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ORANGES AND SNOW
SELECTED POEMS OF MILAN DJORDJEVIC
By MILAN DJORDJEVIC
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS
Copyright © 2010 Princeton University Press
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-691-14246-3
Chapter One
Kaput Kaput lezi. Na podu. Bez kapi krvi u sebi. Kaput lezi. Umoran, zgrcen, odbacen i crn. -Kapute! Kapute! Kapute! -Mili brate! Ustani! Ustani! Barem klekni kraj tvog Milana Djordjevica! Mili brate zasipan snegovima, kišama, pogrdama, laskanjima, cuvaru moje samoce! Ustani! Ustani! Tako ti praznih dzepova, ispunicu ih mojim šakama. Prhnuce krilima u tebi. Tako ti zjapecih rukava, pusticu izmucene zivotinjice, moje ruke, u tebi da gmizu! I kaput poce da diše, otvori oci, zadrhta, pokrenu jedan rukav, raširi krila, polete, zagrakta, zaogrnu me svojim mrakom. I sad sam njegova utroba. Overcoat Overcoat lies. On the floor. Without a drop of blood in it. Overcoat lies. Weary. Crumpled, discarded and black. -Overcoat! Overcoat! Overcoat! -Dear brother! Rise! Rise! At least kneel next to your Milan Djordjevic! Dear brother, guardian of my solitude, beaten with rain, snow, curses, flatteries! Rise! Rise! I will feel your empty pockets with my hands. They'll flutter their wings in them. Inside your gaping sleeves I'll let the threadbare little animals that are my arms crawl! So it may begin to breathe and open its eyes, shudder, then move one sleeve, spread its wings, fly, caw and drape me with its darkness. I, who am its blood and guts. Kiša bi da se ubije Kiša prstima po tvom prozoru mrlja, mrmlja. Htela bi da ude da se ubije. A ja vidim. Leziš u postelji. I baš te briga. U mraku. Gola. Baš te briga. Raspustila kosu. Raširila butine. I gle, crne mahovine! A prst srednjak leve ruke, radi li radi! Zlocinac, trazi crvenu krestu. I zlacani med vec pocurio. I zoveš me iz svog delirijum tremensa. A ja se u gavrana prometnuo. Doletim u tvoje krilo i kljucam, kljucam. A onda u kljunu odnesem uhvacenu ribu, pa odem da se kartam i pijem. A kiša još uvek prstima po tvom prozoru mrlja, mrmlja, prebira amajlije, htela bi da udje da se ubije. The Rain Wants to Kill Itself With its fingers the rain stains your window and mumbles. It wants to come in and kill itself. I see you are in bed and couldn't care less. In the dark. Naked. Couldn't care less. Your hair loose. Your thighs spread open. And there, in plain sight, black moss! Your left middle finger busy, busy! Villain, searching for the red crest. While golden honey already oozes. You call me from your delirium tremens. Me already changed into a crow. I fly down into your lap and peck, peck. And then in my beak carry the caught fish away, to go play cards and drink. While the rain with its fingers makes stains over your windowpanes and mumbles, counts its beads, wants to come in and kill itself. Prah, sve je prah Prvo ga je zavodila plavim ocicama. A on je zgrabio dlakavim rucerdama. Kokoška se smejala, smejala. Kao na kucnoj zabavi. A on je nozicem zagolicao po vratu. I nezno je polozio na panj. I odsekao. I glava je pala sa osmehom na kljunu. I telo je trcalo dvorištem i za sobom vuklo rep, crveni repic krvi koja se razbaškarila po travi. I dve vrane sedele na grani oraha. Sedele i pušile. I rekle: -Naraštaj jedan odlazi i drugi dolazi, a zemlja stoji u vijek! -Sve je od praha i sve se vraca u prah! Dust, all Is Dust First, she seduced him with her blue eyes. So he grabbed her with his hairy hands. The hen laughed, laughed. As if she were at a house party. While he tickled her throat with a knife. And gently laid her on the stump. Cut her head off. So it fell with a smile still in her beak. And the body ran through the yard, dragging the tail behind it, the red tail of blood settling down in the grass. Two crows sat in a chestnut tree. Sat smoking. And said: One generation is on its way out, another one is coming, only the earth is forever. -All is dust and returns to dust! Krompir U dubokoj grobnici lezao je, blazenopocivši, faraon mrke boje. Medju svojima zalostive suze je lio za cestitim blatom u kome se ispilio. Ali evo ga na tanjiru oholog, obarenog, peršunom krunisanog, maslacem pomazanog, evo ga samotnog, kao od majke rodjenog, od gladi spasao je zatornika i pravednog. Gle, vitki noz preseca ga napola, gle, viljuška mu se u ledja zabola! Ali, prijatelji, nemojte zato tugovati, na svet krtola nemojte mracno gledati, jer drugi spasitelji u vrecama klijaju, da zvezdu-vodilju na vedrom nebu ugledaju. Spud In a deep tomb he lay, a dark-hued pharaoh resting in peace. In private, he shed grief-stricken tears for the honest mud where he was hatched. Here he is now on a plate, arrogant, boiled, crowned with parsley, smeared with butter, solitary like a newborn, he who saved from hunger both the damned and the just. Look, a thin knife cuts him in half. Look, a fork sticks out of his back. But, friend, don't feel sorry for them. Don't look darkly on the world of potatoes, since in sacks other saviors are sprouting hoping to see the polestar some clear night. Beli luk O mali, beli korene oblih bokova, kakvu krv piješ iz zemljine tmine? Je li caroban miris tvojih sokova? Zemlja je tajna, mesto tmastih snova, crnilo budjeno besom sunca i kišurine, neznošcu snega i divljanjem vetrova. O mali, beli korene oblih bokova, hoceš li sveopštu corbu zaciniti ili ostati sred zemaljskih okova? Tvoji mirisi spajaju lepotu beline i ruznocu crnila, buku svih ratišta i plavetno ništa okeanske tišine. O mali i obli korene belih bokova, teraš li Djavola svojim sokovima? Jesi li moc kuhinje veselih bogova? Ili si jestivo cudo što samo spaja glupost i dubinu kao penis i vaginu usred našeg elektronskoga Raja? Garlic O small, white root with round hips, what blood do you drink out of earth's darkness? Is the scent of your sap magical? The earth is secretive, the place of black dreams, darkness wakened by the fury of sun and rain, the tenderness of snow and savagery of winds. O small, white root with round hips will you flavor our communal soup or will you remain in earth's chains? Your scent brings together the beauty of whiteness, the ugliness of black, the noise of battle and the blue nothingness of oceanic silence. O small, white root with round hips, do you chase the devil away with your sap? Do you rule the kitchen of carefree gods? Or are you the edible miracle that couples foolishness and depth, like penis and vagina, in the midst of our electronic Paradise? Galilejeva tema Nalece roj muva, gomila ljudi. Roj muva, gomila ljudi. - ta hoce od mene koji sam samom sebi stranac? -Pokazi ruke, pokazi? Prao si prljave ruke? U ciste ih pretvarao? Pokazujem ruke moje savesti. Pokazujem ruke ovce. Pokazujem cistu krpu moje svesti. -A sad kazi: Ovo je raj! Ovo je raj! Priznajem sud muvlje inkvizicije, pravedne policije! Upljuvan muhoserinama njihove mudrosti kazem: -Ovo je raj! Ovo je raj! A u sebi izgovaram: -Neka idu u majcinu, zemlja se ipak krece! I roj muva, gomila ljudi, andjela cuvara, pobednicki odlece, odlece. Galileo's theme A swarm of flies attacks, a crowd of men. Swarm of flies, crowd of men. -What do they want from me, who even to myself am a stranger? -Show your hands, show! You washed your dirty hands? Made them clean? I show the hands to my conscience. Show my sheep-like hands. Show the clean rags of my mind. Tell me now, this is heaven! This is heaven! I accept the flies' inquisition, their just police! Spat all over with their shit-like wisdom. I say this is heaven! Heaven! The earth still turns -and in a whisper, let them go to hell. And the swarm of flies, crowd of men, guardian angels, triumphantly fly away, fly away. San Kad dodjem do njegove oštre ivice, do ivice na kojoj bih mogao da se posecem kao što sam palac na ivici belog papira posekao, kao što sam belo secivo svojom krvlju obojio, kada dodjem, pogledam dole i vidim drugi san grozniji od ovoga, san u kojem me neko sanja deset godina posle moje nagle i nasilne smrti. Jer znam, svi moji snovi umrece onoga dana kada me smrt odnese na mesto gde više nece biti ni imena ulica, ni brojeva kuca, niti kakvih adresa. Znam, svi moji dani bice kao trunje i fina prašina ispod ovog seoskog kreveta na kojem sanjam. Svi moji dani bice niz vedara punih mleka ili niz kablica ispunjenih ponocnim tecnostima mracnijim i gušcim od istopljenoga katrana. I sva ce se vedra i kablice na kraju prosuti. I tako svoje crnilo i belinu izmešati. The Dream When I come to its sharp edge, the sharp edge on which I may cut myself, the way I cut my thumb on a sheet of white paper, the way I colored its edge with my blood, when I stood there, looked down, I saw a dream, even more terrifying than this one, a dream in which someone dreams of me ten years after my sudden and violent death. I know that all my dreams will die the day death takes me to a place where streets have no names, the houses no numbers or address. I know all my days will be like crumbs and fine dust under this country bed in which I lie dreaming. My days will be a row of milk pails and buckets filled with midnight liquids darker and thicker than melted pitch, so that in the end all the pails and buckets will be spilled and everything dark and white in me will be mixed. Veliko i malo |
za Aneliz Gotje Pesnik Bašo uci me kako slavna dela vojskovodja, krvnika mogu postati ništa a da skok zabe moze trajati vekovima. Sa Atlantika dolaze crni oblaci i kiša. Bilo je suncano a sad na Sen Nazer kao pirinac sa neba padaju zrna leda. Pesnici su bica cesto lišena suštine, ljudi što govore gluposti i neistine, lude i brbljivci koji svašta umišljaju. Pa ipak, pa ipak, mrmljaju o cudima, buncaju ono što drugi ne naslucuju, a reci u mraku fosforno im blistaju. Japanski pesnik Bašo uci me da blisko moze biti uzasno daleko a put u daljinu priblizavanje sebi. Iznad Atlantika smracilo se nebo i pljuštao je sitan led a sada grad ozaruju bleštanje sunca i vedrina. Great and small |
for Anne-Lise Gautier The poet Basho teaches that the famous feats of blood-soaked military leaders come to nothing while a leap of a frog may last centuries. Black clouds and rain arrive from the Atlantic. The sun was out, but now over Saint-Nazaire The grains of ice fall out of the sky like black rice. Poets are creatures often lacking in substance, men who say stupid and untrue things, madmen and blabbermouths who imagine what they will. And yet, and yet, they whisper about miracles, rant about what others don't even suspect, so their words glow in the dark like phosphorus. The Japanese poet Basho teaches me that what is close may be terrifyingly distant and that a journey to a far-off place brings one closer to oneself. Over the Atlantic, the sky has darkened, hail fell just a moment ago, and now the city glistens in the sunshine and under the clear sky. Plovidba Dosad sam samo zamišljao plovidbu, a sad cu se stvarno ukrcati na brod, sad cu jednostavno isploviti iz luke. Izlozicu se fijukanju ledenih vetrova, golemim talasima i cudima Atlantika. Oslobodicu se maštarija i sanjarenja. Napusticu sve jednolicno i beskrvno. Odbacicu svu jalovost zamišljanja. Disacu kao zivotinja, bicu mornar. Pocecu zaista vešto da skacem i petljam oko brodske snasti i cvorova konopaca. I rasplicem sve što je davno zamršeno. Evo me, iskusni mudri morski vukovi, siroce sam, na kopnu nikom potrebno. Neka me zato usvoji ustalasani okean. Primite me, kapetani najduze plovidbe, menjam suvu dosadu zemaljske izvesnosti za beskraj uzbudljive neizvesnosti vode. Primite me, vi što klizite plavetnilom, vi koji ste sve dalje od prve nevine luke, primite me da pobedim strah i da se nadam. Sea Voyage Up to now I only imagined a sea voyage, and now I'm about to embark on a ship, now I'm about to sail out of the harbor. I'll expose myself to the howling of cold winds, the huge waves and moods of the Atlantic. I'll free myself from daydreams and imaginings. I'll leave behind everything drab and bloodless. I'll reject all idle thoughts. I'll breathe like an animal; I'll be a sailor. I'll begin truly to busy myself with ship's riggings and knotted ropes, untangling what had been tangled long ago. Here I am, wise and experienced sea wolves, I'm an orphan, no one needs me on land. Let the choppy ocean adopt me as its own. Take me, captain, you of the longest voyage, I'm exchanging the dry boredom of land's certainties for the thrill and infinite uncertainty of the sea. Take me, you who glide over the blue, you, farther than ever from the first innocent harbor, take me along so I can conquer my fear and hope. Staza Trazim stazu ili pravi put izmedju poljana zasoljenih injem i sitnim snegom, zarobljenih bodljikavim zicama, trazim sigurnu stazu ili smrznuti put koji ce me odavde odvesti. Trazim stazu kojom cu mirno da koracam. Vidim jastreba, sa usamljenog hrasta uzlece, pa širi krila i spušta se ka ogoleloj šumi. Vidim dve vrane gde na drugoj strani kruze. Jutros je zec munjevito protrcao kroz baštu. Ovce se kraj ograde skupljaju i tupo zure. U daljini, iznad šume helikopter nisko leti. Nisam potpuno siguran u ono što vidim. Nisam potpuno siguran u ono što cujem. Krv mi kroz umorno telo jednolicno struji. Mislim na crvenu grcku pomorandzu. Iz njenog mesa sunceva slast brzo se cedi. Mislim na oblinu jedne dojke koju u tami pre mnogo godina nisam na rastanku poljubio. Trazim dobru stazu ili put izmedju poljana. Ponavljam staru, naucenu lekciju o trazenju. Njušim vazduh i s brda gledam naseljenu dolinu. Zalostan sam kao zardjala šerpa u jarku. Zalostan sam kao kondenzovano mleko u frizideru. Nocu zijam u psihodelicnu belinu meseca. Melanholican sam kao pogrešno ispisani formular. Ali posle tumaranja našao sam pouzdanu stazu, našao sam put koji vodi do središta maloga grada. Tu cu popiti pivo i odatle cu ti, daleki prijatelju, odatle cu, kao da sneznu grudvu niz brdo kotrljam, odatle cu ti poslati ovu nešifrovanu elegicnu poruku. A Path I seek a path or a road between the fields, salted with black frost and fine snow, imprisoned by barbed wire, I seek a reliable path or a frozen road that will take me from here. I seek a path I can walk on calmly. I see a hawk take flight from a lone oak tree, spread its wings and dive toward the leafless forest. I see two crows circling on the other side. This morning a rabbit dashed through the garden. Now the sheep gather at the fence and stare dumbly. In the distance a helicopter flies over the forest. I'm not entirely sure what I'm seeing. I'm not entirely sure what I'm hearing. The blood flows evenly through my tired body. I'm thinking about a red orange from Greece. The way sweet sunlight drips from her pulp. I'm thinking about a round breast in the dark which saying goodbye years ago I didn't kiss. I seek a solid path or a road between the fields. I repeat all the well-learned lessons about being lost. I sniff the air and gaze from a hill at the populated valley. I'm as sad as a rusty cooking pot thrown in a ditch, as sad as the condensed milk in the refrigerator. At night I stare at the psychedelic whiteness of the moon as sad as the wrongly filled-out official form. After much roaming around, I found a dependable path, I found a road that leads into the center of a small town. There I will have a beer, and will send you, distant friend, with the speed of a snowball rolling down a hill, this elegiac message free of covert meanings.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from ORANGES AND SNOW by MILAN DJORDJEVIC Copyright © 2010 by Princeton University Press. Excerpted by permission.
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