Andriana Škunca Poems

Napuštena kuća iznova oživljuje, otvara se i daruje sve što je čuvala u samoći. Zadah plijesni, škripa dotrajala poda. Napukline pokazuju prisnost sa svime što je uvučeno u njih. Samo se ponekad vidi sve istrošenija unutrašnjost zidova.

Kuća, čuvarica odsutnih i njihova neprestana čežnja. Premda načeta po bridovima, skuplja misao što ju je gradila. Zvijezde se suglašavaju izdaleka. Šutljive, čuvaju njezin oblik.
...

The deserted house comes alive again, it opens and gives away everything it kept in solitude. The odour of mildew, the squeaking of a dilapidated floor. The cracks are familiar with everything that got sneaked in. Only from time to time the wall interior, ever crumblier, becomes visible.

The house, a keeper of the absent and their perpetual yearning. Although chipped at the edges, it collects the thought that has built it. The stars concur from air. Silent, they preserve its shape.
...

zimi
na moru rastu tvrde staze
bura zapada ribama do kostiju

zimi
škrape drže uže rasutome brodu
jarbolom drhti klatež natučenog neba

za mrtve surost i kratkoća dana

zimi
u smrznute panjeve puževi zarastu
stvrdne se zmija u boku starog hrama

zimi
narušenu smokvu pije goli zid
najteže je neimaštinu uhvatiti na dno
...

in winter
solid trackways overgrow the sea
storms sift down to the bones of fishes

in winter
stonecracks grip the hawsers of a boat laid open
an arc of bruised sky shivers down the mast

for the dead, rough ends and days grown short

in winter
snails swell on frozen stumps
a snake stiffens on the side of the old temple

in winter
the wall drinks in the sloping fig
hardest of all, to plumb the deeps of beggary
...

Sunce zalijepljeno za prozor više nije užarena kugla u koju ne mogu gledati. Smanjeno - samo je hladna točka koju pomičem sa staklom.
Zidom otiskuje svoj oslabljeni odraz.
Poslije, kad ga više nema, sunce naprašuje mrak. Isijava iz dogorjelih pukotina. Klizi s tamom i zatrpava samo sebe.
...

The sun glued to the window is no more a white-hot ball that defeats the eye. Shrunken to a point of cold that I wipe from the glass.
It stamps its drained reflection on the wall.
After, vanished, sun pollinates the dark. Glimmers from burnt-out cracks.
Glides with the dark, itself inters itself.
...

Kako joj nečujno prolazi, majka namata vrijeme na štap, razvlači ga u hodu. Doziva iz raznih udaljenosti, provjerava, pita. I dok šeta, štap je ticalo kojim ispituje - gleda.
Kako sve brzo zaboravlja, neprestano ponavlja isto: kako, kada, zašto? Sadašnjost protječe kroz nju kao nešto neprisutno. Sve čega se sjeća dolazi iz djetinjstva i nekih budućih predjela. O tome nam priča svagda isto.
Kad se uspinje stubištem, vrijeme za njom zamata nevidljivi sag. Sa svake stube pita: - Jesi doli? - Jesi dolika?
Nikoga. Ništa.
...

As it passes her unheard, mother spins time onto a stick, tents it as she walks. She calls from here and there, tests, questions. And as she walks her stick's a feeler, with which she probes and peers.
How quickly she forgets it all, always repeating and repeating: how, when, where? The present flows through her like absence. All she recalls harks back to childhood and on to the parts to come. She speaks of it to us, the same anew.
When she climbs the stairs, behind her time spins an invisible carpet. At every step she asks: "You down there? Are you down there?"
No one. Nothing.
...

Iz jedne u drugu kuću polako premještam stvari. Sve što stane u zaborav približava se i raste.
Put dopisuju: smokva, suhozid, vjetar. Popucale vratnice. S koje god strane prišla, jedna je skrivena. Mimoilazim se s nevidljivima. Veselo šuškaju u ljetnom danu željni uzajamnih prepoznavanja. Zapinju o paučinu, njišu se s rojevima mušica.
Razmjenjuju prošlo s budućim.
Prenosim kutije, pocrnjele fotografije, mapu, slike prelomljene u napuklu staklu. Čekaju me pusta mjesta.
Pritisak o vrata istodobno načinje i skriva tajnu u bravi. Uspomene se vraćaju dalekom vremenu osušenom u kamenjaru, ništa ne oživljavajući.
Dodirujem prašinu, lagano, da se ne rasprši. Cipele, svilene haljine, suho grožđe, razbacani naokolo. I nešto prisno što me nadgleda.
...

I'm moving the things from one house slowly to the other. All that fits within oblivion nears, looms larger.
The fig, the drystone wall, the wind: these mark the journey. The cracked gate. From wherever I approach, the other side is hidden. I pass myself by with unseen folk. They whisper brightly in the summer's day, hungry to recognise one another. They stumble around the spider's web, swaying with the swarms of gnats.
They trade past for future.
I carry over the boxes, obscured photographs, a map, creased pictures behind cracked glass. Empty spaces in wait for me.
Pushing at the door awakes the secret within the lock, at the same time masks it. Memories return from long ago, parched in the stonefield, nothing reviving.
I brush the dust with a finger, slowly, not to disturb it. Shoes, silk dresses, raisines, strewn all about. And something intimate, watching me.
...