Dušan Vukajlović

DUŠAN VUKAJLOVIĆ (Pančevo, Srbija, 1948 – Beograd, Srbija, 1994)

poezija / poetry:

Getsemanski vrt (Libertatea, Pančevo, 1972)

Vedar dan u Engleskoj (Književna reč, Beograd, 1975)

Uvod u bolest (Rad – Narodna knjiga – BIGZ, Beograd, 1977)

Sprave za mučenje (Prosveta, Beograd, 1980)

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)

preveo / translated by: Novica Petrović

VRISAK ŽIRA

Potražiš ga Sa zemlje

podigneš brižno

Očistiš ga da bi ga pridobio

Šapućeš mu reči

            koje si tajno primio

            koje ćeš tajno predavati

Podigneš se na brdo Sedneš u hlad

Pod tobom se prostre krajolik

iz srednjeg veka

Pogledaš me upitno

            ne suviše nasrtljivo

            ne suviše pokorno

I ja ti onda kažem:

Raširi dva prsta

      Stavi ga među njih

      Potom ih sklopi

b)   Ostavi mesta u vazduhu

      koji je ionako svuda oko nas

      da uđe u šupljinu

v)   Stavi prste na usta

      Duni

Ako si čista srca

Čućeš moj vrisak a tvoj smeh

Čućeš tvoj vrisak a moj smeh

Ako grehe prevelike nisi činio

Vrisak žira čućeš

Acorn’s Scream

You search for one pick it up

Carefully From the ground

You clean it up in order to win it over

Whisper words to it

            that you have received secretly   

            that you will pass on secretly

You climb a hill Sit down in the shade

Below you spreads a landscape

from the Middle Ages

You look at me inquiringly

            not too insistently

            not too humbly

And then I say to you:

a) Spread two fingers wide apart

    Place it in-between them

    Then tighten them around it

b) Leave room in the air

    which is all around us anyway

    let it enter the cavity

c) Place your fingers on your mouth

    Blow

If your heart is pure

You’ll hear my scream and your laughter

You’ll hear your scream and my laughter

If you haven’t committed sins too gross

You’ll hear acorn’s scream

VEDAR DAN U ENGLESKOJ

Nebo onevinjeno smehom

kao lice Velšanina iz

lošeg hotela u Westbourn parku

što izaziva

što draži

što milovanje hoće

davno neispunjeno

I kosmos u broj sažima

Bog = jedan, praznina = nula

Brišući naočare izvinjavajući se zbog

te sramne radnje

(Lajbnic je to bestidno činio razmišljajući)

potpuno nesposoban tada za:

rukovanje

pisanje

obilazak bolnice

svedočenje

seksualne odnose.

Izvanredno sposoban tada za:

stvaranje kosmosa od jedan i nula

izazivanje homoseksualnih težnji u drugih

onanisaje

Pokušavali smo zajedno po parkovima

nailazili na rasturene krtičnjake

i iscepane listove iz Četiri kvarteta

spajali ih i pravili pesme

(Velšanin je voleo Eliota)

Onda izbijali na reku

i razmišljali o LSD-u

Čitav jedan dan smo izbegli

nice day today, isn’t it

zar ne

A Bright Day in England

A sky made innocent through laughter

as the face of a Welshman from

a bad hotel in Westbourne Park

which tempts

which teases

wants caresses

unfulfilled for a long time

And the cosmos condenses into numbers

God = one, void = zero

Wiping my glasses apologising for

that shameful act

(Leibniz did it shamelessly thinking)

at such times being entirely incapable of

shaking hands

writing

visiting hospitals

giving testimony

sex.

At such times exceptionally capable of:

creating the cosmos from one and zero

provoking homosexual inclinations in others

masturbation

We tried together in parks

encountering ruined molehills

and pages torn out of Four Quartets

we put them together and made poems

(the Welshman liked Eliot)

Then we came out onto the river

and thought about LSD

We avoided an entire day

nice day today, isn’t it

is it not

UGLEDAČEŠ I TI SPRAVE ZA MUČENJE

Pratim tvoje smicalice

Pokušaj da me izbaciš iz ravnoteže

Nemeru da sačuvaš znanje

Isključiš struju Sagoriš sveću

Popališ šibice Naturiš mi mrak

Pothranjujem ti početne uspehe

Opreznost slabim Zamku gradim

Znam Stupićeš jednom

U tajnoviti prostor U kupatilo

Odvrnućeš slavinu Podmetnućeš čašu

Usred te gnusne radnje

Ugledaćeš sprave za mučenje

Drhtaćeš Priznaćeš

Tu zeka pije vodu

You Too Will See Instruments of Torture

I follow your ruses

An attempt to throw me off balance

The intention of preserving knowledge

You switch off electricity Burn down the candle

Use up all the matches Impose darkness upon me

I nurture your initial successes

Weaken your cautiousness Set up a trap

I know At one point you’ll enter

The secret area The bathroom

You’ll turn on the tap Place a glass underneath

In the middle of that heinous act

You’ll see instruments of torture

You’ll tremble You’ll confess

That’s where a bunny drinks water

UVOD U BOLEST

Postao sam viđeniji član bolesnog dela sveta

Kuće preobražene u belo i sveće Na umu mi je

Čarobni čardak iz detinjstva i odrasle priče

Kažu da se oslobodim toga ali

javljaju se još nesigurnije stvari

Nedostaju mi razgovori o noćnom zamku

i Dami koja je tužna

Zauzvrat mogu da sedim dugo koliko hoću

Tamo odakle dolazim

Sve je protivzakonito Ne hranim se

i neki moji delovi dostižu

čistoću Boga Koji Se Kupa

 An Introduction to Illness

I have become a well-respected member of the sick part of the world

Houses turned white and candles I’m thinking of

A magic mansion from my childhood and adult stories

They tell me to get rid of it but

even more uncertain things appear to me

I miss conversations about a castle at night

and a Damsel who is melancholy

By way of recompense I can sit as long as I like

Where I come from

Everything is illegal I do not feed

and some parts of me attain

the purity of God Who Washes Himself

KNJIŽEVNO VEČE

Pesnik je izvadio svoje pesme

Ugasio cigaretu

            Spreman na suočavanje

            Stidljiv i drzak

U sali otpor još nije ugušen

Organizator govori i namiguje

Lagano ga razumevaju

            Milo ga već pogledaju

Potom kako i priliči

Događaj počinje

No koga će dečko moj

            Da ubedi pesma

Tvoje neubedljivo telo

            Lažno ti lice

Ropstvu nesklono

            Građanstvo se buni

            Lukavo izmakavši

Pesniku tlo pod nogama i pesmu

Poslednjim pokretom ovaj ih gađa

najgorim stihom i gubi

Iznose u noć dečak mog u

Nepogodu

Pale radio Rasploženi

Poetry Reading

The poet took out his poems

Stubbed out a cigarette

            Ready for confrontation

            Shy and bold

In the hall resistance has not been overcome yet

The organiser speaks and winks

They are slowly beginning to understand him

            They are giving him benign looks already

Then as is befitting

The event begins

But who will my boy manage

            To convince The poem

Your unconvincing body

            Your false face

Not partial to slavery

            The citizens resist

            By slyly sweeping

The carpet and the poem from under the poet’s feet

Making his last move he throws

his worst verse at them and loses

They carry my boy out into the night into

The storm

They switch on the radio Feeling good

PESNIČKA UMETNOST

Kada se latiš ove pesme

Iznudi rečniku preciznu reč

Na početku Potom stavi tačku

Ostalo je manje važno Opširni

način zadaje više truda

Skrati obavezno Treba brzo raditi

Rukopis prekucati

Na kraju nemarno Dve poslednje

reči zalepiti

Potom budi dobar prema čitaocu

Smeši se A ako ima nešto da

se pojede ili popije

Ne bi naodmet bilo

The Art of Poetry

When you tackle this poem

Make the vocabulary yield a precisely fitting word

At the beginning Then put a full stop

The rest is less important A wordier

approach requires more effort

Cut it short by all means One should work quickly

Retype the manuscript

Be offhand towards the end Tack on

the last two words

Then be good towards the reader

Smile And if there is anything

to eat or drink

It wouldn’t be amiss

TRAG PESME U BOLESTI

Jula 1976 godine U bolnici

Jave mi da je Partizan

osvojio fudbalsko prvenstvo

za tu godinu

Potom je lekar obavio

uobičajenu prepodnevnu vizitu

Biće bolje Stanje se popravlja

Uskoro napolje

Posle dobrog sna Setio sam se

da podatak o fudbalu

nije interesantan za poeziju

Još uvek nisam odgonetnuo

čemu onda poezija

A Poem’s Trace in Illness

In July 1976 In hospital

They informed me that Partizan FC

had won the national football championship

that year

Then the doctor came

for his usual morning visit

It would be OK My health was improving

I would be discharged soon

After a good sleep I remembered

that the bit of information about football

was of no interest for poetry

I still haven’t fathomed

what the purpose of poetry is then

SEČA

                        doktoru

Šta vidiš,

                        kožu, iza nje nešto, ne znam,

venu, meso.

Još iza šta vidiš,

bubreg, srce,

organe što odnose hranu i vraćaju,

tebi da proučiš.

Šta vidiš,

mene što lebdim,

oko tvog događaja,

oko moje molitve,

oko tvoje namere,

tvoje žabe, tvog sečiva na žabi,

šta vidiš, kaži.

Kad okreneš mrtvo čeljade naopako,

kad ga dodirneš,

a ne čuje te, ne vidi te,

oprašta ti,

vidiš li Ono oko srca, Ono, znaš.

O Bože, vidi li da nema onog tak

                        da nema onog tik

Oprosti mu, Bože,

on vidi onda kuda idemo,

on vidi onda, ponovo mu oprosti,

odakle dolazimo.

Cutting

                        to a doctor

What do you see,

                        skin, something behind it, I don’t know,

a vein, flesh.

Further behind what do you see,

a kidney, the heart,

organs that take food away and bring it back,

to you to study.

What do you see,

me floating,

around your event,

around my prayer,

around your intent,

your frog, your blade on the frog,

what do you see, pray tell.

When you turn a dead person over,

when you touch him,

and he can’t hear you, can’t see you,

he forgives you,

do you see That around the heart, That, you know.

O God, does he see that there’s no tic

                                that there’s no tac

Forgive him, God,

he sees then where we’re going,

he sees then, forgive him anew,

where we’re coming from.

46. MI JE GODINA

46. mi je godina, pitaš me, lukavo, šta jesam,
kako je proteklo, u mali izveštaj da sažmem.
Precizno, čitko, ogoljeno,
i, znao si to, dobijaš tekst o onome što nisam,
kratak, nesrećan, konačan.

A nisam:
nikuda nikad otputovao,
nisam video velike gradove,
istoriju miliona spojenih nesreća,
ni sela na obroncima, tako ugodna navodno,
ni pustinje, naselja pod morem,
niti manastire na vrhu sveta.

Na svetim mestima nisam upoznao Boga,
a davao mi je znake, prikradao se,
nisam, dakle, video ništa,
ni sebe, ni brata, ni tebe.

Sanjao sam, a ništa nisam zapamtio,
ostao u večitom snu, večitom pokušaju.

Ni u kap vode se nisam smanjio
(moguće je, kaže vudu-mag),
obišao potoke, reke, okean,
iz česme kapnuo, pod večitim ledom odahnuo.

Ne znam jesam li i pesmu napisao,
samo sam jednu knjigu i jednu sliku video,
premalo za tvoje prijatelje.

U politiku, u večnom komunizmu, zavirio sam,
vratio se ponižen i gori.

Stao sam u red, ne ropćem, bezbedan sam,
nema pitanja, ne tražim odgovore,
to je ono što mogu.

Nisam čak, to će mi biti najviše zamereno,
ni žilet oprao, pustio mlaku vodu u kadu,
i čvrsto, za početak, stegao levu šaku.

I Am 46 Years Old

I am 46 years old, you ask me, slyly, what I have done,

how it has been, wanting me to sum it all up briefly.

To make it precise, readable, austere,

and, you knew it, you get a text about what I have not done,

brief, unhappy, final.

And this is what I have not done:

I have not travelled anywhere,

I have not seen big cities,

the history of millions of intertwined misfortunes,

nor have I seen villages on sloping hills, allegedly so pleasant,

nor deserts, settlements under the sea,

nor monasteries on top of the world.

In holy places I have not met God,

and he did give me signs, sneaking up on me,

I have not seen anything, then,

not myself, or my brother, or you.

I have dreamed, while not remembering anything,

remaining in eternal slumber, eternally trying.

I have not been reduced to a drop of water either

(it is possible, a voodoo magus says),

nor have I made a round of streams, rivers, oceans,

dripped from a tap or found respite beneath eternal ice.

I don’t know whether I have written a poem,

I have seen one book and one picture only,

too few for your friends.

I have taken a peek into politics, under eternal communism,

returning humiliated and worse than I was.

I have joined the queue, am not chafing, am safe,

there are no questions, I don’t seek answers,

that’s as much as I can do.

I have not even, this will be held against me the most,

I have not even rinsed the razor blade, let tepid water flow into the tub

and, for a start, firmly clenched my left fist.

O SVETLOSTI, O NEŽNOSTI, O MRAKU

Ca velikim odobravanjem, sa veseljem, sa strašću bez želja,
čekam taj mir, tu nepomičnost i nedodirljivost,
tu opomenu drugima, tu slast meni.

U tom nežnom dodiru neće biti nežnosti,
nijedno nadanje neće biti ispunjeno
i nikakav strah neće taći moje srce
i ono će se odmarati i skupljati snagu

ne za pokret i ne za mirovanje

i moji udovi će biti u položaju u kome su se zatekli,
u najboljem položaju, dakle,
i one dve-tri suze neće me skvasiti
i ja neću biti ja i ti nećeš biti ti,
ali ja ću to znati,
i ti ćeš uživati u zalasku sunca, i u kiši,
u mraku i u svetlosti,
ali sve će se odvijati jedno za drugim,
i ti ćeš praviti razlike kojih nema,
i dotaći ćeš me i mislićeš da smo se oprostili,
a nećeš dotaći ništa,
jer na ovome mestu ne možemo se rastati,
nismo se na njemu sastali, ni na nekom drugom,
jer bi to samo ovo mesto bilo.

I neće mi ova postelja biti grob, kako ćeš ti pomisliti,
samo ćemo ležati na velikoj vodi oboje,
i udaljavati se i sastajati se
i samo mali osećaj krivice će nas spajati u budućnosti,
kako ćeš ti nazivati ono što preostaje, ono što nas deli.

On Light, Gentleness, Darkness

With great approval, with gaiety, with passion devoid of wishing,

I await that peace, that stillness and inviolability,

that warning to others, so sweet to me.

In this gentle touch there will be no gentleness,

no hopes will be fulfilled

and no fear will touch my heart

and it will rest and gather strength

not for motion and not for stillness

and my limbs will remain in the position they were in,

the best position, then,

and those few tears will not moisten me

and I won’t be I and you won’t be you,

but I will know that,

and you will enjoy the sunset, and the rain,

darkness and light,

but they will unfold one after another,

and you will make distinctions that don’t exist,

and you’ll touch me, thinking that we’ve bid our farewells,

but you’ll be touching nothing,

for we cannot part in this place,

we did not meet in it, or in any other,

for it would be this place only.

And this bed won’t be my grave, as you’ll think,

we’ll just both lie on deep water,

drifting apart and meeting anew,

and only a small feeling of guilt will bond us in the future,

which is how you’ll be designating what remains, that which separates us.