Damir Šodan

nakon svega
njegov traktat o iskupljenju
završio je u crnim vrećama
među razbacanim dijelovima
namještaja gdje jedna djevojčica
sjedi i lista slikovnicu
o algama. ubrzo će se i vrata
odlijepiti od kuće
(barem to tako izgleda)
i krenuti pravo niz utrinu
za nevidljivim tobolcima.
ali kada jednom uđeš
u tu mjeru za blato
u to mutno obećanje proljeća . . .
(skoro da je i tako nešto
prevalio preko jezika)
uglavnom nastoj ne umirati dugo
kao Violetta u Traviati
na stranicama novogodišnjeg programa.
ovo nije vrijeme za salve i proroštva.
dođe mu da se ukrca
na plastičnu gondolu
i posveti se oštrenju olovaka.
da - olovaka.
...

All said and done
his treatise on redemption
ended up in a black plastic garbage bag
amid the scattered pieces of furniture
where a little girl sits leafing
through a picture-book about algae.
Soon the door will unhinge itself from the house
(at least it looks that way)
and walk away across the meadow
trailing along behind the invisible quivers.
But once you've entered
that measure for mud
that muddled promise of spring . . .
(his tongue almost mumbled
out something like that)
anyway, try not to go on dying for so long
like Violetta in La Traviata
on the pages of the New Year
edition of a TV-guide.
This is not the time for salvos and prophecies.
He feels a sudden urge to embark on a plastic gondola
or get down to sharpening pencils.
Yes, pencils, why not?
...

Je pense à toi
divlji Skite koji lutaš stepom
s neprijateljskim ušima u torbi,
ali ne mogu se, da me ubiješ, sjetiti
gdje te ono točno spominje Herodot
‘reporter', kako je u ono vrijeme
znao reći naš stari profesor M. S.,
stručnjak za Stari vijek, zakonodavca
Solona i agrarne reforme braće Grakhi,
za kojeg su brucoši zlobno iza leđa
govorkali da je bio partizanski harmonikaš
i da ima vanbračnu kćer . . .

. . . jer povijest
kao žustra pipničarka
(magistra pipae)
zdušno briše svoju najbolju
i najgoru djecu i gura ih
poput dobro počišćenog
svadbenog pladnja
u ono svima znano
Opće mjesto
(locus communis)
toliko razvikano i prazno
da bi u njemu eonima mogao
sasvim legitimno dosluživati
takozvani obavezni
križni rok.
...

Je pense à toi
the wild Scythian who roam the steppe
with enemy's ears in your purse,
but I can't - for the life of me - remember
where exactly you figure in that quote
by Herodotus, ‘the reporter', as he was called
by our old professor, M. S., an expert
on Old Ages, Solon the law maker and the land
reforms under the Gracchi brothers,
about whom the freshmen maliciously
gossiped behind his back
that he was the partisan accordionist
who had an illegitimate daughter . . .

. . . because History
as a speedy barmaid
(Magistra Pipae)
dutifully wipes off her best and worst
children from the face of the earth
pushing them like wiped-clean
wedding plate
into that Common Place
(Locus Communis)
so notorious and empty
that you could, for eons on end,
perfectly legitimately
serve the remainder
of your so-called compulsory service
to the Cross there.
...

ujutro je ( . . . )
zakopčala wonderbra
i pomislila kako je dobro
to što ona zna da je ona ona
a ne nijedna druga.
na primjer, neka doktorantica koja zna sve
o templarima i kumranskim rukopisima,
ili žena koja čisti stubište i ima blizance
koji ne silaze s rošula.
sad kad sam to shvatila, čini mi se
da bi bilo dobro kad bih u skladu s tim
i djelovala, a ne samo riječi, riječi, riječi . . .
riječi koje imaju moć da povjeruju i u ono
što ti nije u glavi (ali je tu negdje).
i onda ostaneš sama s rubljem na žici
i svemogućom tugom pokislih majica.
izložena mutnoj vodi neznamčega
koja grgolji u ustima zločestih tajnica.
i što reći toj pametnoj djevojčici?
je li ta žena pogriješila?
...

this morning ( . . . )
put on the wonder-bra
thinking how good it felt to know
that she was herself
and none other than herself.
for instance, a PhD candidate who knows
Templars or Qumran scrolls
inside out, or the cleaning lady
whose twins hardly ever get off their roller skates.
now that I have put that straight
it would be nice if I could only act
accordingly and not just words, words, words . . .
words that have the power to believe in what is not
even inside your head (but it is somewhere close).
and then again it's you alone and the laundry
on the string and this supreme sadness of the wet T-shirts
like standing before some turbid water of I-don't-know-what
gurgling in the mean secretaries' mouths.
and what will you say to this smart girl?
has this woman gone wrong?
...

blažena bjelina
udaljenih mjesta.
obična čista majica
u kojoj nisi nikoga ubio.
u pet ujutro u hotelskoj sobi
kopaš po torbi
tražiš pjenu za brijanje
i misliš na Antarktik.
Zbilja - gdje bi ti bio kraj
da si se kojim slučajem
oduvijek ovako rano
budio.
...

Blessed be the whiteness
of distant places,
a clean, ordinary T-shirt
with no one to kill!
At 05:00 A.M. in a hotel room
you rummage through your bag
looking for shaving foam
and thinking of the Antarctic.
Indeed, there would have been no
stopping you, had you
always been ready
for such an early start.
...

huligan-heroj, vođa anarhista,
željezničarov sin, gerilac s očima djeteta
na licu poludivljaka, proleter-propagandist
Buenaventura Durruti ustrajavao je više od svega
na biranom izrazu i njegovoj čistoći.

kad bi on uzeo riječ svi su razumjeli o čemu govori.
Emma Goldman kaže da je oko njega sve vrilo kao u košnici
i da je navodno uvijek bio dobre volje.

Durrutijeva kolona
gradila se na duhu libertarijanstva i dragovoljne žrtve.
na njegovom pogrebu koji je Barcelonu
veličanstveno zavio u crno
i crveno u Via Layetana slilo se grandioznih 500.000 duša.

čak je i ruski konzul
bio duboko ganut
prizorom te mase dignutih pesti
koja se klela u tog anarhista
što je vjerovao da samo generali vladaju silom
i da disciplina kao mlaz prosvjetljenja
dolazi uvijek i jedino
iznutra.
...

Hooligan-hero, anarchist leader,
son of a railway worker, a guerrilla
with the eyes of a child and the face of a savage
proletarian propagandist, Buenaventura Durruti
insisted most of all on clarity of expression.

When he had the floor everybody understood.
Emma Goldman said that she found him a veritable beehive
of activity. And he was allegedly always in a good mood.

Durruti's Column
was built on self-sacrifice and libertarian spirit.
His funeral magnificently draped all of Barcelona in black
and red. A glorious crowd of half a million
poured down Via Layetana just like that.

Even the Russian consul
was deeply moved
at the sight of that crowd with fists in the air
who swore in that anarchist
who believed that only generals rule by force
and that discipline always comes
like a spout of enlightenment
exclusively from within.
...

godine 1934, nakon što mu je umrla
pokroviteljica koja je tijekom 40 godina
podupirala njegovo pisanje i politički angažman,
star i sam, nobelovac W. B. Yeats,
počeo je patiti od visokog krvnog pritiska
i slabog srca, do te mjere da je u pitanje
umalo došao i njegov stvaralački zanos.

ali Yeats, taj mistik
koji je s podozrenjem gledao
na svaki neosobni vid nauke
načuo je negdje za najnoviji
postupak rejuvenacije i na učas prijatelja
pronašao u Harley Streetu, u Londonu,
nekog australskog seksologa
koji je na njemu u proljeće iste godine
izvršio tzv. Steinachov zahvat
(varijantu vazektomije, prvi put oprobane u Beču,
koja je navodno vraćala zatomljeni nagon).

operacija je po svemu sudeći uspjela,
budući da se William u pismima prijateljima
ne bez ponosa povjeravao
kako mu se vratila seksualna želja
i da se zaljubio u mladu i talentiranu
pjesnikinju Margot Ruddock
kojoj je tada bilo svega 27
naspram njegovih zrelih 69.

cinični Dublinci prozvali su ga
smjesta "stari žljezdomat".
međutim, W. B. je ponovno počeo pisati
pjesme i to je bilo važno.
jedna od tih novih pjesama
naslovljena Nagon glasi:

Misliš da je strašno u starosti bijesu
i požudi se podati, i njihovom plesu,
kad u mladosti ne bijahu počast za mene,
a sad jedini na pjesmu me nagone.

William je uskoro sastavio
i Oxford Book of Modern Verse
i počeo raditi na novom izdanju Sabranih pjesama
takvom silinom "kao da je potpisao"
- tvrdili su očevici - "novi ugovor sa životom!"
umro je tek pet dugih godina poslije
od srčanog udara na
- of all places -
Francuskoj rivijeri.
...

In 1934, having lost his patroness
who for forty years supported his writing
and political engagement, W. B. Yeats,
the Nobel Prize winner, old and alone,
began suffering from high blood pressure
and failing heart to the point
that his creativity almost waned.

But Yeats, that mystic
who would frown upon
any form of impersonal science
had heard somewhere about the latest
rejuvenation treatment and to the horror
of his friends found an Australian sexologist
on Harley Street in London who in the spring
of the same year performed on him
the so-called Steinach operation.
(A kind of vasectomy, first tested in Vienna,
which allegedly restored dormant drive).

The operation appeared successful,
judging by letters to his friends
wherein William proudly claimed
that had he regained his sexual desire
and fallen in love with a young and talented
poetess Margaret Ruddock
who was then all of 27,
in contrast to his ripe 69.

The cynical Dubliners immediately began
calling him a "gland old man",
but W. B. set out writing poetry again
and that was what mattered the most.
One of those new poems entitled ‘The Spur'
goes like this:

You think it horrible that lust and rage
should dance attention upon my old age.
They were not such a plague when I was young;
What else have I to spur me into song.

William soon compiled
The Oxford Book of Modern Verse
and began working on a new edition of his Collected Poems
so intensely "as if " - said witnesses -
"he was given a new lease on life".
Five long years later he died
of heart failure on the French Riviera,
of all places
Imaginez?!
...

sanjala sam da se Kamčatka
odvojila od kopna i da pluta
oceanom slobodna.

svi mediji su to prenijeli.
(Japancima je preporučeno
da ostanu u kućama.)

trčala sam gradom da te nađem
prije početka sveopće kataklizme,
ali ti si se spremao u kino

s nekim nepoznatim ženama.
jedna od njih mi je ukrala kaput.
bila sam tako nesretna.

svu noć sam vikala.
ali me nitko nije mogao čuti.
kao da sam umrla.
...

I dreamed that Kamtchatka
had broken off from the mainland
and was floating freely across the sea.

All the media covered the event.
(The Japanese were advised
to remain indoors.)

I ran through the city trying to find you
before the whole world fell apart,
but you were getting ready to go

to the movies with some women
I did not know. One of them stole my
coat. I was so desperate.

I screamed all night long,
but no one could hear me.
As if I'd been long dead.
...

njen mobitel ponovno zvrči.
u kasno ljetno popodne u Rua Garrett
s nogom preko gole noge & licem

Monice Vitti (iz Antonionijeve L'Avventura)
dok lista Marie Claire & ispija svoj espresso
ona nema razloga za brigu. A poesia está na rua

s fasade za njenim leđima pod hrpom
poderanih postera proviruje stari plakat
iz doba Salazara; u areni nedaleko od stadiona

upravo muče ("ali ih nikada ne ubijaju")
bikove. njihov otegnuti urlik uvlači se
na balkone, zalazi u begonije i klima uređaje,

dok s radija lagano dopire vječna Amalia . . . jer
fado je fado je fado je fado
taj mali čekić duše

koji kucka o unutrašnje zidove lubanje
diskretno kao njene potpetice
o izlizane lučke pločnike.

& tad ponovno diže pogled da se uvjeri
da je još uvijek motrim podjednako znati-
željno kao maloprije. nešto dalje

na slobodnom mjestu za Pessoinim stolom
njena klinka slaže Pokemone.
koje li udaljenosti pomislim

i sjetim se Friedrichove rečenice:
"kad istjeruješ vraga pripazi
da ne istjeraš ono najbolje."
...

Her mobile phone buzzes again.
On a late summer afternoon on Rua Garrett
she sits with her bare legs crossed in the image

of Monica Vitti (from Antonioni's L'Avventura)
leafing through Marie Claire sipping her espresso
with not a single worry in the world. A poesia está na rua

behind her, letters from an old placard peer out
from underneath the layers of torn-up posters,
a reminder of the Salazar era; in the arena

not far from the stadium, the torture of bulls
has just begun ("but they never finish them off").
Their lengthy howls penetrating balconies, begonias

and air conditioners while the radio plays the eternal Amalia . . .
for fado is fado is fado is fado
that tiny hammer of the soul

knocking on the inside walls of your skull
discreetly like her high heels across the worn-out
harbour pavements.

Once again she raises her eyes to make sure
that I am still watching her as curiously as
I was just a moment ago. A little further away

at that free spot at Pessoa's table
her girl is lining up Pokemons.
Some distance this is - I think to myself

remembering Friedrich's sentence:
When you are chasing out the devil,
make sure you don't chase out the best!
...

Everything will flow.
Suede
stao sam na loptu.
što sam drugo mogao?
(tek da znam da je nešto i u mojoj vlasti.)
poslije sam sjeo na bicikl
u Albertu Heijnu kupio južnoafričko crno
(čast N. Mandeli i H. Masakeli!)
vratio se kući
na balkonu zauzeo štokrlu
sjetio se pokojne babe
i Tadije Bojkanova
sjajnog tenora
i njenog nesuđenog vagiđanta
(u selu K. u Dalmatinskoj Zagori
cca. 1928. danas sasvim mrtvom)
ali i ovdašnjeg doktora Nicholaasa Tulpa
s Rembrandtove slike koji je prvi
skalpelom načinjao primate.
međutim, to je sad druga priča
koja traži dodatni okvir
& zato već gledam vatromet
dolje iznad luke
(na nebu praskavi planktoni . . .)
Talijani izgleda i ove godine prvi,
iako smo na Sjevernom moru, ali nema veze
zemljopis je još samo stavka
u sitnom slogu provincijskog tiska
gdje lijepa Jele vezak veze
i jeleni silaze s tapiserija
da se napiju iz dlanova
smjernih trudbenika
dok ovdje igra sažima svijet.
ona je omča, zalog, harmolodija . . .
i ne možeš joj pobjeći.
niti u lijesu okovanom daskama.
...

Everything will flow.
Suede
I slowed the ball down!
What else was I supposed to do?
(Just to feel that at least something was under my control.)
Then I jumped on my bicycle
and headed off to Albert Heijn
for some South African red
(God bless N. Mandela and H. Masakela!)
and then back home and straight out to the balcony
where I sat on the stool remembering
my late grandma and Tadija Bojkanov
an excellent tenor and her courtier
who was never to be (around 1928
in the village of K. in the Dalmatian hinterland
now dead as a stone) and in the same breath
for some reason also the great Dutch doctor
Nicholaas Tulp from one of Rembrandt's
paintings, a pioneer surgeon, the first one
to cut primates open, but that is altogether
a different story that calls for an additional narrative
frame and that is why I am already watching
the fireworks down above the harbor
(the sky bursting with fiery planktons . . .)
looks like the Italians are going to make it
to the top this year again although we are at the North Sea
never mind the geography being still an issue
only on the pages of parochial small print
where Jela, the fair maiden, still weaves her goblins
and deer come off the tapestries
to drink from the palms of humble proletarians
whereas here the Game compresses the world,
for it is a noose, a deposit, a harmolodics . . .
and there is no way you can escape it,
not even boarded in a casket
ridden with heavy nails.
...

Ništa posebno.
Bio je četvrtak
(posebno ništa)
i promašio sam vlak.
Ispod reklame za Sony
gledao me stari bicikl.
Preko noći su mu ukrali kotač.
dolje u luci 1920.
Michaux se krcao na teretnjak.
Dar Njemačke Francuskoj
imao je deset tisuća tona
lijepu liniju
i zvali su ga
Le Victorieux.
...

Nothing special.
It was a Thursday
(a special nothing)
and I missed the train.
An old bicycle was watching me
from under a Sony ad.
Someone stole its front wheel overnight.
Down below in the harbour,
1920, Michaux was boarding a freighter.
Germany's gift to France,
it weighed ten thousand tons,
had nice lines
and they called it
Le Victorieux.
...