look for him.

In the 1002nd Scheherazade night,

Or on the estuary of the Quiet Don

Or on Ithaca. 

KARTAGINA

Bio sam u zemlji koja Hanibala rodi.

Spavao sam u hotelu čudnog imena, u Susu.

Pamtim, dva lifta na kraju hodnika,

Sjajan mehanizam to bijaše (kao istorija, kao život) -

Kad god jedan ode, drugi dođe.

I kad siđemo, neko se popne.

Sasvim jednostavno i veličanstveno.

KARTAGINA

Bio sam u zemlji koja Hanibala rodi.

Spavao sam u hotelu čudnog imena, u Susu.

Pamtim, dva lifta na kraju hodnika,

Sjajan mehanizam to bijaše (kao istorija, kao život) -

Kad god jedan ode, drugi dođe.

I kad siđemo, neko se popne.

Sasvim jednostavno i veličanstveno.

CARTHAGE

I was in a country which gave birth to Hannibal.

I slept in a hotel of a strange name, in Sousse.

I remember, two lifts at the end of the hall,

Great mechanism it was (like history, like life) –

When one goes up, the other comes down.

And when we come down, somebody else goes up.

Quite simple and magnificent.

PRVI I POSLJEDNJI

U vremenu kada je zemlja iscrtana granicama
koje njoj ništa ne znače,
neko je sreo čovjeka, na ulici,
i učinilo mu se da ga je već negdje, nekada sreo, ili snio,
ili taj viđeni liči na nekoga.

Ali je i taj sreo nekoga i pokušavao da se sjeti
Gdje ga je, kada ga je sreo ili snio, ili liči na nekoga.

I taj treći je sreo nekoga ko je vidio ili snio nekoga, 
ko možda liči na nekoga.

Opružen u prošlost
Ovaj broj je, ipak, konačan.
Jer postoji neko ko je vidio nekog ko mu je uzličio 
na zemlju.
Mora da je to bio Rumi, koji je pjevao:
A ja sam samo šaka zemlje kojoj se treba smilovati.

Mnogo je zemlje iza čela, mnogo je nas u zemlji.

U vremenu postoji 
Kazivanje u Koje nama nikakve sumnje.

Neko je sreo persijskog vladara
Imenom Kir koji je molio ljude da mu ne zavide na carstvu
Jer je on samo parče zemlje.

I tako dalje, neko liči na zemlju 
I sreće nekoga ko liči na zemlju.
I tako dalje i dalje
Ali i taj broj je konačan
Jer stiže do prvog čovjeka na zemlji.

Zato onaj kome nude slavu – traži ogledalo,
U njemu vidi sebe, 
Pa i Rumija i Kira,
I prve i posljednje.


The First and the Last

In a time when earth is lined with borders

which do not mean a thing to it,

someone met a man, on the street,

and it seemed to him that he already somewhere, sometime met him, or dreamed of him,

or that a man seen looks like someone.

But that man too met someone and tried to remember

Where and when he met or dreamed of him, or does he looks like someone.

And the third man met someone who saw or dreamed of someone,

who might look like someone.

Spread out in the past

This number is final though.

For there is someone who saw someone who looked like

earth.

That must have been Rumi, who sang:

And I am only a handful of earth to which we must have mercy.

There’s too much earth behind a forehead, there’s too many of us in the earth.

In a time there is a

Telling in which we do not doubt.

Someone met a Persian ruler

Named Cyrus who begged people not to be envious of his

kingdom

For it is only a patch of earth.

And so on, someone looks like earth

And meets someone that looks like earth.

And so on and on

But that number is final too

For it reaches to the first man on earth.

That is why the one who is offered fame – asks for a mirror,

In it he sees himself,

So as Rumi and Cyrus,

And the first and the last.

ZASTAJKIVANJE

Ja ti ne mogu reći brate ni prijatelju,

Jer ja nisam ono što moram da budem

Iako ponekad prospem niz vjetar glose

A prolazim ovuda, kao progonjena divljač,

Očajan, prolazim kud me noge nose,

Poljima i brdima.

A ti ćeš sigurno doći,

Kao što dobro znam,

Jer tebe nosi Riječ koja mora da se kaže

I odjekne među ljudima, medju krdima.

A ti ćeš sigurno poznati moje tragove

Po skokovima i zastajkivanju,

I, mada to ništa ne znači,

Ti ćeš se čuditi kud sam sve prolazio

I kakve sam vode pio, mutne i otrovne,

Nakon što sam čuo Riječ koja se mora čuti.

Iako ti si nošen, upitan i potvrđen kao onaj

Ko dolazi,

Ko nalazi,

I moje oznake sasvim su nepotrebne

Kao tuđ grob, ma gdje bio,

A moje stope jesu gonjene

I sramno je šta sam i što sam gazio ponekad

(Strašno i sramno).

Želim da znaš

Da ja sam samo onaj što prolazi kao progonjena divljač,

Ni vjetar što me gonio,

Ni vjetar što me češljao, ne nose miris moje kože,

I nisam kule zidao ni voćke sadio

Za tebe uglednika, koji sigurno dolaziš

Nošen

Riječju.

Kao da suvišni su za zemlju svi moji putevi,

Kao da zemlja ih nije tražila

Ni ubrzali joj nisu igru oko sunca, ni skrenuli je,

A ti ćeš sigurno doći

Korakom kojim treba da se dođe

I ugledati nerazumne.

Znam, tražićeš smisao u mome putovanju

I nemoj da me žališ niti braniš, i ne reci

Da nisam birao put -

Bijah saglasan s putem kojim sam hodio.

A ti ćeš sigurno doći.

I mada suvišne su moje riječi,

I mada pravi put ćeš ti sigurno naći,

I mada sve je moje suvišno

Za ono što je tebi suđeno,

Želim da znaš

(Jer poznaćeš mi korak kad sam zastao)

Jer poznaćeš mi slutnju tu gdje sam stajao -

Slomio sam grančicu

I dugo je uzalud žvakao.

Na mapi svih koraka

Gdje moje puteve nađeš

(Iako dobro ćeš znati da izlišne su moje riječi)

Želim samo da znaš

Tu gdje sam zastao

Treba da skreneš

Jer ja sam bio sam i očajan

I znadoh da korak mi je slabašan, i skretanje mi pogubno,

Niti sam čekao koga

Niti me neko čekao.

HINDERING

I can not tell you brother or friend,

Because I am not what I must be

Even though I sometimes spill my words down the wind

And I walk hereabout like the hunted quarry,

Desperate, I go through where my legs take me,

Through fields and hills.

And you will surely come,

As I know too well,

Because you are borne by the Word which has to be told

And to echo among people, among herds.

And you will surely recognize my footprints

By leaps and by hindering

And, even though that does not mean a thing,

You will be amazed where all I have been

And what waters did I drink, muddy and venomous,

After I heard the Word which had to be heard.

Even though you are borne, asked and approved as the one

Who comes,

Who finds,

And my markings are quite unnecessary,

Like someone else’s grave, wherever it might be,

And my steps are hunted,

And it is shameful what I am and what I stamped on sometimes

(Horrible and shameful).

I want you to know

That I am the one that pass by like the hunted quarry,

Not the wind that chased me,

Nor the wind that combed me, do not carry the smell of my skin,

And nor did I build tower, nor did I plant fruit trees

For notable you, who surely is coming

Borne by

The Word.

Like all my paths are excessive for earth,

Like the earth did not look for them

They did not quicken its dance around the Sun, nor did they sheered it,

And you will surely come

With a pace like it should be

And you will see the unreasonable.

I know, you will look for the meaning of my journey

And don’t pity me or defend me, and don’t say

That I did not choose my path –

I was in accordance with the path I trod.

And you will surely come.

And even though my words are needless,

And even though you will surely find the right path,

And even though all mine is needless

For what is destined for you,

I want you to know

(Because you will recognize my pace when I hindered)

Because you will recognize my presage where I stood –

I have broken a branch,

And gnawed it long in vain.

On the map of all paces

Where you will find my paths

(Even though you will know too well that my words are needless)

I want you to know

That where I stopped

You should sheer

Because I was alone and desperate

And I knew that my pace is weak, and that sheer is ill-fated for me

I did not wait for anybody

Nor someone waited for me.

NA VIJEST DA JE U BAGDADU UKRADEN NAJSTARIJI SRP

Sve je počelo na tom poluostrvu, i sve

Baš tamo mora da se okonča. Svi ljudi su od jedne zemlje

I od jednog čovjeka

Koji je prognan iz raja.

I vode iz oblaka i vode iz mora zapravo jedna su voda.

Zar vatra ima samo posestrimu?

I neka ostave u grobu tog Sumerca sa klinom,

Jer svi naši stihovi njegovi su sinovi.

I ostavite klinastog Hamurabija

Čiji 25.član Zakonika glasi:

Ako se u čijoj kući pojavi vatra i neko, ko dođe da gasi,

baci oko na svojinu gospodara kuće, svojinu gospodara kuće uzme,

da se baci u istu vatru.

Kažu za batinu da je iz raja izašla,

Ali će pakao da je sprži.

Ukraden je iz muzeja najstariji srp ovog svijeta,

A Babilon dolazi od akadske riječi Babilu

Što znači

Božja vrata.

Sa toga praga ko je ukrao

Nek proba u raj da se vrati.

Upon the News That the Oldest Sickle Was Stolen In Baghdad

Everything started on that peninsula, and everything

Has to end there. All people are of one land

And of one man

That was expelled from Eden.

And waters from clouds and waters from the seas are actually one water.

Does the fire only have blood sister?

Let them leave in the grave that Sumerian with a wedge

Because all our verses are his sons.

And leave cuneated Hammurabi

Whose 25. article of the Code reads:

If in somebody’s house fire appears and somebody, who comes to the house to quench it,

casts the eyes on the belongings of the master of the house, the belongings of the master of the house he takes, let him be thrown in the same fire.

They say that the beating stick came from heaven,

But the hell will burn it.

The oldest sickle was stolen from the museum,

And Babylon came from Acadian word Bab-ilu

Which means

God’s door.

From that sill who stole it

Let him try to come back to heaven.

SKICE

1.                    

Postoji takav točak

koji ne prelazi

nego

prolazi.

2.

I postoji takva voda:

kad umočiš – postaje krv,

kad kane – pretvara se u mastilo.

3.

Ovo sam zapisao na poleđini

jedne pozivnice za zlo veče.

Znači,

okrenuo sam stranu.

Sketches

1.

There is such wheel

which crosses not

but

passes.

2.

And there is such water:

when you dip into it – it becomes blood,

when it drips – it turns into ink.

3.

I have written this at the back

of one invitation for a bad evening.

Meaning,

I have turned the page.

SANTO SUBITO

                                        

Santo subito! Santo subito! (Svetac odmah)

uzvikivanje naroda na sahrani Jovana Pavla II, 8.4.2005.

Papa Benedikt XVI odlučio je danas da ubrzanim procesom proglasi za sveca svog prethodnika, papu Jovana Pavla II.
RTV CG, 13.5.2005.

Plače li Grčka danas? Zavidna da li je ona?

Kud ostaju svi polisi njeni, kud ode suparnik Rim?

Nekad, na trgovima u Grčkoj, birahu vlast za polis,

A sad u Rimu, na sahrani – izbori za nebesa.

Spustiše ga i masa povika:

Santo subito! Santo subito!

Jednoglasno izabran, niko protiv, niko uzdržan.

I formalno, još potpis jedan.

Novog sveca na nebo šalje

Svetac budući.

Plače li danas Grčka?

Daleko ode Rim.

Santo subito

Santo subito! Santo subito! (Saint at once)

 cheering of the people at the funeral of John Paul II, 8.4.2005.

Pope Benedict XVI decided today to proclaim his predecessor pope John Paul II for saint by accelerated process.

RTV CG, 13.5. 2005.

Does Greece cry today? Envious is she?

Where all her poleis remained, where her rival Rome has gone?

Once, at the squares in Greece, they used to elect polis’ government,

And now in Rome, at the funeral – election for heaven.

They laid him down, and the crowd shouted:

Santo subito! Santo subito!

Unanimously elected, nobody against, nobody restrained.

And formally, just one more signature.

The new saint is being sent to heaven

By the future saint.

Does Greece cry today?

Far away Rome has gone.

PISMO PLUTARHU

Mučno je, Plutarhu, danas, zvati sebe Bošnjakom,

Jer što vidiš kriješ od usne, što kušaš – oku ga skrivaš.

Da kažeš – na zub sebi, da šutiš - nije ti rado,

A ako iz sna ih budiš moru ti daruju tada.

Ništa im nije jasno do da snivaju laže

I da crtaju igračke kojih u prirodi nema.

A ni za knjigu neće dati prebijenu banku

Niti za hroniku svoju, da im se tokovi skole.

I vazda na jeziku svom jezik zborimo tuđ,

Čas nas nedoved vodi, čas ga zamijeni vaška.

Plutarhu, ti veliš da Atinjani su oko ostrva Salamine

Bitke vodili, pa gubili – umorili se i donijeli zakon po kome niko

(Ni pismeno, ni usmeno)

Ne smije predložit da se osvaja Salamina, inače

Slijedi mu smrt.

Platonov predak Solon zakon taj ne moga da podnese

Nego o sebi rasturi glas da je poludio skroz,

Onda na trgu otpjeva pjesmu pod imenom Salamina.

Tako se sruši zakon i Solon uvažen bi

Što spreman je za rod i da se napravi lud.

Danas, Plutarhu, ima narod imenom Bošnjaci,

Al što su kakvi jesu to nije jasno ni njim,

Donijeli zakon su oni po kom je sramotna knjiga,

I pisat je i čitat - bruka veća od svih.

Zato, ako si nekad čitao stihove svoje, na trgu

Kakvom il bilo gdje, javno, pred ruljom tom,

Ti više nikad ne moraš da se napraviš lud -

A to je, Plutarhu, smrt gora od smrti svih.

Letter to Plutarch

It is hard, Plutarch, today, to call yourself a Bosniak,

Because what you see you hide from your lip, what you taste – you hide from your eye.

To say – to spite yourself, to shut up – you are not willing,

And if you wake them from a dream then they give you a nightmare.

Nothing is clear to them but dreaming lies.

And to draw toys that exist not in nature.

Neither for a book will they give a dime

Nor for their chronicle, for their streams to merge into one.

And for long on our language we speak foreign tongue,

For a while an understrapper is leading us, and for a while he is replaced by a louse.

Plutarch, you say that Athenians around Salamis island

Were running battles, then loosing them – they became weary and gave the law under which nobody

(Not in writing, nor orally)

Could suggest Salamis island to be conquered, or

Will be put to death.

Plato’s ancestor Solon could not bore with that law

But spread a rumor that he has gone completely mad,

Then on a square he sang a song named Salamis Island.

That is how the law collapsed and Solon venerable became

For ready he was for his kin to pretend to be crazy.

Today, Plutarch, there are people named Bosniaks,

But why are they the way they are, it is not clear even to them,

They gave the law under which the book is disgrace,

And reading and writing –the biggest shame.

Hence, if you ever read your verses on a square

Whatever and wherever, publicly, in front of that crowd,

You do not have to pretend to be crazy ever again –

And that is, Plutarch, the worst death of all. 

O RUCI MOG OCA

O sve bi mogli mi, al pusto,

Ime nas naše oda.

Zorom trajemo

I mišlju se majemo

Da krv nam nije voda.

Davno je bilo,

Rastade se milo i drago.

O u snu se ne snilo,

Pradjed moj isprati četiri brata u Tursku

Sa petnaest sinova,

Odoše iz Bara preko debelih mora.

Kćeri nisu brojali (jer ih bijaše mnogo).

Rekoše oni što odlaze da je ovdje svanuo drugi zakon

I rekoše da je tamo miran grob i sloboda.

I plakao moj pradjed, i molio da ostanu:

Krv ipak nije voda.

Pradjed od tifusa umrije, odvuče u zemlju ženu

I dva sina.

Ostade djed moj Ahmet, nejak, sa sestrom,

Na tankoj zemlji, slatkog ploda.

Kad ojača Ahmet, u Tursku se zaputi

Uz želju da krv svoju nađe.

Preko Crvenog krsta rodbinu je tražio.

Listali su kartone, prevrtali imena,

Ahmet je uzalud tragao,

Krv ipak nije voda.

Vratio se natrag vozom, iz Stambola

(Da bar nije preko prokletog mora).

Slutio da u prahu Anadola

Krv damara njegova.

Upamtio je, tek nebitno, da je na stanici

(Nekom u vozu)

Mahao momak jedan desnom rukom.

Žena mu rodi šest sinova i četiri kćeri

(Vazda sa sofrom u boju).

Mnogo kasnije, oca mog je pratio

Na studije u Beograd, i otac moj mu mahao

Baš kao momak onaj u Stambolu, desnom rukom.

Dozna tad Ahmet da mu se nekad

Ispunila želja - vidio je krv svoju

(Po očima to je jasno i po ruci što maše).

Toliko o našima znamo.

Priča o sudbini naše krvi

Jeste priča o sjećanju na ruku koja maše.

About my father’s hand

Oh, we could do anything, but our wretched

Name gave us away.

With dawn we endure

And with a thought we bear

That blood of ours water is not.

It was a long time ago,

The close ones set apart.

Oh, never to happen,

My great grandfather sent off four of his brothers to Turkey

With fifteen sons,

They went from Bar across the deep seas.

Daughters they did not count (for there were too many of them).

Those who were leaving said that here the new law has dawned

And they said that there is a peaceful grave and freedom.

And my great grandfather cried, and pleaded them to stay:

Blood, after all, water is not.

My great grandfather died of typhus, dragged his wife down into the grave with him

And two of his sons.

My grandfather Ahmet remained, feeble, with his sister,

On earth lean, with a fruit sweet.

When Ahmet became stronger, in Turkey he went

Led by a wish to find his own flesh and blood.

Through Red Cross he looked for his relatives.

They leafed through cards, they turned over names,

Ahmet searched in vain,

Blood, after all, water is not.

He came back by train, from Stamboul

(If only it was not across the damn see).

He foreboded that in the dust of Anatolia

His blood is throbbing.

He remembered, which is of no importance, that on a station

(At somebody in the train)

One lad was waving with his right hand.

His wife gave birth to six sons and four daughters

(Constantly in battle with sofra).

Much later, he was sending my father off

To his studies in Belgrade, and my father waved at him

Just like that lad in Stamboul, with his right hand.

Ahmet then discovered that his wish

Came through sometime – he saw his own flesh and blood

(By the eyes that is clear and by the hand that waves).

That is how much we know about our closest.

The story about the fate of our blood

Is the story about remembrance of a hand that waves.

TRAJANJE

Ne znam kako je drugima.

Ali, u mom narodu, kad neko umre,

Kažu:

Odmorio se.

Endurance

I don’t know how it is with others.

But, my people, when somebody dies,

Say:

He’s rested.

TRAGOVI

                                   Šejli Šehabović

Postoji vrijeme u kome mnoge hramove izidaju

Oni koji u hramove nisu stupili.

U tom vremenu mnoge hramove poruše

Oni koji su svakoga dana u hramovima.

I pisci tad slave vođe i vojskovođe

I sklapaju velike naručene poeme.

A grobari kopaju mnogo kratkih grobova

Koji su pticama, iz njihove perspektive,

Nalik na tragove ljudi.

Traces

                                   for Šejla Šehabović

There’s a time in which many a temple build

Those who never stepped into temples.

In that time many a temple ruin

Those who spent every day in temples.

And writers then praise leaders and commanders

And make grand ordered poems.

And gravediggers dig many short graves

Which, to birds from their perspective,

Look like traces of people.

ARGENTINA

U zemlji prepunoj ruda

Postoje motike kojima se zlato i srebro traži.

U zemlji prepunoj ruda, nakon ratova,

Istim se motikama kosti traže.

Ponekad, plaćeni ekspert uzvikne Eureka!

I podigne motiku.

Kada ekspert ponese kost nekoj majci

Na prepoznavanje,

Ona kaže:

Zlato moje.

Kaže li neki poeta:

Srebro moje.

Argentina

In a land full of ores

There are hoes with which gold and silver are searched for.

In a land full of ores, after the wars,

With the same hoes bones are being searched for.

Sometimes, a paid expert yells Eureka!

And raises his hoe.

When expert then takes bone to some mother

To recognize it,

She says:

Gold of mine.

Does any poet say:

Silver of mine.

UPUĆENI NA RUŽU VJETROVA

                                   Dževadu Jahiću

Postoje takvi domaćini,

Koji imaju takve bašte

I u njima zalivaju takvo cvijeće

Koje koristi svaki vjetar i dah,

Da se nagne, na bilo koju stranu,

Da se pokaže,

Da ga pohode

I pčela i leptir i zolja i bumbar

I os i obad -

Samo da u nekoj košnici, na bukvi, u stijeni,

Na izmetu, na konjskom repu,

Bilo gdje,

Samo da nešto

Od mirisa i od polena,

Samo da nešto ostane,

Jer domaćin i bašta neće,

Sigurno neće.

Directed Toward the Wind Rose

                                    for Dževad Jahić

There are such hosts,

Who have such gardens,

And in them they water such flowers

That use each wind and each breath,

To slope toward any side,

To show themselves,

To be visited

By the bee and buterfly and sawfly and bumble bee

And wasp and gadfly.

Only something, in some hive, on some beech, on some rock,

on feces, on horse’s tail,

Anywhere, 

Only something of a smell and pollen

Only something to remain,

For host and flowers won’t,

They surely won’t.

TEMELJNA FARBA

Jednog jutra, direktor ugleda na zidu škole

Grafit koji zbori o klanju

I odmah naredi domaru da prekreči zid.

Već sutradan, direktor ugleda isti natpis

I opet pozva domara

Koji opet umoči četku u kreč.

I tako jutrima, i tako godinama,

Direktor poziva domara, domar kreči.

A noć ostavlja crn natpis na bijelom zidu,

A djeca nagađaju ko je pisac tih slova.

Ali jednog jutra, direktor reče da uzalud je krečiti

I domar odmori ruke.

Sutradan, na zidu ugledaše

Nečiju krv.

Tako inače počinju ratovi.

Solid Paint

One morning, principal saw on the school’s wall

Graffiti that was saying about slaughter

And at once he ordered janitor to whiten the wall.

Already tomorrow, principal saw the same inscription

And again he called janitor

Who again dipped his brush into the whitewash.

And thus for mornings, and thus for years,

Principal calls janitor, janitor whitens.

And night leaves black inscription on the white wall,

And children guess who the writer of that letters is.

But one morning, principal said that whitening is in vain

And janitor rested his hands.

Tomorrow, on the wall they saw

Somebody’s blood.

That’s how usually wars start.

PRINOŠENJE ŽRTVE ŽRTVAMA ILI ZAŠTO JE ČOVJEK GLUH KAO TOP

U vojsci, kerovođa

Osječe štenetu jedno uho

Da vidi

Da l‘ je ljuto.

U vojsci, livac

Kada izlije top,

Umjesto đuleta, prvo mu stavi u grlo jednu glavu

Da ga kuša,

Da nije gadljiv.

U vojsci, oficir

Prvo razbije ogledalo vojniku

Da ne gleda sebe u oči.

Sacrifice of the Victims to the Victims Or why is a Man Deaf as a Post

In the army, a dog trainer

Cuts off the ear to the puppy

To see

If it’s angry.

In the army, a moulder

When casts a cannon

Instead of the cannonball, puts into its throat one head firstly

To try it

If it’s not squeamish

In the army, an officer

Breaks the soldier’s mirror firstly

So that he could not look himself in the eye.

RUŠEVINE

Herostrat,

Obućar iz Efesa,

Spalio je hram

Samo da bi ostao upamćen.

Danas, međutim, ne bi imao takvu šansu.

Kao da ga gledam,

Čupa kose nad zgarištima

I lije suze po kamenju hramova razidanih.

I kune

Vladare i vojskovođe

Sveštenike i kurve.

Ruins

Herostratus,

A cobbler from Ephesus,

Burnt the temple

Just to be remembered.

Today, however, he wouldn’t have such a chance.

As if I see him,

He pulls his hair over the ruins

And sheds his tears over the stones of the temples unbuilt.

And swears

Rulers and commanders

Priests and whores.

OBRADA ZEMLJIŠTA I SISTEM NAVODNJAVANJA U ZEMLJI GERMANSKOJ

U tu zemlju su odvođeni naši djedovi,

U logore, na prisilni rad i za zabavu hirurzima,

Ubijani čak i zbog mjerenja brzine smrti.

U tu zemlju, danas, odlaze naša braća.

Iz širokih kazana jedu tri obroka dnevno

I besplatno popravljaju crne zube i prebijene ruke

I šteluju sluh oštećen topovima.

Kad dođu k nama, ne pitamo kojim dobrom

No kojim zlom? Da ih nisu prognali zbog

Krađe ili lažnog braka?

I ne žalimo one što su otišli

No žalimo sebe što smo ostali.

Djedovi, koji su preživjeli logore,

Pričali su da je zemlja germanska

Ostala spaljena i žalosna, pa danas pitamo braću

Kako ta zemlja hrani i mimo Germana ljude?

Kažu,

Izbacila je tuđe kosti iz sebe

I zaplakala,

Da bolje rađa.

Soil Cultivation and Irrigation System in Deutschland

To that land our grandfathers were taken,

To camps, for forced labour and for surgeons’ fun,

They used to be killed even for measuring the swiftness of the death.

To that land, today, our brothers are going.

From large pots they eat three meals a day

And free of charge they fix their black teeth and beaten arms

And tune their hearing damaged by cannons.

When they come to us, we don’t ask what good has brought them

But what bad? Were they deported because of

The theft or false marriage?

And we don’t pity those who left

But us who stayed.

Grandfathers, who survived camps,

Were telling us that Deutschland

Remained burnt and dismal, so today we ask our brothers

How that land is feeding all that people besides Germans?

They say,

It cast out foreign bones from it

And cried

To bear better.

SAMONIKLI

Iznenadio me šipurak u bašti

I njegov plod koji je krenuo k nebu

(Rimljani kažu da je trnovit put do zvijezda).

Nije tražio da se zalije

Ni da se okopa

A iznikao, nezvan,

I protnuo stablo između busike i kamena.

Ovako i piscima slutimo korijen

Tek kad im plodovi zriju.

SELF-GROWN

In the garden, sweet briar surprised me

And its rose haw stretching toward the sky

(The Romans used to say: Through thorns toward the stars).

It does not ask to be watered

Nor to be ploughed,

And yet, it sprouted, uninvited,

Growing between the clod and the rock.

That is how we presage the root of the writers,

Not before their fruits begin to ripen.

LEGENDA O HEROINI

Takav je bio vođa kineske revolucije

Mao Cedung.

Povede 86 hiljada vojnika

Na veliki marš.

I pregaziše 12 provincija,

18 planinskih vijenaca i 24 rijeke.

I dobiše više od trista bitaka.

Vođa je tokom velikog marša

Nosio 2 ćebeta, nekoliko knjiga i mušemu,

A 370 dana jahao je na jednoj kobili.

Kad ga, na kraju, upitaše kako je izdržala,

Vođa reče:

Prije polaska smo joj sakrili ždrijebe,

Još bi ona mogla da ga traži.

A Legend of the Heroine

That is how the leader of the Chinese Revolution

Mao Zedong was.

He led 86 thousand soldiers

On the Long March.

They overran 12 provinces,

18 mountain chains and 24 rivers.

And won more than three hundred battles.

During the Long March the leader carried

2 blankets, few books, and one table cover made of plastic,

And for 370 days he rode the same mare.

When, in the end, he was asked how she endured,

The leader answered:

Before the March we hid her foal,

She could still look for him.

SMOKVA I MASLINA I GORA SINAJSKA

Danas, u hladu poezije

Čitam maslinu,

I mislim na dan

Kad sam

U hladu masline

Listao poeziju.

A Fig, an Olive, and the Mount Sinai

Today, in the shade of poetry

I am reading an olive,

And I think of the day

When I was

In the shade of the olive tree

Leafing through poetry.

PITAO SAM

Pitao sam pjesnika čije tijelo bijaše na zalasku,

Pitao sam ga,

Nakon pedeset godina pisanja

Šta je njemu poezija.

Pravo da ti kažem, uvuče dim,

Ništa.

A kad si počeo da pišeš,

U osvit prvih stihova,

Prije pedeset godina?

Šta je za tebe tada bila poezija?

Pa i tada je bila

Ništa.

I’ve Asked

I’ve asked a poet whose body was coming to its end,

I’ve asked him,

After fifty years of writing

What is poetry to him.

To tell you the truth, he inhaled smoke,

Nothing.

And when you started to write,

At the dawn of your first verses,

Fifty year ago,

Then what was poetry to you?

Why, and then it was

Nothing.

PORTRET ANGAŽOVANOG PISCA  

                                              

                                               Siniši Soćaninu

Još se priča na grčkim trgovima,

na palubama i pod Olimpom

da je na stolovima, na posteljama, na poveljama

viđao prašinu.

Kažiprstom je ostavljao riječi.

Nekada:

očisti me.

A nekada ime svoje.

Pisao je i nije znao da piše pjesnik u njemu.

Ljudi brisahu prašinu, tako i slova njegova imena,

time dodirivahu smisao poezije

i angažman.

Sakriven osta pjesnik.

I Homer je s prahom sjedinjen.

Traži se onaj ko čita,

Skriva se onaj ko piše.

A Portrait of the Engaged Writer

                                               to Siniša Soćanin

There’s still talk in the Greek squares,

on the decks and under Mount Olympus

that he used to see dust on the tables, sheets,

and charters.

With his forefinger he used to leave words.

Sometimes:

clean me.

And sometimes his own name.

He wrote and he didn’t know that a poet in him is writing.

People cleaned the dust, so as the letters of his name,

Thus touching the meaning of poetry

and engagement.

Hidden remained the poet.

And Homer is merged with dust.

Wanted is the one who reads,

Concealed is the one who writes.

OTROV

Živa je to istina. Prezirali su ga

I oni iz njegove kuće.

I sve druge kuće.

Djeca ga i žena motikama gađahu

Kad je uzimao pero,

A narod se cerio uz priču o njemu.

Pisao je krišom, na tavanu.

Nije narod dao da se pisac u groblju sahrani,

Dadoše ga kljunovima, pticama na upotrebu

Da ih zamaju – da ne pjevaju.

Sudbina pisca!

Njegove stihove popušio je njegov sin.

Nekoliko godina, nakon očeve smrti,

Savijao je duhan papirima sa tavana

I pušio,

Stih po stih.

Potom ga ja napao kašalj. Brzo je izdahnuo.

Kad se pročulo da je poezija uzrok smrti piščevog sina,

Narod je i za njega udario zabranu kopanja u groblju.

Rekoše:

Sam se trovo, sam nek trune.

A Poison

It’s the whole truth. They detested him

Those from his house,

And from all other houses.

His children and his wife threw hoes at him

When he would take quill in his hand,

And people used to laugh while talking about him.

He wrote secretly, in the attic.

People wouldn’t let writer to be buried at the cemetery,

But they gave him to the birds, to their beaks

To entangle them – to sing no more.

Destiny of a writer!

His verses his son smoked.

For a few years, after his father’s death,

He rolled cigarettes using papers from the attic

And smoked

Verse by verse.

Then he was overcome by coughing. He died quickly.

When it was heard that poetry is a cause of writer’s son death,

People lifted a ban for him too not to be buried in the grave.

They said:

He poisoned himself, let him rot all alone.

NA OVAJ DAN

                        Ex ore parvulorum veritas.

Na ovaj dan

Da te opet spomenemo Rimljanine,

Koji nam jasno reče

Da istina djeci izlazi iz usta.

Sjećam se,

Učenici bijasmo tek sa 30 slova

I deset brojki.

Predavač državni, u menzi đačkoj,

Zborio nam je o borbi za slobodu,

O granicama i krvi,

O zastavi,

I reče: nad svima u zemlji je

Ustav.

Tad neki dječak upita:

A ko je on?

On This Day

                        Ex ore parvulorum veritas.

On this day

To mention you Roman,

Who told us clearly

That truth comes out from children’s mouth.

I remember,

We were students with just 30 letters

And ten numerals.

Public teacher, in a student’s canteen,

Talked to us about fight for freedom,

About borders and blood,

About flag,

And he said: Above everybody in the state is

Constitution.

Then one boy asked:

And who is he?

DVORSKI SAVJETNIK

                                               Jer, vidio sam ljude, većinom su takvi:

                                               Nestalni u vezi i često promjenljivi.

                                                                                  Aus ibn Hagar

Ova nek pjesma kazuje zašto je kipova mnogo

U dvorovima, onih što mudruju i vazda šute.

Bila dva druga, dva pjesnika, dva pastira; a lira

Bila im družbenica – zborahu o tlu, nebu i moru.

Jednoga ih dana srete kralj grčki imenom Mida,

Reče da savjetnika traži za dvorska pitanja sva.

Jedan se prevari pjesnik, pruži on Midi ruku –

Časom u zlato se pretvori i ostade kao kip,

A drugi utječe, pa uze liru da se izjada:

Zgubih druga zbog zlata, a drug mi zlatan izgubi stih.

A Court Counselor

                                    For, I saw people, mostly they are like that:

                                    Inconsistent in the relationship and often fickle.

                                                                                  Aus ibn Hajar

Let this song tells why there are so many statues

In the courts of those who philosophize and tend to be silent.

There were two friends, two poets, two herdsmen; a lyre

Was their companion – they narrated about land, sky and the sea.

One day Greek king named Midas met them,

He said that he is looking for a counselor for all court issues.

One poet tricked into it and he gave his hand to Midas –

In a moment he turned into gold and remained as a statue,

And the other run away, so he took his lyre to grieve:

I’ve lost a friend over gold, and my golden friend lost his verse.

IMANJE KRAJ TIBRA

                        Koji mnogo žele, nedostaje im mnogo.

                                                                       Horacije

Valjda nema nikoga ko nije izgovarao molitve

Pa ipak, ne znam nikoga ko je tražio bolju pamet.

U molitvama i novac šuška,

Dječak ne traži zdravlje,

Starac ne moli za mladost.

Pa najzad, pokažite mi tog pisca

Koji bi od Horacija Flaka

Potražio temu

Al ne i Mecenu.

A Land Near Tiber

                                   The covetous man is ever in want.            

                                                                         Horatius

I guess there is no one that never said a prayer

Yet, I do not know any one that asked for a better mind.

Even money rustles in the prayers,

A boy does not ask for good health,

An old man does not ask for youthfulness.

Finally, show me a writer

Who would ask from Horatius Flaccus

A theme

but not a Maecenas.

AGAMEMNON

- Osta li u nama bar tri kapi od tih starih Grka?

1.Na istom kopnu umiremo.

2.Argonauti su iz Crnog mora uplovili u Dunav,

3. A naši kazivači pjesama narodnih

Nose kratke štapove, izrezbarene,

Baš kao Homer što je nosio.

4. Čujem danas da je razbojnik Feriz, s početka dvadesetog vijeka,

Usmrtio podanika svog (pred očima cijele bande)

Jer je ovaj ridao na vijest

Da mu se žena s komšijom viđa.

Neću da zbog njegovih suza

Vi sumnjate u vaše žene, rekao je Feriz

Koji nije znao da na ostrvu Temidu, blizu Troje,

Ujede zmija vojnika Filokreta

Pa mu nabubri rana i silno zasmrde

Da je morao Agamemnon čamcem na drugo ostrvo da ga iskrca

I kad se vrati, reče vojnicima:

Neću da od smrada jedne rane

izginete nadomak Troje.

- Osta li u nama bar tri kapi od tih starih Grka?

Agamemnon

- Did merely three drops of blood remain in us from the old Greeks?

1. On the same mainland we die.

2. Argonauts sailed from the Black Sea in the Danube,

3. And our narrators of folk tales and songs

Are using short walking sticks, carved,

The same as Homer used.

4. I’ve heard today that a thug Feriz, from the beginning of the 20^th century,

Killed his vassal (in front of the whole gang)

Because the vassal was crying upon hearing the news

That his wife is seeing his neighbour.

I do not want that because of his tears

You doubt in your wives, Feriz said.

Who did not know that on the island Tenedos, near Troy,

A snake bit soldier Philoctetes

And his wound became swollen and reeked greatly

That Agamemnon had to disembark him on the other island

And when he came back, he said to his soldiers:

I don’t want you to die near Troy

Because of the reek of one wound.

- Did merely three drops of blood remain in us from the old Greeks?

O JEDNOM PUTU U SELU HOTKOVU NA POLUOSTRVU BALKANU

                                                                                   Nebojši Gajtanoviću

Tiho! Nebojša, kad ovim putem prolazimo!

Tiho!

Znaš li ti kakav je ovo put?

Lijevo kad skreneš, na brdu Hober, staro latinsko groblje.

A pod Hoberom groblje pravoslavno

Gdje kopaju se komšije Srbi. Dakle,

Možeš i ti.

Ovamo desno brdo Grkovina,

Na njemu staro grčko groblje,

A malo ispod, groblje muslimansko

(Još Turci su ga ogradili)

Tu ukopani moji su svi. Dakle,

Mogu i ja.

Tiše!

Znaš li ti kakve vojske put ovaj prolaziše?

Bili i prošli Grčka, Rim i Turska.

I naši rodovi, sitna istorijska boranija,

Jednom će konačno u čitanke leći.

Možda opet navrate Mongoli, Germani il Ugri.

Da zastanemo ovdje

Da malo kušamo tišinu,

Da malo slušamo sudbinu.

Da učimo šta je put.

About one Trip to Village Hotkovo On the Balkan Peninsula

                                                                                   to Nebojša Gajtanović

Quiet! Nebojša, when we go by this road!

Quiet!

Do you know what kind of road is this?

On the left, when you turn, on the hill Hober, is an old Latin graveyard.

And under Hober, an orthodox graveyard

Where our neighbours Serbs are burying their dead. So,

you can be buried there too.

Here on the right, hill Grkovina,

on it, an old Greek grave.

And a little further, a Muslim graveyard

(Still Turks had fenced it)

There are buried all who were dear to me. So,

I can be buried there too.

Quieter!

Do you know what kind of armies used to go by this road?

They came and went, Greeks, Romans and Ottomans.

And our lineages, odds and ends of history,

Once will be finally put down in readers.

Maybe, Mongols, Germans or Ugrians will come by again.

Let’s stop here

Let’s try a silence a little bit,

Let’s listen to destiny a little bit.

Let’s learn what the road is.