Ana Ristović

ANA RISTOVIĆ (Beograd, Srbija, 1972)

poezija / poetry:

Snovidna voda (Književna omladina Srbije, Pegaz, Beograd, 1994)

Uže od peska (Gradac, Čačak, 1997)

Zabava za dokone kćeri (Rad, Beograd, 1999)

Život na razglednici (Plato, Beograd, 2003)

Oko nule (Narodna biblioteka Stefan Prvovenčani, Kraljevo, 2006)

P. S. (izabrane pesme) (Narodna biblioteka Stefan Prvovenčani, Kraljevo, 2009)

Meteorski otpad (Kulturni centar Novog Sada, 2013)

Nešto svetli (izabrane pesme) (Gradska biblioteka Vladislav Petković Dis, Čačak, 2014)

Čistina (Arhipelag, Beograd, 2015)

u prevodu / in translation:

So dunkel, so hell (by Fabjan Hafner, Jung und Jung, Salcburg, Austrija, 2007)

Življenje na razglednici (by Jana Putrle & Urban Vovk, LUD Šerpa, Ljubljana, Slovenija, 2005)

Pred tridsiatkou (by Karol Chmel, Drewo a srd, Banska Bystrica, Slovačka, 2001)

Neupotrebljivi darovi

U vreme najave rata doputova

belgijski prijatelj:

njegov brod, danima oklevajući

slani dlanovi propuštahu kao popino prase.

Sa njim stigoše i neupotrebljivi darovi:

baštovanske makaze za nepostojeći vrt,

skijaško odelo za nepostojećeg skijaša,

planinarski ranac za nepostojeća putovanja,

mapa flandrijskog grada,

kao paučina pod staklom

za prazan zid koga nema.

I tanke, turske muštikle od ružinog drveta

koje sâm izdelja, tako dugačke

da su se pušači u maloj sobi sudarali

ukrštajući ih kao zapaljena koplja.

„Predviđene su za veća rastojanja –

dobra bi bila prostrana terasa, salon

ili piknik u polju.

I dim treba ispuštati polako, jer ovo je drvo

koje ga upija: gajeći sićušne larve

što dimom se hrane.“

Reče

dok mu je velika muštikla štrčala

kroz pustinjačku bradu i kosu

kao kljun pupavca koji pretražuje

nepostojeće gnezdo u vazduhu.

U vreme najava, i njegovi darovi

najavljivači drugačijih upotreba:

Nužnih rastojanja, jer sve manje beše

onih između kojih bi se moglo provući;

Zapaljenih stabala, prezasićenih dimom

što rastu na nepostojećoj zemlji;

Odsutnih primalaca.

Useless Gifts

On the eve of the outbreak of war

a Belgian friend arrived:

for days, hesitant salty palms

rubbed his ship like herd’s grass.

Together with him useless gifts arrived:

gardening scissors for a non-existent garden,

a ski-suit for a non-existent skier,

a mountaineering rucksack for non-existent journeys,

a map of a Flemish town, like cobwebs under glass

for an empty wall that does not exist.

And long thin Turkish cigarette holders made of rosewood

whittled by himself, so long

that the smokers in the tiny room collided

crossing them like burning spears.

“They were made for greater distances –

a large terrace would do, a drawing room

or a picnic in the field.

Also, the smoke should be exhaled slowly, for this wood

absorbs it: tiny maggots drown in it

feeding on the smoke.”

Thus spake he

while the cigarette holder stuck out

of his hermit-like beard and hair

like the beak of a hoopoe searching through

a non-existent nest in the air.

In a time of portents his gifts

portended different uses:

Necessary distances, as there are fewer and fewer

things that can be drawn in-between:

Burning trees, saturated with smoke,

growing on non-existent soil;

Absent recipients.

Translated by Novica Petrović

Published in the magazine Verse, Volume 15, No ½, Williamsburg, U.S., 1998.

O korisnosti muzike

Tek što poče prevratničko doba

kad upravnik opere odabra ironiju

zatvorivši se u koncertni klavir

na kojem „beretom“ izbuši za vazduh četiri rupe.

Tih godina samo zidovi prazne hale

ponavljahu njegov solilokvij

kroz muzičko bure propušten u etar –

O korisnosti muzike u prevratničko doba –

Oboriti gong u polje umesto kazana,

spustiti zvona na vreće sa brašnom i solju,

zlatnike i dugmad u zevove truba

a tegle s pekmezom i mašću u klavire

postrojene u predvorjima

kao crne kornjače ukočene

pri uvlačenju glave pod oklop;

Tajne cedulje nanizati na violinske žice

smotane u klupko, ćušnute

u pribor za pecanje;

Dete što nema krevetac moglo bi

u preuređeni kontrabas

I vojska će srećnija biti ako joj se sledovanje

deli otvorenim tamburicama

umesto malom kutlačom

Bubnjarske palice ponuditi lokalnoj policiji

jer uvek postoji koža zategnutija od kože

Radi kontrole melodije

praporce sa sanki preseliti na kape

uostalom, i muzika evoluira seobom

iz donjeg u gornje

Što više tišine, to više i zvučnika

magnetofona da zabeleže nepriznat titraj

Rasturiti tržište prigušivača

O gudala okačiti zastavice

A povlašćen prostor prenosnika zvuka

umnožitelja već iščezlog tona

ostaviti samo ćutljivim stenama:

između njihovih amnezija

dovoljna rastojanja nikada narušena neće biti

Muzika lako odustaje od instrumenata

u prevratničko doba, njen celi je svet

zaboravi li na oruđa –

Tako je kloparao, suva semenka u klaviru:

upravnik opustele bine i zavesa

zauvek podignutih kao smotana jedra ...

Tek što odabra ironiju, kad spustiše ga u podrum

ložačka leđa, domarske ruke

jer polirano drvo dobro je za potpalu

kad halu treba zagrejati

za dolazak hora

A dirke – do domine – strpati u vreću:

uz njih neko već smisliće

pravila nove društvene igre.

On the Usefulness of Music

No sooner had a time of upheaval started

than the director of the opera opted for irony

by closing himself inside a concert piano,

having shot four air-holes in it with a Beretta

For a while the walls of the empty hall

echoed his soliloquy

sent into the air through the music barrel –

On the usefulness of music, in a time of upheaval –

The gong is to be placed in the field in place of a cauldron,

the bells are to be lowered onto the sacks of flour and salt,

the gold coin and buttons into the yawning openings of trumpets,

while the jars of jam and lard are to be placed into the pianos

lined up in well-lit entrance halls

like black turtles frozen

in the act of pulling their heads into their shells;

Notes containing secret messages are to be strung

along violin strings piled up and tossed

among the fishing rods;

A child without a cot might be placed

inside a modified double bass;

The Army, too, would be much happier if rations

were handed out using tambouritzas*

instead of small ladles;

Drumsticks are to be offered to the local police force

for there is always skin stretched tighter than drums;

For better control of the melody

jingle bells are to be moved from sleighs onto caps,

even music evolves when moved from lower to upper regions;

The greater the silence the more loudspeakers there are,

tape-recorders to record the unrecognized vibration;

The silencer market is to be busted,

flags are to be hung on bows;

And the privileged domain of sound carriers,

multipliers of the already-vanished tone,

is to be left to the silent rocks alone:

the distance separating their states of amnesia

will never be violated;

Music gives instruments up easily

in a time of upheaval, the whole world belongs to it

should it forget its tools –

Thus rattled he, a dry seed inside the piano:

the director of the empty stage and curtains

forever raised like folded-up sails …

No sooner had he opted for irony than he was lowered into the cellar

on the backs and by the hands of stokers and porters,

for polished wood is good for kindling

when the hall needs to be warmed up

for the coming of the choir

And the piano keys – like dominoes – are to be stuffed into a sack,

someone is bound to come up with

rules for a new game.

Translated by Novica Petrović

Published in the magazine Verse, Volume 15, No ½, Williamsburg, U.S., 1998.

*tambouriza (tamburica) – (pronounced /tæmˈbʊərɪtsə/ or /ˌtæmbəˈrɪtsə/) or Tamboura (Croatian: Tamburica and Serbian: Тамбурица/Tamburica, meaning Little Tamboura, Hungarian: Tambura, Greek: Ταμπουράς, sometimes written tamburrizza) refers to any member of a family of long-necked lutes popular in Eastern and Southern Europe, particularly Croatia (especially Slavonia), northern Serbia (Vojvodina) and Hungary. It is also known in parts of southern Slovenia and eastern Austria. All took their name and some characteristics from the Persian tanbur but also resemble the mandolin, in that its strings are plucked and often paired. The frets may be moveable to allow the playing of various modes. The body of the instrument is made of a hollow gourd.

Sneg u cipelama

Ne gradi se kuća na zbirkama escajga

mada koja kašika više

ponekad dobro dođe.

Ne gradi se kuća na novim zavesama

mada drugačije poglede

s vremena na vreme

treba zakloniti novim platnom.

Da bi dom bio dom, između ostalog

treba ti i mnogo toga

čega bi se unapred

odrekao, vrlo rado.

Slušaj šta kažu Eskimi:

da bi se sagradio dobar iglo

godinama moraš da nosiš

sneg u cipelama.

I špenadlu, zaboravljenu

u okovratniku kaputa,

blizu žile kucavice.

Snow in your Shoes

One does not build a house collecting cutlery
even though a few extra spoons
come in handy sometimes.

One does not build a house from new curtains
even though different views
from time to time
should be shielded by new cloth.

For a home to be a home, among other things
you need a lot of things
you would gladly renounce
in advance.

Listen to what Eskimos say:
to build a good igloo,
for years you have to carry
snow in your shoes.

And a safety pin, forgotten
in your coat collar,
near the jugular.

Translated by: Novica Petrović

Lepa mrtva mora

Iz dana u dan dajem ti samo isparljive stvari:

maglu nad asfaltom, maglu u džepovima

i polja koja su pojele strvine od reči.

Umesto karte za put u dvoje

nudim ti prolaze kroz iglene uši.

Iz dana u dan, prosipam pred noge

lepa mrtva mora.

Živimo od krivotvorenja

hronične slobode: adresa je znana.

Između glavnog zatvora i stare šećerane

gde nekad završavahu pesnici, a sad

drugi klošari skupljaju iščezlu slast.

A mislim, dovoljan mi je samo jedan grad:

splet ulica koji čine tvoje vene.

Šator i sklonište stvoreni od tvoje kože.

I da je tvoja kosa, Birnamska šuma

što će mi prići i onda

kad stojim ukopana, poput sveće:

prejako sagorevanje ponekad me prilepi za tle.

Varam samu sebe da je dovoljna voda

koja se presipa sa usta na usta,

čak i onda kad se pretvori u led.

U tvojoj zemlji mladih sa prezrelim umom

sam nedorasla cura koju treba voditi za ruku.

U mojoj, gde je vreme odavno već stalo

nosim dušu starca i nazore mudre kuje.

Govoriš mi, da se moram navići

na novo agregatno stanje:

ono što isparava tamo, na uzavrelom jugu

ovde radom ruku pretvaraš u vodu

koju možeš prodati za blago.

Saginješ se,

na dlan spuštaš otežalu glavu:

tvoj uzdah poveća daljinu

između naše dve poluprazne čaše,

moj ih potera do ruba zajedničkog stola.

„Kupujem odmah, ali u naturi plaćam“, kažem

i poližem ti kap znoja sa čela:

učinilo mi se da svetli

kao žar cigarete.

„Od previše poređenja bankrotira i pesma“,

čujem te i vidim, u plamenu su ti

već cela kosa i lice:

no ne znam, da li od ushićenosti

ili od očajanja.

Beautiful Dead Seas

From day to day all I give you are things that evaporate:

mist over asphalt, mist in pockets

and fields stripped bare by beastly words.

Instead of a ticket for two

I offer you passages through the eyes of needles.

From day to day, I pour in front of your feet

beautiful dead seas.

We live by counterfeiting

chronic freedom: the address is known.

Between the main prison and the old sugar works

where poets used to end up, and where now

other down-and-outs gather vanished delights.

But I think all I need is one town:

the network of streets created by your veins.

Tent and refuge provided by your skin.

And that your hair is the Birnam forest

that will come towards me even

while I stand rooted, like a candle:

burning too strongly sometimes sticks me to the ground.

I deceive myself that water pouring

from mouth to mouth is enough,

even when it turns to ice.

In your land of the young with overmature minds

I am an immature girl who needs to be led by the hand.

In mine, were time had come to a standstill a long time ago,

I carry the soul of the old and the views of a wise bitch.

You are telling me I have to get used to

a new aggregate state:

what evaporates in the boiling south

you change here by handwork into water

which you can sell for goods.

You bend over,

rest your heavy head in your hand:

your sigh increases the distance

between our two half-empty glasses;

mine pushes them to the edge of our table.

"I buy immediately, but I pay with my body", I say

and lick a droplet of sweat off your brow:

it seemed to me to glow like

the end of a cigarette.

"Too much comparison kills even a poem,"

I hear you say, seeing that your

entire hair and cheeks are already aflame:

only I don’t know whether because of excitement

or despair.

Translated by: Evald Flisar

Published in the magazine Sodobnost, April 2001, Ljubljana, Slovenia

Lajbnic

Dan i noć, noć i dan

putujemo ka Sloveniji:

u malom autobusu, među nama

tišina raste

kao grad otcepljen od zemlje i sveta.

Još uvek neznanke, kao dve

lenje muve, sklupčane

svaka uz svoj prozor –

Ona, mala starica, Maruška možda –

u krilu drobi keks, marke

„Lajbnic“

kao da monadu od monade iznova deli

i smeši se, zureći u mrak

svetu što je još uvek

najbolji od svih ...

Ona, koja poznaje harmoniju –

Maruška, Blažka, Mojca možda.

U svom krilu drobim poeziju

pod slabim svetlom, na lošem drumu

list po list, reč po reč i čujem:

Srečko Kosovel odriče se sreće

jer svaka lepota deo je bola.

Nad stihovima

nema opravdanja za Boga

i monade što ih šalje

nikad ne stižu do zemlje:

kao varljiv sneg ispare

u prvom sloju neba.

U mom krilu, knjiga pesnika

čije ime unapred se odreklo

harmonije sa srcem i dušom.

Dan i noć, noć i dan

putujemo ka Sloveniji,

ona i ja, još uvek neznanke ...

I čitav svemir ljulja nam se

na kolenima

kao da bi da se odvoji od usnulog Boga

i traži saučesništvo

šapućući nam nežno, na uho:

„Braća smo, po ocu...“

Leibnitz

Day and night, night and day

we’re travelling to Slovenia:

in the little bus, the silence between us

growing like

a town cut off from the Earth and the Universe.

Still enigmas, like two

lazy flies, each curled up

alongside her window -

She, a little old woman, Maruška maybe –

in her lap crumbles a cookie brand-named

"Leibnitz"

as if newly separating a monad from monad

and smiles, staring into the darkness

of the world which is still

the best of all worlds ...

She who knows harmony -

Maruška, Blažka, Mojca maybe.

In my lap, in a bad light,

on a bad road, I crumble poetry,

page by page, word by word and I hear:

Srečko Kosovel* renounces happiness

because every beauty is part of pain.

In his verses

there is no excuse for God

and the monads He sends

never reach the Earth:

like a deceptive snow they evaporate

in the first layer of the sky.

In my lap, the book of the poet

whose name has in advance renounced

harmony with his heart and soul.

Day and night, night and day

we travel to Slovenia,

she and I, still unknown to each other ...

And the whole universe rocks

on our knees

as if wanting to separate from sleepy God

and find complicity

gently whispering into our ears:

"We’re brothers, born of the same father..."

Translated by: Evald Flisar

Published in the magazine Sodobnost, April 2001, Ljubljana, Slovenia

*Srečko Kosovel (1904–1926) was a Slovenian expressionist poet who evolved towards avant-garde forms. Since the 1960s, Kosovel has become a poetic icon, in the league of the most prestigious Slovene literates like France Prešeren and Ivan Cankar. He produced an impressive body of work of more than 1000 poems with a quality regarded as unusually high for his age. Most of his works were published almost four decades after his early death.

Licem u lice

Dani oporuka, dani priznanja: prva pesma

u kojoj rekoh „Ja“

ulazeći u reči kao da sklopljenih očiju

zašivam dugme za džep

iglom ga odižući od kože.

Na levoj strani, iznad samog srca.

Koje zaobilazih pažljivim ubodima

jer pročitah negde: tako se kroji

iskrena poezija –

kad uveriš srce da si odustao od njega.

Kada ti se čini da ne možeš ništa reći

ni o ljubavi, ni o strepnji, ni o kazni

ni o onome što je mimoišlo sećanje

u širokom luku,

tada se sve to, neizgovoreno

sâmo izgovara; i tek tada

odgovorna sam za ono što nisam

i šta ću možda jednom tek biti.

Svaka reč, poput vrha igle

spušta se sporo

tražeći pravu razdaljinu od kože i srca.

Meru podnošljive iskrenosti.

Veštinu krojača koji tkaninom ne skriva lice.

Nauk priče što je vekovima šapuću

hasidski starci, kraj toplog zida:

o zemlji, koja je tek naprstak Boga –

za svaki promašen ubod, samo način

da se Njegova ruka zaštiti od bola.

Face to Face

Days for last testaments, days for confessions: the first poem

in which I said "I",

entering words as if sewing a button on my breast pocket

with my eyes closed.

On my left side, above my very heart.

I guard it by stitching with care

because I read somewhere that

sincere poetry is tailored

when you convince your heart that you have left it.

When you have no more words

about love, trembling, punishment,

not even about things that gave your memory

a wide berth,

then the unspoken

expresses itself; and only then

do I become responsible for

what I am not,

and what I may yet become.

Each word descends slowly

like the point of the needle,

looking for the right distance from skin and heart.

For the measure of still bearable sincerity.

For the skill of a tailor who does not hide his face behind cloth.

For the moral of the story whispered for centuries

by old Hassidic men close to a warm wall:

About the Earth which is only God’s thimble –

a way of protecting His hand

from our pain

when the needle slips.

Translated by: Evald Flisar

Published in the magazine Sodobnost, April 2001, Ljubljana, Slovenia

Mišima

Iz večeri u veče, majka čita

„Kodeks samurajskih veština“:

svako novo jutro je belina tela

koju otkrije

rastvoreni crni kimono –

vrh sečiva treba zabosti

što dublje.

Sa danima se nositi

kao sa bliskom kožom uvek spremnom

na sepuku.

Kraj uzglavlja, umesto Biblije

držati Mišimu čije korice

sliče kutiji od lipovih daščica.

Iz njih i najtužniju istinu

birati pažljivo prstima, kao da je

trešnjin cvet

kome se ritualno, dva mala demona –

demon sećanja i demon zaborava

klanjaju u isto vreme.

Iz večeri u veče, majka izučava

samurajske tajne: pred spavanje

mesta u knjizi obeležava iglom

skliznulom niz probuđeni vulkan

raspletene punđe.

Samo ona zna: postoji

još jedan, nepisani zakon koji kaže

da su godine zavesa od papirnih ptica

kroz koju se treba provući

očuvavši tišinu,

a pogrešnim rečima i suvišnim dahom

ne zaljuljati nijednu.

Podneti samo

blagi šum malih krila

za leđima.

Mishima

Evening after evening my mother reads

“The Way of the Samurai”:

every new morning is like the whiteness of the body

showing through

the slightly open black kimono –

the tip of blade should be stuck in

as deep as possible.

One should struggle with the day

like with skin always ready

for seppuku.

By the head of the bed, instead of the Bible

Mishima’s book should be held

with its cover resembling a box made of tiny linden boards.

Even the saddest truth

should be carefully plucked from it, as if it were

a cherry flower

that two little demons –

the demon of remembrance and the demon of oblivion –

ritually bow to at the same time.

Evening after evening my mother studies

the secrets of samurai: before she goes to sleep

she marks her spot in the book with the needle

she slides from the wakened volcano

of her unbraided bun.

Only she knows: there is

another, as yet unwritten law claiming

that years are a curtain made of paper birds

one should squeeze through

keeping silent,

not making a single one swing

by wrong words or excessive breathing.

One should permit only

the gentle sound of little wings

behind one’s back.

Translated by: David Albahari and Richard Harrison

Čistka

U jeku krečenja stana

reših da krenem sa bibliotečkom čistkom

al bacih samo katalog izdanja iz ’85-e

i knjiga poezije, nekoliko.

Od tada se police ljuljaju i škripe

kao tuberkulozna pluća nečija, davna,

a za Dostojevskog, uporno se lepi

osinje gnezdo, kao meta kazna.

I svake noći, iz imena tvog Osipe M,

putuje omča do mog vrata

i glava se, ipak, spušta sama:

svih mojih telefona brojke su u tebi.

Purge

While white-washing the apartment

I decided on a book purge,

but threw away only the catalog of editions from ’85

and a few books of poetry.

From then on the shelves swayed and creaked

like some distant tubercular lungs

and persistently stuck in Dostoevsky’s

flat like meta-punishment.

And every night from your name, Osip M*

the snare travels to my neck

and the head descends to her alone:

you have all my telephone numbers.

Translated by: Brian Henry

*Osip M. – Osip Mandelstam, Russian poet

Prolećni zanati

Neka mala ptica

propevala,

progovorila dve-tri reči

i pokakila se na terasi obasjanoj suncem.

Ptica tako mala

da bi čak i kutija šibica

prerastala raspon njenih krila.

Njene oči, tek polovina fosfornog zrnca.

Iz sićušnog brabonjka

izrasla detelina

sa četiri lista:

Naša sreća govori nemuštim jezicima

i jezikom dobre probave,

prevazilazi svoje razloge

i ne bira mesto gde će da se dene.

Treba ćutati, istina je:

to sunce nad nama,

što ga više pominjemo

to više raste

u zlatna vešala.

Spring Trade

Some little bird

sang,

spoke two, three words

and shat on the terrace, ashine with sun.

So this little bird,

still a matchbox

that outgrew its wingspan.

His eyes only half phosphoric grains.

From the small shit

grew a four-leaf

clover:

our luck speaks in an animal language

and in the language of good digestion,

outdoing its causes

and not choosing the spot where I would land.

It must keep quiet, truly:

if he mentions

the sun above us,

it changes

into golden gallows.

Translated by: Brian Henry