MILOŠ KOMADINA (Beograd, Srbija, 1955 – Beograd, Srbija, 2004)
poezija / poetry:
Obično jutro (Nolit, Beograd, 1978)
Rečnik melanholije (Nolit, Beograd, 1980)
Figure u igri (Nolit, Beograd, 1983)
Etika trave (Prosveta, Beograd, 1984)
Južni krst (Nolit, Beograd, 1987)
Nešto s anđelima (Nolit, Beograd, 1991)
Dan (BIGZ, Beograd, 1994)
Čudo (Narodna knjiga, Beograd, 1998)
Svejedno (Rad, Beograd, 2001)
Ono (S. Mašić, Beograd, 2003)
Svilom šivena juta (Društvo Istočnik, Beograd, 2005)
proza / prose:
Vode ili vetrovi (Zajednica književnika Pančeva, Pančevo, 1994)
Institut za rak (Stubovi kulture, Beograd, 2003)
Saučesnik (Književno društvo Sveti Sava, Beograd, 2004)
iz knjige / from the book:
Miloš Komadina: Not Just Anything (dvojezično izdanje / bilingual edition, Treći Trg, 2009)
prevela / translated by: Nina Živančević
SVETOVI
Svet kaljavih vojnika na vojnoj vežbi,
svet vlasnika portabl kompjutera,
svet bolnica i svet bolesnika...
Svet okupljenih na nečijoj sahrani.
A sred svih svetova moj svet.
Zašto neće da stane u nekoliko reči?
Svet putnika u prvom jutarnjem autobusu.
Izmoždene kurve nakon obavljenog posla,
polumrtvi radnici odlaze na posao...
Jedne noći sačekaću taj jutarnji autobus,
i kada postanem deo tog sveta
i moj sopstveni staće u nekoliko reči.
THE WORLDS
The world of mud-covered soldiers on a military exercise,
the world of the laptop owners,
the world of hospitals and the world of the sick...
The world of people at someone’s funeral.
And amongst all these worlds... my world.
Why does it refuse to fit into just a couple of words?
The world of the passengers on the first morning bus.
The weary prostitutes have done their job,
the moribund workers going to work...
One of these nights I shall get on that morning bus,
and once I become a part of that world
my own will fit into just a couple of words.
OBIČNO JUTRO
Kada ti dođe, slobodno nabrajaj sve sitnice
koje ti privlače pažnju, koje primećuješ...
Na putu od kuće do trafike, idem po cigarete,
žena u šalvarama, crvene čarape, barica vode,
ispred zgrade prodavačica pere izlog knjižare,
staniol, tramvaj prolazi, mesari istovaruju meso,
ljudi žure na posao, našminkane žene žure
i uz put jedu viršle, golubovi na trotoaru
i po krovovima, lak vetar nečujno pomera lišće
kestenova, sve vidim, sve vidim,
brojim bele kamenčiće utisnute u asfalt...
Sa novinama pod miškom i cigaretama u šaci,
vraćam se i opet nove stvari, nov raspored,
sto puta istim putem prolazim, uvek nešto
novo privlači pažnju. Žena u šalvarama u redu
za viršle, u poprečnoj ulici prokop,
nove telefonske linije, radnici doručkuju,
iskopana glina, pogodna za pravljenje ćupova...
Grad je od jutros čist, zelenilo, žuto nebo,
golubovi još od jutra poobarani vrućinom,
pred zgradom žena prodaje kruške, u liftu
sijalica je pregorela, gore u stanu voda za kafu
sigurno već vri, lep dan, zagrizam meku krušku,
puna je vode i po košulji mi kaplje sok...
AN ORDINARY MORNING
When you happen to be in the mood for it, feel free to count up
all the small things that you have noticed and paid attention to...
Walking from home to a cigarette stand
I see a woman in Turkish pants, red socks, a tiny pool of water,
in front of the building the saleslady is cleaning the bookshop front window,
the aluminium foil, a tram is passing by, the butchers unloading their trucks,
all the people rushing to work, the made-up women in a hurry
eating their hot-dogs as they run, the pigeons along the pavement
and on the roofs, soft wind inaudibly moving the leaves
of chestnut trees, I see everything, everything,
I’m counting up white pebbles embedded in the street concrete...
With the newspapers under my arm and cigarettes in my hand,
I am going home and again there are new things, new order,
hundreds of times I walk the same road, every time something new
attracts my attention. The woman in Turkish pants is queuing up for hot-dogs,
the perpendicular street is under construction,
new telephone cables, the workers are having breakfast,
the clay which is dug out – good for making pots...
The city is pristine this morning – the greenery, the yellow sky,
the pigeons struck by heat from early morning,
a woman selling pears in front of my building, inside the elevator
the bulb has burnt out, up there in the apartment the water for coffee
has probably boiled over, it’s a nice day, I am biting the soft pear,
it’s full of water and its juice is dripping down my shirt...
POSLE KIŠE
Vidim: između dva krečna kamena, mrtav gušter.
Okrenut je na leđa, belog i kaljavog stomaka.
Ljudi pod kišobranima promiču kao u snu.
Kišobrani plove kroz park i nestaju na drugom kraju.
I sve me to podseća na dobar akvarel
koji sam video u kući mog druga kad sam bio mali.
A ja?
Ja idem polako, gologlav, i pokisao, i lepo raspoložen,
ali neprimetno, između košulje i leđa počinjem
da osećam kožu mrtvog guštera i blato i vlagu,
i sve što vidim najednom mi se učini prljavo,
i najviše od svega mi je potrebno da operem ruke.
Najednom (takvih neočekivanih preokreta ni u snu nema)
oblaci se povlače, sunce izgreva, i ljudi na ulici
postaju češći, razgovorljiviji, sklopljenih kišobrana.
I gle, i ja se ponovo smeškam raspoložen,
i korak mi postaje brži, čvršći i poletan,
ali daleko u meni jedna je misao:
ta je kiša nad nama, ne možemo joj ništa...
I košuljicu gušterove kože, pomalo blatnjavu,
dugo, dugo nisam mogao da skinem...
AFTER THE RAIN
I see: between two calcified stones lies a dead lizard.
He’s turned on his back, the stomach’s white and muddy.
The people under their umbrellas are passing by, as in a dream.
The umbrellas are floating through the park, disappearing on the other side.
And all this reminds me of a good watercolour
that I saw once as a kid in my friend’s house.
And what about me?
I’m walking slowly, bareheaded, wet with rain, and in a good mood,
but imperceptibly, between my shirt and my back, I start
feeling the dead lizard’s skin and mud and humidity
and all that I am seeing suddenly seems dirty,
and it is vital to wash my hands.
All of a sudden (and that velocity goes beyond the dream state)
the clouds back off, the sun heats up and there are even more people
in the street, they are chattier, with their folded umbrellas.
And look , my good mood is back, I am even smiling,
my pace is quicker, steadier and more enthusiastic.
However there’s a thought haunting me:
that rain dwells somewhere up there, above us, we cannot prevent it....
And the shirt made of lizard’s skin, sprinkled with that mud,
I couldn’t get rid of it for a long, long time...
PROMAKLO
Kada sam te video kako nailaziš izdaleka,
učinilo mi se da sa sobom vodiš psa.
To nije bio pas, to je bila tvoja senka.
Kada si me videla prvi put,
imao sam na sebi šarenu košulju bez rukava,
iz koje su izlazile moje ruke, suve, mišićave,
pola dečačke, pola sasvim muške i odrasle.
Sedeo sam tamo, vitak i lep, malo pogrbljen,
lepo raspoložen, razgovarajući sa dva prijatelja,
od kojih je jedan imao bradu i ličio na Hrista.
On je sad u Londonu, pere sudove u nekoj kafani
i puši drogu, a drugog ne viđam.
Mogao bih da se setim svakog pokreta
koji smo od tada učinili, svakog lista, drveta, pogleda.
Svega se sećam.
Dođe mi da pomislim da je susret bio najvažniji.
(Ne držim mnogo do Onih trenutaka opuštanja),
ali ako susret nije bio najvažniji,
nešto mi je promaklo. O tome često mislim,
to mi ne da mira...
THE MISSING LINK
When I saw you coming from a distance
it seemed to me you were walking a dog.
It wasn’t a dog, it was your shadow.
When you saw me for the first time
I was wearing a sleeveless multicoloured shirt
from which my muscled and thin arms descended
half-boyish, half-manly and grown-up.
I was sitting there, slim and handsome, slightly hunched,
in good spirits, talking to two friends of mine,
one of them had a beard and resembled Jesus.
He lives in London now, working as a dish-washer in some bar,
smoking dope, and the other one, well, we’ve lost touch.
I could remember every single movement
we have made since then, every leaf and tree, every glance.
I remember everything.
I’ve come to think that the encounter was the most important thing in here.
(I don’t value too much those Moments of relaxation)
but, if the moment of our encounter hasn’t been the most important one,
then I’m missing something. I think about that so often,
it worries me...
BAR DVOJICA
Uvek nas je bar dvojica.
Tako mi nikad nije dosadno,
tako nikad nisam sam.
Legnem da se odmorim.
I njemu cvile pluća.
Njemu cvile pluća,
a ja ništa ne osećam.
Danas sam mnogo pušio.
Sve ti ovo govorim
da budeš vrlo oprezan,
da budeš veoma pažljiv
kada se opet sretnemo.
Jer možda neću biti onaj
koga si prošli put sreo.
AT LEAST TWO OF US
There have always been at least two of us.
That way I never get bored
and never alone.
I lie down to rest for while.
His lungs start wheezing too.
His lungs are wheezing
and I feel nothing.
I’ve smoked a lot today.
I’m telling you all this
so that you watch out for yourself,
so that you pay more attention
next time we meet.
For I might not be the one
you have met the previous time.
PONOS GORŠTAKA
I svoje sećanje na žene, i žene dao bi,
i one, one najmlađe, ljubav...
Novac i posede dao bi, sav imetak,
slavu, moć, mnogo što šta.
Ali nema načina da se to kupi
pa čak ni silom da se uzme.
Sve što si ikad želeo (i imaš)
dao bi rado: ponos gorštaka da stekneš,
prirodnu nedodirljivost, zrno časti,
neprelazni prelaz...
Dao bi sav svoj smisao,
sve posede, znanje, blago, sve, sve,
samo: to se nikako ne može imati,
ne može, osim ukoliko se već nema.
MOUNTAIN MAN’S PRIDE
Even your memory of women, even the women themselves,
even the youngest ones, even love... you would give away.
The money and assets you would give away, all your worldly goods,
power and fame, a lot of things.
But there’s no way to buy it
not even to take it by force.
Everything you’ve ever wanted (and owned)
you’d give away gladly, in order to gain the mountain man’s pride,
that natural manner of staying untouchable, that grain of honour,
the untransferable transfer...
You’d give away all your meaning,
all your possessions, knowledge, treasures, everything, everything,
however: it is impossible to have it,
impossible, unless it’s been already a part of you.
ULICA
Mangupi sede pred ulazom zgrade,
sede i pljuckaju na trotoar.
Ispljuckana bara tolika je
da se u njoj može utopiti čitav svet.
Mangupi ne znaju za dođoše,
što iza kapija od kovanog gvožđa
izlaze iz svojih iznajmljenih soba
i slivaju se u centar sa svih strana;
kao: u centru je centar svih zbivanja.
Mangupi sede pred ulazom
sede, pljuckaju i znaju:
nigde se ništa ne događa.
STREETLIFE
The layabouts are sitting on a porch of a building,
they sit together spitting at the pavement.
The pool of their spits is so big
that the entire world could drown in it.
The layabouts know nothing about newcomers,
those who pass through cast iron gates
when they have to leave their rented rooms,
and slide into the very heart of the city centre
as if it were the very centre of all that’s happening.
The layabouts are sitting on the porch,
sitting and spitting. They know:
nothing is happening anywhere.
ANATEMA
Tog jutra,
kada smo otvorili vrata,
ugledali smo pred kućom
čupavo, crno, polumrtvo pseto.
Istog trenutka,
ispred kuće je prošao čovek
sa crnim šeširom na glavi
i kontrabasom pod pazuhom.
Tog istog jutra,
srušilo se lastavičje gnezdo
iznad naših vrata.
Procvetao je kaktus u bašti.
Cvet je bio prelep,
ali je širio smrad strvine.
U podne je četa vojnika
promarširala pored kuće.
Više se ništa nije desilo,
ali od tog dana,
niko nam nije ušao u kuću.
CURSE
That morning,
as we opened the door
we saw in front of our house
a hairy, black, half-dead dog.
At that very moment
in front of the house a man passed by
with a black hat over his head
and a big bass under his arm.
That very morning
a swallow’s nest
had fallen onto our doorstep.
A cactus had bloomed in our garden.
Its flower was gorgeous
but it had the stench of a corpse.
At noon a squadron of soldiers
marched by the house.
Nothing else has happened since then
but from that very day
no one has visited us.
SVETLOSTI KOJE NEMAM
Viđam te oreole posvuda,
ne samo oko tvoje glave i ruku, draga.
Nose ih sva mala deca, tela im svetle,
i onaj golišavi cigančić do pasa u gipsu,
što sedi na uglu moje ulice i prosi,
i on primetno sija tako ispruženom rukom.
Vidim srećne svetlosti posvuda,
nalazim ih na najneočekivanijim mestima,
i gotov sam da pomislim da sobom nose tugu,
a nisu ni pečat ni darovani znak
po kojem bih nešto mogao da prepoznam.
Vidim ženu koja ide s pijace,
bije iz nje svetlost oko prosede kose,
kao neka pravilna paučina rasprela se zrakasto.
Oreoli na ljudima, na ženama, na svakom detetu.
Često se u svoj lik zagledam,
u ogledalu, izlogu, prozorskom oknu, ne namerno.
Ne tražim tu vašu svetlost, ne znam šta tražim.
A ti, kad smerno izađeš iz tamne sobe,
na vratima ostaje svetao obris tvog lika i tela,
i ja koji ne posedujem svetlost približavam taj obris,
umanjujem ga ili ga povećavam po želji.
Kad bih mogao više od toga što mogu...
THOSE LIGHTS I DON`T HAVE
I see these auras everywhere,
not only around your head and your arms, darling.
All little children have them, their bodies shed light,
even that half-naked Gypsy boy with a plaster cast from the waist up
sitting at the corner of my street and begging,
he’s shining visibly with his extended hand.
I see these cheerful lights everywhere,
I find them in the most unusual places,
and I almost think that they carry sadness within,
though there is neither a seal nor a birthmark
to help me recognize their meaning.
I see a woman coming from the market,
the light pours from her greyish hair,
resembling a meticulous spider web as it radiates outward.
Auras are placed on men, on women, on all children.
I often look at my reflection
in a mirror, in a shop window, in a windowpane, and it’s not deliberate.
I’m not after that light of yours, I don’t even know what I am after.
And you, when you come out of your dark room shyly,
the shiny shape of your face and your body stays in the doorway,
and then I, with no light whatsoever, try to approach that shape,
diminishing it or enlarging it at will.
If only I could... more than I can...
POŽELIM
Da kao raspusan šeik
pijan i nesvestan,
napijem i kamilu šampanjcem,
da joj pustim na volju,
nek me nosi preko dina,
krivudajući,
pri punom mesecu;
dok za nama vetar,
prizeman i oštar,
briše sve tragove i
čini mi se da se ne mičemo...
I WISH
I wish I were a decadent sheik,
drunk and unconscious,
I’d make my camel drunk with champagne,
and let it roam at will,
carrying me across the dunes,
zigzagging, while
under the full moon,
the sweeping wind blowing
behind us
erases all our traces so that
I feel like we are not moving at all...
ZIMA I SUNCE
Sad kad je usred zime sunce ogrejalo,
i stub se zlatne svetlosti
kroz prozor na plafonu sobe probio
i pao na tvoju sliku na zidu,
ja hoću draga
da se goli prošetamo gradom,
kao preko brda i bregova tamo u selu...
Za nama, u maršu, četrdeset tri gajdaša
neka sviraju šta im padne na pamet!
WINTER AND SUN
Now that it has started shining in midwinter,
now that its pillar of golden light
has penetrated the ceiling of the room
and has fallen on your picture on the wall,
I wish, my darling
to take a stroll with you through the city, both of us naked,
as if we were climbing the hills and mountain tops, there in the country...
There are forty three pipers marching behind us
so let them play what they please!
BRAĆA
Braća kopljem zatvaraju vrata.
Gledaš u nebo, čupaš kosu,
plačeš i proklinješ sebe,
što imaš takvu braću.
Braća mačem beru cveće.
Iskradeš se, pobegneš na polje,
legneš i mirišeš cveće sa zemlje.
Braća odu da te traže.
Vratiš se a kuću ne zatvoriš.
Zlikovci te u njoj nađu i zakolju.
Tebe braća ćutke zakopaju.
Mrtvome ti nešto došlo teško.
THE BROTHERS
Brothers are closing the doors with a lance.
You watch the sky, tear your hair out,
you cry and curse yourself
for having such brothers.
Brothers are gathering flowers with a sword.
You sneak out, run into the field,
you lie down and smell flowers scattered on the ground.
Brothers start looking for you.
You get back to the house but don’t close the door behind.
The knaves find you in there and slash your throat.
Brothers bury you silently.
Once dead you begin to feel a bit heavy.
Da ti kažem:
„Kada sve olista,
kada zamiriše bilje,
ja se menjam.”
(I tada
mala lična tragedija
biva važnija
od velikih nacionalnih vrenja.)
Da ti kažem:
„Ti govoriš o zvezadama,
o horoskopu,
o uticaju i zavisnosti...
Slažem se.
Samo, ja sa ovim sistemom
nemam nikakve veze;
moje se zvezde ne vide.”
Možemo mi da pričamo svašta,
ali TO se dešava mimo nas.
Let me tell you:
“When everything’s in bloom,
when the plants give their scent away
I also change.”
(And then
a small personal tragedy
becomes more important
than big national upheavals.)
Let me tell you:
“You talk of the stars,
of the horoscope,
of influence and of dependency...
I agree with you.
But I have nothing to do
with this system,
my stars are invisible.”
We can say what we want
but IT is happening in spite of us.
TO igra.
Na mnogim je mestima
samo ga treba ugledati.
Eno ga!
Eno ga
oko pletene kotarice
pune šugavih jabuka.
Igra a ja ćutim.
Misliš da treba da ga pokažem
nekome, kada god ga ugledam?
Neću.
Šta ko ima od toga?
Šta TO ima od toga?
IT dances.
It can be found in many places
we just have to notice it.
There it is!
There it goes
around the wicker basket
full of rotten apples.
It dances and I keep quiet.
Do you really think that I should show it to
someone, when I happen to see it?
Well, I won’t.
And who would ever gain anything from it?
And what would IT gain from my revelation?
TO možda ipak zavisi od mene?
Sedim tako jednog popodneva
kad
neko kuca.
Odem, otvorim.
Nije morao ni da se predstavlja.
Odmah sam znao.
I rekoh:
„Rat je na našim vratima!”
Pa poučen koječime
umesto da ga pustim unutra,
sam sam izašao napolje.
Jer:
TO ipak zavisi od mene.
After all, perhaps IT depends on me?
I’m hanging around one afternoon
when I hear a knock
at the door.
I go and open it.
He did not have to introduce himself.
I knew it at once.
So I said:
“The war has come to our doorstep!”
Life has taught me something
so instead of letting him in
I myself stepped out.
For:
in spite of all, IT depends on me.
TO u očima lepe žene treperi.
TO se s mačkama druži
pod automobilom.
TO vidi vojnik
dok umire u oranici.
TO vidi seljak
dok plasti slamu il seno.
TO ti se neće ukazati druškane
tek tako...
TO u očima lepe žene treperi
i tu se najpre može ugledati.
IT shimmers in the eyes of a beautiful woman.
IT snuggles with cats
under a car.
A dying soldier sees IT
in a field.
A farmer sees IT
while mowing hay or straw.
IT won’t show itself to you, my friend,
just like that…
IT shimmers in the eyes of a beautiful woman
and that’s the first place you spot it.
TO nije razum.
Bosa ludakinja na mesečini.
Ona se muči.
Zbog krvavih špilja
koje samo ona zna,
zbog mesečine,
zbog gluvih ptica.
Sve je nokte polomila,
svu je kosu raščupala,
tražeći da nađe...
TO je njoj okrenulo leđa.
Zato ne nalazi...
TO joj je okrenulo leđa.
Ali, TO nije razum.
IT does not invite sanity.
A barefoot mad woman is lurching in the moonlight.
She’s suffering.
Because of the caves drenched in blood
that she knows only
because of the moonlight
and the deaf birds.
She’s broken all her nails,
messed up all her hair,
she’s been searching for…
IT has turned its back on her.
That’s why she cannot find...
IT has turned its back on her.
But IT does not invite sanity.
SRPSKI BLUES
Znam da je crvena
a ipak mi se ponekad
učini da je crna
moja krv.
„Mi smo bre jedna govna”,
govorio je pokojni deda
za ovaj narod, za Srbe.
Polako mi postaje jasno
koliko ga je to bolelo.
Koliko ga je bolelo i TO
i crna krv.
SERBIAN BLUES
I know its colour is red
however black it appears
sometimes,
this blood of mine.
“We are all just pieces of shit”
my grandfather used to tell me
about our people, the Serbs.
It clarifies itself slowly, this affair which
must have hurt him so.
To what extent it hurt him – IT itself
and the black of the blood.
Plovimo.
Nezadovoljni,
ali plovimo.
Najednom
pacovi
skočiše
u vodu.
A mi
koji smo
ostali
na brodu,
ne brinemo.
Vidimo:
na brodu je i TO
i nema opasnosti.
A niko od nas ne zna
da TO ne ume da pliva.
We are sailing along
unhappy about it
but still sailing.
All of a sudden
the rats start
jumping into
the water.
And we
who remain
on the ship,
we are not worried
as we see
clearly:
IT is also on the ship
and there is nothing to fear.
However no one suspects that
IT does not even know how to swim!
Cigani gde god bili
ma u kom narodu bili,
nepogrešivo, daju mu TO.
Rusima – babušku i pesmu,
Englezima – potkovicu,
Francuzima – mašinicu
za motanje duvana,
Špancima i Srbima – nož.
Cigani, ma gde bili,
od svakog naroda u kojem su,
nepogrešivo uzimaju TO.
Pa voleo ih ne voleo,
isto ti dođe;
jer ako i uzmu TO
oni baš TO i daju.
The Gypsies, wherever they pass,
whatever country,
never make the mistake of not giving IT to other people.
They gave the Russians babushka and a song,
they gave a horse’s hoof to the English,
a tobacco-rolling machine is what they gave
to the French. To the Spaniards and the Serbs,
they gave a knife.
The Gypsies, wherever they pass,
from each people they live amongst,
they unfailingly take IT.
Whether you like them or not
makes no difference;
although they take possession of IT
they also confer IT.
SUNCOKRETI
Ljubici
Vidim te u centru te njive,
okružen si hiljadama braće i sestara,
dobro su mudri naučnici primetili
da pratiš Sunce duž neba.
Na mene sleće hiljade bubica
to su sve one koje vole sunce,
poda mnom hoda milijardu mrava
oni čekaju gozbu.
Noću, kad ovde sunca nema,
ja ga i dalje pratim,
zato obaram glavu.
Znaju li mudri naučnici
šta se događa noću?
Dobar deo bilja
uvrće se za Mesecom.
*
Pričala si o nekoj
galeriji u Holandiji.
O njegovim suncokretima –
na nekima su i hiljade vrana.
Suncokrete znam i poštujem ih.
Ali na vranama, o kako ti zavidim!
SUNFLOWERS
for Ljubica
I see you in the centre of that field
surrounded by thousands of brothers and sisters,
the good scientists have justly remarked
that you follow the Sun making its rounds across the sky.
Thousands of little insects land on me
all species that love the sun
and under my feet thousands of ants are marching,
waiting for a feast.
At night when the sun hides away,
I still follow its route,
that’s why I bow my head.
Do these good scientists know
what’s happening at night?
A large number of plants
turn their bodies towards the Moon.
*
You spoke of a certain gallery
located in Holland.
You spoke of his sunflowers,
some housing thousands of crows.
I know sunflowers and I respect them.
But to know the crows, oh, how I envy your knowledge!
ZAVIST
Prosto i dalje ne mogu da poverujem
kako mi zavidiš na nečem što nije moje.
Nisam ja to zaradio niti ukrao,
ja sam to dobio na poklon od Svevišnjeg.
I, što je najgore, to nikad nećeš imati,
neću imati ni ja kad mi On oduzme dar.
A ima nešto mnogo gore:
vidim kako počinješ i da me mrziš.
ENVY
It’s hard to believe
that you’re envious of something that does not belong to me.
I did not earn it nor did I steal it,
I got it as a gift from the Almighty.
And the worst of all is, you’ll never have it,
I won’t have it either when good Lord takes it away from me.
And I’ve observed something much worse than all this:
I’ve noticed that you’ve started hating me.
CITOSTATICI I FAGOT
Rano izjutra
kad pevaju prvi petli,
ne, ne, ne i ne.
Rano izjutra
kada se lasica lepotica
vraćala iz lova
posle obilaska mnogih gnezda,
na njenoj njuškici
bilo je krvavih tragova.
To su ti, sine, citostatici.
To je tamnoplava tečnost
koja se, kap po kap,
slivala pravo u venu.
Za sve to vreme
brujao je fagot.
To je tvoj život.
Ne, to je moj život.
A CYTOSTATIC AGENT AND THE BASSOON
Early morning
when the first roosters crow,
no no no and no.
Early morning
when that beauty of a weasel
returns from its hunt
after visiting so many nests,
a trace of blood
on its muzzle.
These are, my son, the cytostatic agents.
That’s deep blue liquid
which oozed into a vein
drop by drop.
And all that time
one could hear the sound of the bassoon.
This is your life.
No, it’s mine
poezija / poetry:
Obično jutro (Nolit, Beograd, 1978)
Rečnik melanholije (Nolit, Beograd, 1980)
Figure u igri (Nolit, Beograd, 1983)
Etika trave (Prosveta, Beograd, 1984)
Južni krst (Nolit, Beograd, 1987)
Nešto s anđelima (Nolit, Beograd, 1991)
Dan (BIGZ, Beograd, 1994)
Čudo (Narodna knjiga, Beograd, 1998)
Svejedno (Rad, Beograd, 2001)
Ono (S. Mašić, Beograd, 2003)
Svilom šivena juta (Društvo Istočnik, Beograd, 2005)
proza / prose:
Vode ili vetrovi (Zajednica književnika Pančeva, Pančevo, 1994)
Institut za rak (Stubovi kulture, Beograd, 2003)
Saučesnik (Književno društvo Sveti Sava, Beograd, 2004)
iz knjige / from the book:
Miloš Komadina: Not Just Anything (dvojezično izdanje / bilingual edition, Treći Trg, 2009)
prevela / translated by: Nina Živančević
SVETOVI
Svet kaljavih vojnika na vojnoj vežbi,
svet vlasnika portabl kompjutera,
svet bolnica i svet bolesnika...
Svet okupljenih na nečijoj sahrani.
A sred svih svetova moj svet.
Zašto neće da stane u nekoliko reči?
Svet putnika u prvom jutarnjem autobusu.
Izmoždene kurve nakon obavljenog posla,
polumrtvi radnici odlaze na posao...
Jedne noći sačekaću taj jutarnji autobus,
i kada postanem deo tog sveta
i moj sopstveni staće u nekoliko reči.
THE WORLDS
The world of mud-covered soldiers on a military exercise,
the world of the laptop owners,
the world of hospitals and the world of the sick...
The world of people at someone’s funeral.
And amongst all these worlds... my world.
Why does it refuse to fit into just a couple of words?
The world of the passengers on the first morning bus.
The weary prostitutes have done their job,
the moribund workers going to work...
One of these nights I shall get on that morning bus,
and once I become a part of that world
my own will fit into just a couple of words.
OBIČNO JUTRO
Kada ti dođe, slobodno nabrajaj sve sitnice
koje ti privlače pažnju, koje primećuješ...
Na putu od kuće do trafike, idem po cigarete,
žena u šalvarama, crvene čarape, barica vode,
ispred zgrade prodavačica pere izlog knjižare,
staniol, tramvaj prolazi, mesari istovaruju meso,
ljudi žure na posao, našminkane žene žure
i uz put jedu viršle, golubovi na trotoaru
i po krovovima, lak vetar nečujno pomera lišće
kestenova, sve vidim, sve vidim,
brojim bele kamenčiće utisnute u asfalt...
Sa novinama pod miškom i cigaretama u šaci,
vraćam se i opet nove stvari, nov raspored,
sto puta istim putem prolazim, uvek nešto
novo privlači pažnju. Žena u šalvarama u redu
za viršle, u poprečnoj ulici prokop,
nove telefonske linije, radnici doručkuju,
iskopana glina, pogodna za pravljenje ćupova...
Grad je od jutros čist, zelenilo, žuto nebo,
golubovi još od jutra poobarani vrućinom,
pred zgradom žena prodaje kruške, u liftu
sijalica je pregorela, gore u stanu voda za kafu
sigurno već vri, lep dan, zagrizam meku krušku,
puna je vode i po košulji mi kaplje sok...
AN ORDINARY MORNING
When you happen to be in the mood for it, feel free to count up
all the small things that you have noticed and paid attention to...
Walking from home to a cigarette stand
I see a woman in Turkish pants, red socks, a tiny pool of water,
in front of the building the saleslady is cleaning the bookshop front window,
the aluminium foil, a tram is passing by, the butchers unloading their trucks,
all the people rushing to work, the made-up women in a hurry
eating their hot-dogs as they run, the pigeons along the pavement
and on the roofs, soft wind inaudibly moving the leaves
of chestnut trees, I see everything, everything,
I’m counting up white pebbles embedded in the street concrete...
With the newspapers under my arm and cigarettes in my hand,
I am going home and again there are new things, new order,
hundreds of times I walk the same road, every time something new
attracts my attention. The woman in Turkish pants is queuing up for hot-dogs,
the perpendicular street is under construction,
new telephone cables, the workers are having breakfast,
the clay which is dug out – good for making pots...
The city is pristine this morning – the greenery, the yellow sky,
the pigeons struck by heat from early morning,
a woman selling pears in front of my building, inside the elevator
the bulb has burnt out, up there in the apartment the water for coffee
has probably boiled over, it’s a nice day, I am biting the soft pear,
it’s full of water and its juice is dripping down my shirt...
POSLE KIŠE
Vidim: između dva krečna kamena, mrtav gušter.
Okrenut je na leđa, belog i kaljavog stomaka.
Ljudi pod kišobranima promiču kao u snu.
Kišobrani plove kroz park i nestaju na drugom kraju.
I sve me to podseća na dobar akvarel
koji sam video u kući mog druga kad sam bio mali.
A ja?
Ja idem polako, gologlav, i pokisao, i lepo raspoložen,
ali neprimetno, između košulje i leđa počinjem
da osećam kožu mrtvog guštera i blato i vlagu,
i sve što vidim najednom mi se učini prljavo,
i najviše od svega mi je potrebno da operem ruke.
Najednom (takvih neočekivanih preokreta ni u snu nema)
oblaci se povlače, sunce izgreva, i ljudi na ulici
postaju češći, razgovorljiviji, sklopljenih kišobrana.
I gle, i ja se ponovo smeškam raspoložen,
i korak mi postaje brži, čvršći i poletan,
ali daleko u meni jedna je misao:
ta je kiša nad nama, ne možemo joj ništa...
I košuljicu gušterove kože, pomalo blatnjavu,
dugo, dugo nisam mogao da skinem...
AFTER THE RAIN
I see: between two calcified stones lies a dead lizard.
He’s turned on his back, the stomach’s white and muddy.
The people under their umbrellas are passing by, as in a dream.
The umbrellas are floating through the park, disappearing on the other side.
And all this reminds me of a good watercolour
that I saw once as a kid in my friend’s house.
And what about me?
I’m walking slowly, bareheaded, wet with rain, and in a good mood,
but imperceptibly, between my shirt and my back, I start
feeling the dead lizard’s skin and mud and humidity
and all that I am seeing suddenly seems dirty,
and it is vital to wash my hands.
All of a sudden (and that velocity goes beyond the dream state)
the clouds back off, the sun heats up and there are even more people
in the street, they are chattier, with their folded umbrellas.
And look , my good mood is back, I am even smiling,
my pace is quicker, steadier and more enthusiastic.
However there’s a thought haunting me:
that rain dwells somewhere up there, above us, we cannot prevent it....
And the shirt made of lizard’s skin, sprinkled with that mud,
I couldn’t get rid of it for a long, long time...
PROMAKLO
Kada sam te video kako nailaziš izdaleka,
učinilo mi se da sa sobom vodiš psa.
To nije bio pas, to je bila tvoja senka.
Kada si me videla prvi put,
imao sam na sebi šarenu košulju bez rukava,
iz koje su izlazile moje ruke, suve, mišićave,
pola dečačke, pola sasvim muške i odrasle.
Sedeo sam tamo, vitak i lep, malo pogrbljen,
lepo raspoložen, razgovarajući sa dva prijatelja,
od kojih je jedan imao bradu i ličio na Hrista.
On je sad u Londonu, pere sudove u nekoj kafani
i puši drogu, a drugog ne viđam.
Mogao bih da se setim svakog pokreta
koji smo od tada učinili, svakog lista, drveta, pogleda.
Svega se sećam.
Dođe mi da pomislim da je susret bio najvažniji.
(Ne držim mnogo do Onih trenutaka opuštanja),
ali ako susret nije bio najvažniji,
nešto mi je promaklo. O tome često mislim,
to mi ne da mira...
THE MISSING LINK
When I saw you coming from a distance
it seemed to me you were walking a dog.
It wasn’t a dog, it was your shadow.
When you saw me for the first time
I was wearing a sleeveless multicoloured shirt
from which my muscled and thin arms descended
half-boyish, half-manly and grown-up.
I was sitting there, slim and handsome, slightly hunched,
in good spirits, talking to two friends of mine,
one of them had a beard and resembled Jesus.
He lives in London now, working as a dish-washer in some bar,
smoking dope, and the other one, well, we’ve lost touch.
I could remember every single movement
we have made since then, every leaf and tree, every glance.
I remember everything.
I’ve come to think that the encounter was the most important thing in here.
(I don’t value too much those Moments of relaxation)
but, if the moment of our encounter hasn’t been the most important one,
then I’m missing something. I think about that so often,
it worries me...
BAR DVOJICA
Uvek nas je bar dvojica.
Tako mi nikad nije dosadno,
tako nikad nisam sam.
Legnem da se odmorim.
I njemu cvile pluća.
Njemu cvile pluća,
a ja ništa ne osećam.
Danas sam mnogo pušio.
Sve ti ovo govorim
da budeš vrlo oprezan,
da budeš veoma pažljiv
kada se opet sretnemo.
Jer možda neću biti onaj
koga si prošli put sreo.
AT LEAST TWO OF US
There have always been at least two of us.
That way I never get bored
and never alone.
I lie down to rest for while.
His lungs start wheezing too.
His lungs are wheezing
and I feel nothing.
I’ve smoked a lot today.
I’m telling you all this
so that you watch out for yourself,
so that you pay more attention
next time we meet.
For I might not be the one
you have met the previous time.
PONOS GORŠTAKA
I svoje sećanje na žene, i žene dao bi,
i one, one najmlađe, ljubav...
Novac i posede dao bi, sav imetak,
slavu, moć, mnogo što šta.
Ali nema načina da se to kupi
pa čak ni silom da se uzme.
Sve što si ikad želeo (i imaš)
dao bi rado: ponos gorštaka da stekneš,
prirodnu nedodirljivost, zrno časti,
neprelazni prelaz...
Dao bi sav svoj smisao,
sve posede, znanje, blago, sve, sve,
samo: to se nikako ne može imati,
ne može, osim ukoliko se već nema.
MOUNTAIN MAN’S PRIDE
Even your memory of women, even the women themselves,
even the youngest ones, even love... you would give away.
The money and assets you would give away, all your worldly goods,
power and fame, a lot of things.
But there’s no way to buy it
not even to take it by force.
Everything you’ve ever wanted (and owned)
you’d give away gladly, in order to gain the mountain man’s pride,
that natural manner of staying untouchable, that grain of honour,
the untransferable transfer...
You’d give away all your meaning,
all your possessions, knowledge, treasures, everything, everything,
however: it is impossible to have it,
impossible, unless it’s been already a part of you.
ULICA
Mangupi sede pred ulazom zgrade,
sede i pljuckaju na trotoar.
Ispljuckana bara tolika je
da se u njoj može utopiti čitav svet.
Mangupi ne znaju za dođoše,
što iza kapija od kovanog gvožđa
izlaze iz svojih iznajmljenih soba
i slivaju se u centar sa svih strana;
kao: u centru je centar svih zbivanja.
Mangupi sede pred ulazom
sede, pljuckaju i znaju:
nigde se ništa ne događa.
STREETLIFE
The layabouts are sitting on a porch of a building,
they sit together spitting at the pavement.
The pool of their spits is so big
that the entire world could drown in it.
The layabouts know nothing about newcomers,
those who pass through cast iron gates
when they have to leave their rented rooms,
and slide into the very heart of the city centre
as if it were the very centre of all that’s happening.
The layabouts are sitting on the porch,
sitting and spitting. They know:
nothing is happening anywhere.
ANATEMA
Tog jutra,
kada smo otvorili vrata,
ugledali smo pred kućom
čupavo, crno, polumrtvo pseto.
Istog trenutka,
ispred kuće je prošao čovek
sa crnim šeširom na glavi
i kontrabasom pod pazuhom.
Tog istog jutra,
srušilo se lastavičje gnezdo
iznad naših vrata.
Procvetao je kaktus u bašti.
Cvet je bio prelep,
ali je širio smrad strvine.
U podne je četa vojnika
promarširala pored kuće.
Više se ništa nije desilo,
ali od tog dana,
niko nam nije ušao u kuću.
CURSE
That morning,
as we opened the door
we saw in front of our house
a hairy, black, half-dead dog.
At that very moment
in front of the house a man passed by
with a black hat over his head
and a big bass under his arm.
That very morning
a swallow’s nest
had fallen onto our doorstep.
A cactus had bloomed in our garden.
Its flower was gorgeous
but it had the stench of a corpse.
At noon a squadron of soldiers
marched by the house.
Nothing else has happened since then
but from that very day
no one has visited us.
SVETLOSTI KOJE NEMAM
Viđam te oreole posvuda,
ne samo oko tvoje glave i ruku, draga.
Nose ih sva mala deca, tela im svetle,
i onaj golišavi cigančić do pasa u gipsu,
što sedi na uglu moje ulice i prosi,
i on primetno sija tako ispruženom rukom.
Vidim srećne svetlosti posvuda,
nalazim ih na najneočekivanijim mestima,
i gotov sam da pomislim da sobom nose tugu,
a nisu ni pečat ni darovani znak
po kojem bih nešto mogao da prepoznam.
Vidim ženu koja ide s pijace,
bije iz nje svetlost oko prosede kose,
kao neka pravilna paučina rasprela se zrakasto.
Oreoli na ljudima, na ženama, na svakom detetu.
Često se u svoj lik zagledam,
u ogledalu, izlogu, prozorskom oknu, ne namerno.
Ne tražim tu vašu svetlost, ne znam šta tražim.
A ti, kad smerno izađeš iz tamne sobe,
na vratima ostaje svetao obris tvog lika i tela,
i ja koji ne posedujem svetlost približavam taj obris,
umanjujem ga ili ga povećavam po želji.
Kad bih mogao više od toga što mogu...
THOSE LIGHTS I DON`T HAVE
I see these auras everywhere,
not only around your head and your arms, darling.
All little children have them, their bodies shed light,
even that half-naked Gypsy boy with a plaster cast from the waist up
sitting at the corner of my street and begging,
he’s shining visibly with his extended hand.
I see these cheerful lights everywhere,
I find them in the most unusual places,
and I almost think that they carry sadness within,
though there is neither a seal nor a birthmark
to help me recognize their meaning.
I see a woman coming from the market,
the light pours from her greyish hair,
resembling a meticulous spider web as it radiates outward.
Auras are placed on men, on women, on all children.
I often look at my reflection
in a mirror, in a shop window, in a windowpane, and it’s not deliberate.
I’m not after that light of yours, I don’t even know what I am after.
And you, when you come out of your dark room shyly,
the shiny shape of your face and your body stays in the doorway,
and then I, with no light whatsoever, try to approach that shape,
diminishing it or enlarging it at will.
If only I could... more than I can...
POŽELIM
Da kao raspusan šeik
pijan i nesvestan,
napijem i kamilu šampanjcem,
da joj pustim na volju,
nek me nosi preko dina,
krivudajući,
pri punom mesecu;
dok za nama vetar,
prizeman i oštar,
briše sve tragove i
čini mi se da se ne mičemo...
I WISH
I wish I were a decadent sheik,
drunk and unconscious,
I’d make my camel drunk with champagne,
and let it roam at will,
carrying me across the dunes,
zigzagging, while
under the full moon,
the sweeping wind blowing
behind us
erases all our traces so that
I feel like we are not moving at all...
ZIMA I SUNCE
Sad kad je usred zime sunce ogrejalo,
i stub se zlatne svetlosti
kroz prozor na plafonu sobe probio
i pao na tvoju sliku na zidu,
ja hoću draga
da se goli prošetamo gradom,
kao preko brda i bregova tamo u selu...
Za nama, u maršu, četrdeset tri gajdaša
neka sviraju šta im padne na pamet!
WINTER AND SUN
Now that it has started shining in midwinter,
now that its pillar of golden light
has penetrated the ceiling of the room
and has fallen on your picture on the wall,
I wish, my darling
to take a stroll with you through the city, both of us naked,
as if we were climbing the hills and mountain tops, there in the country...
There are forty three pipers marching behind us
so let them play what they please!
BRAĆA
Braća kopljem zatvaraju vrata.
Gledaš u nebo, čupaš kosu,
plačeš i proklinješ sebe,
što imaš takvu braću.
Braća mačem beru cveće.
Iskradeš se, pobegneš na polje,
legneš i mirišeš cveće sa zemlje.
Braća odu da te traže.
Vratiš se a kuću ne zatvoriš.
Zlikovci te u njoj nađu i zakolju.
Tebe braća ćutke zakopaju.
Mrtvome ti nešto došlo teško.
THE BROTHERS
Brothers are closing the doors with a lance.
You watch the sky, tear your hair out,
you cry and curse yourself
for having such brothers.
Brothers are gathering flowers with a sword.
You sneak out, run into the field,
you lie down and smell flowers scattered on the ground.
Brothers start looking for you.
You get back to the house but don’t close the door behind.
The knaves find you in there and slash your throat.
Brothers bury you silently.
Once dead you begin to feel a bit heavy.
Da ti kažem:
„Kada sve olista,
kada zamiriše bilje,
ja se menjam.”
(I tada
mala lična tragedija
biva važnija
od velikih nacionalnih vrenja.)
Da ti kažem:
„Ti govoriš o zvezadama,
o horoskopu,
o uticaju i zavisnosti...
Slažem se.
Samo, ja sa ovim sistemom
nemam nikakve veze;
moje se zvezde ne vide.”
Možemo mi da pričamo svašta,
ali TO se dešava mimo nas.
Let me tell you:
“When everything’s in bloom,
when the plants give their scent away
I also change.”
(And then
a small personal tragedy
becomes more important
than big national upheavals.)
Let me tell you:
“You talk of the stars,
of the horoscope,
of influence and of dependency...
I agree with you.
But I have nothing to do
with this system,
my stars are invisible.”
We can say what we want
but IT is happening in spite of us.
TO igra.
Na mnogim je mestima
samo ga treba ugledati.
Eno ga!
Eno ga
oko pletene kotarice
pune šugavih jabuka.
Igra a ja ćutim.
Misliš da treba da ga pokažem
nekome, kada god ga ugledam?
Neću.
Šta ko ima od toga?
Šta TO ima od toga?
IT dances.
It can be found in many places
we just have to notice it.
There it is!
There it goes
around the wicker basket
full of rotten apples.
It dances and I keep quiet.
Do you really think that I should show it to
someone, when I happen to see it?
Well, I won’t.
And who would ever gain anything from it?
And what would IT gain from my revelation?
TO možda ipak zavisi od mene?
Sedim tako jednog popodneva
kad
neko kuca.
Odem, otvorim.
Nije morao ni da se predstavlja.
Odmah sam znao.
I rekoh:
„Rat je na našim vratima!”
Pa poučen koječime
umesto da ga pustim unutra,
sam sam izašao napolje.
Jer:
TO ipak zavisi od mene.
After all, perhaps IT depends on me?
I’m hanging around one afternoon
when I hear a knock
at the door.
I go and open it.
He did not have to introduce himself.
I knew it at once.
So I said:
“The war has come to our doorstep!”
Life has taught me something
so instead of letting him in
I myself stepped out.
For:
in spite of all, IT depends on me.
TO u očima lepe žene treperi.
TO se s mačkama druži
pod automobilom.
TO vidi vojnik
dok umire u oranici.
TO vidi seljak
dok plasti slamu il seno.
TO ti se neće ukazati druškane
tek tako...
TO u očima lepe žene treperi
i tu se najpre može ugledati.
IT shimmers in the eyes of a beautiful woman.
IT snuggles with cats
under a car.
A dying soldier sees IT
in a field.
A farmer sees IT
while mowing hay or straw.
IT won’t show itself to you, my friend,
just like that…
IT shimmers in the eyes of a beautiful woman
and that’s the first place you spot it.
TO nije razum.
Bosa ludakinja na mesečini.
Ona se muči.
Zbog krvavih špilja
koje samo ona zna,
zbog mesečine,
zbog gluvih ptica.
Sve je nokte polomila,
svu je kosu raščupala,
tražeći da nađe...
TO je njoj okrenulo leđa.
Zato ne nalazi...
TO joj je okrenulo leđa.
Ali, TO nije razum.
IT does not invite sanity.
A barefoot mad woman is lurching in the moonlight.
She’s suffering.
Because of the caves drenched in blood
that she knows only
because of the moonlight
and the deaf birds.
She’s broken all her nails,
messed up all her hair,
she’s been searching for…
IT has turned its back on her.
That’s why she cannot find...
IT has turned its back on her.
But IT does not invite sanity.
SRPSKI BLUES
Znam da je crvena
a ipak mi se ponekad
učini da je crna
moja krv.
„Mi smo bre jedna govna”,
govorio je pokojni deda
za ovaj narod, za Srbe.
Polako mi postaje jasno
koliko ga je to bolelo.
Koliko ga je bolelo i TO
i crna krv.
SERBIAN BLUES
I know its colour is red
however black it appears
sometimes,
this blood of mine.
“We are all just pieces of shit”
my grandfather used to tell me
about our people, the Serbs.
It clarifies itself slowly, this affair which
must have hurt him so.
To what extent it hurt him – IT itself
and the black of the blood.
Plovimo.
Nezadovoljni,
ali plovimo.
Najednom
pacovi
skočiše
u vodu.
A mi
koji smo
ostali
na brodu,
ne brinemo.
Vidimo:
na brodu je i TO
i nema opasnosti.
A niko od nas ne zna
da TO ne ume da pliva.
We are sailing along
unhappy about it
but still sailing.
All of a sudden
the rats start
jumping into
the water.
And we
who remain
on the ship,
we are not worried
as we see
clearly:
IT is also on the ship
and there is nothing to fear.
However no one suspects that
IT does not even know how to swim!
Cigani gde god bili
ma u kom narodu bili,
nepogrešivo, daju mu TO.
Rusima – babušku i pesmu,
Englezima – potkovicu,
Francuzima – mašinicu
za motanje duvana,
Špancima i Srbima – nož.
Cigani, ma gde bili,
od svakog naroda u kojem su,
nepogrešivo uzimaju TO.
Pa voleo ih ne voleo,
isto ti dođe;
jer ako i uzmu TO
oni baš TO i daju.
The Gypsies, wherever they pass,
whatever country,
never make the mistake of not giving IT to other people.
They gave the Russians babushka and a song,
they gave a horse’s hoof to the English,
a tobacco-rolling machine is what they gave
to the French. To the Spaniards and the Serbs,
they gave a knife.
The Gypsies, wherever they pass,
from each people they live amongst,
they unfailingly take IT.
Whether you like them or not
makes no difference;
although they take possession of IT
they also confer IT.
SUNCOKRETI
Ljubici
Vidim te u centru te njive,
okružen si hiljadama braće i sestara,
dobro su mudri naučnici primetili
da pratiš Sunce duž neba.
Na mene sleće hiljade bubica
to su sve one koje vole sunce,
poda mnom hoda milijardu mrava
oni čekaju gozbu.
Noću, kad ovde sunca nema,
ja ga i dalje pratim,
zato obaram glavu.
Znaju li mudri naučnici
šta se događa noću?
Dobar deo bilja
uvrće se za Mesecom.
*
Pričala si o nekoj
galeriji u Holandiji.
O njegovim suncokretima –
na nekima su i hiljade vrana.
Suncokrete znam i poštujem ih.
Ali na vranama, o kako ti zavidim!
SUNFLOWERS
for Ljubica
I see you in the centre of that field
surrounded by thousands of brothers and sisters,
the good scientists have justly remarked
that you follow the Sun making its rounds across the sky.
Thousands of little insects land on me
all species that love the sun
and under my feet thousands of ants are marching,
waiting for a feast.
At night when the sun hides away,
I still follow its route,
that’s why I bow my head.
Do these good scientists know
what’s happening at night?
A large number of plants
turn their bodies towards the Moon.
*
You spoke of a certain gallery
located in Holland.
You spoke of his sunflowers,
some housing thousands of crows.
I know sunflowers and I respect them.
But to know the crows, oh, how I envy your knowledge!
ZAVIST
Prosto i dalje ne mogu da poverujem
kako mi zavidiš na nečem što nije moje.
Nisam ja to zaradio niti ukrao,
ja sam to dobio na poklon od Svevišnjeg.
I, što je najgore, to nikad nećeš imati,
neću imati ni ja kad mi On oduzme dar.
A ima nešto mnogo gore:
vidim kako počinješ i da me mrziš.
ENVY
It’s hard to believe
that you’re envious of something that does not belong to me.
I did not earn it nor did I steal it,
I got it as a gift from the Almighty.
And the worst of all is, you’ll never have it,
I won’t have it either when good Lord takes it away from me.
And I’ve observed something much worse than all this:
I’ve noticed that you’ve started hating me.
CITOSTATICI I FAGOT
Rano izjutra
kad pevaju prvi petli,
ne, ne, ne i ne.
Rano izjutra
kada se lasica lepotica
vraćala iz lova
posle obilaska mnogih gnezda,
na njenoj njuškici
bilo je krvavih tragova.
To su ti, sine, citostatici.
To je tamnoplava tečnost
koja se, kap po kap,
slivala pravo u venu.
Za sve to vreme
brujao je fagot.
To je tvoj život.
Ne, to je moj život.
A CYTOSTATIC AGENT AND THE BASSOON
Early morning
when the first roosters crow,
no no no and no.
Early morning
when that beauty of a weasel
returns from its hunt
after visiting so many nests,
a trace of blood
on its muzzle.
These are, my son, the cytostatic agents.
That’s deep blue liquid
which oozed into a vein
drop by drop.
And all that time
one could hear the sound of the bassoon.
This is your life.
No, it’s mine
