Damir Šodan Poems

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.
...