Robert Perišić

ako si i slučajan prolaznik opet ćeš znati osnovne stvari
riječi su samo povoji, svemirske stanice luče vrijeme
riječi su samo povoji koji se poslije bacaju
jutra su povezana kao obalni gradovi
poezija ulazi u male brijačnice
ponekad
patetično stojim na vjetru i
opserviram o nama u gostima
ptice udaraju o oštrice kutova
samo munje na zapetljanom nebu, jezici
ako nađeš moj automobil na granici
uzmi ga
...

you could be a passerby but you will know the basics
words are just bandages, space stations exude the time
words are just bandages and you throw them later on
mornings are connected like towns by the sea
poetry enters in small barbershops
occasionally
I stand in the wind pitifully
thinking about us and we were guests
birds slam into blades of corners
only lightning on the knotted sky, languages
if you find my car on the border
take it
...

kad netko iznutra jaje razbije
zora je. polje kukuruza, u vjetru
svirala si citru. Ti
si mi sva memorija,
na cesti ulje, cisterna,
U telegrafski stup!
pao sam u Mexico.
osmotrili su me nakratko
podigavši obode
i opet utonuli u ulični san.
Samo je čovjek Haar
sišao s konja,
ušao u saloon
Rekao je: Kurva
nikad joj nisam mogao vjerovati.
bila je srpanjska večer
i stajski mirisi na mjesečini.
Sad je već studeni,
još ga nisu uhvatili.
Samo uzdahnu: Haar, Haar
...

crtam preciznije od svakog oka
slike izudarane čekićima
(more prstenova, more algi, morske životinje)
duboko kao teleskop
otpor, navigacija, strojevi vjetra
jednim sam pogledom ubio more
memorija, tišina
sjajne ptice na ledu (led, sjajne ptice)
kad sam ušao u putanju tog
nekad udaljenog tijela
kontrola ulaska
vrijeme

prizori u kojima izlaziš u dvorište i vraćaš se u sobu
potpuno zelenih očiju
(kao da će neko biti pronađen)
kroz zavjese pada sumrak i čuje se radio
...

I draw more precisely than any eye
hammered pictures
(a sea of rings, a sea of algae, sea animals)
as deep as a telescope
resistance, navigation, wind machines
my one gaze killed the sea
memory, silence
shiny birds on ice (ice, shiny birds)
when I entered the path of that
once distant body
entrance control
time

the scenes in which you come out into the yard and go back to your room
your eyes completely green
(as if someone will be found)
through the curtains the dusk falls and the radio is heard
...

Gđico, pod Vašim prozorom sjedi gentleman Joao
crno mu srce, dalek prazan dom. izvin'te - taj
rever, ruža, košulja od bijela lana
i njegov tamni vrat
čekaju Vas. svake noći pred morem govori: guapa
guapa guapa i mjesecu pokazuje zube Joao Carbina,
Cigani pjevaju:
pred kućom Vam momak stoji mlad
ne bud'te zla Paola Martin

San Juan Daily (24. 6. 1909.)
bio je već potpuno sam i nerazuman
'. . .izbezumljen od zlata . . . čučnuo sam
na obalu i šibom udarao po moru . . .'
(uhapšen
na osnovu tog iskaza
u ovom neobičnom slučaju)
a nesretna
Zla Latinka, nazvao ju je tako zbog njene okrutnosti,
u to doba je, obično, potpuno gola hodala plažom
i mrežom lovila rijetke
noćne leptire

. . . pojest ću jabuku
okorjelu u . . .
jer ne može misliti, zvijer je prebrza
nema toga što ne govori
osumnjičen za umorstvo
u ćeliji s jednim bivšim ispovjednikom
koji će ga primirivati
i prije suđenja mu tvrditi
da 'priznanje sa sobom
nosi zajeb . . .
jer su male kurve pune kostiju'
koji će mu dugo objašnjavati
uopće, oni će razgovarati dugo
Joao Carbina će shvatiti neke stvari
i postat će još gori, još puno gori
...

tijelo
možda mu nedostaje objektivnosti
na terasi hotela Excelsior rekao je ne sjećam se
ne možeš me dostići
dim koji se razlijevao
po njenim grudima
u krevetu jake cigare
Virginia jer se bojao smrti
ničega polako
je to nestalo
kao
legenda
zvao se Eugen
Šostakovič
kod njega
u sobi s pogledom na veliki park
pronašli su
mnogo ljubavnih pisama
neotvorenih
praznih
također
kraj kreveta bačena
La Tarifa delle Puttane di Venezia
voće i povrće u zdjeli na stolu
nekoliko pokušaja tog motiva
otvoreni prozori
kao da je stao neki stroj
koji uokviruje pejzaž
...

a body
perhaps it lacks objectivity
on the terrace of the Excelsior Hotel he said I don't remember
you can't catch up with me
smoke was spilling on
her breasts
in the strong cigar bed
Virginia because he was afraid of death
of nothing slowly
it disappears
as
a legend
his name was Eugene
Shostakovich
in his room
with a view of a large park
they found
many love letters
unopened
empty
and by the bed, on the floor
La Tarifa delle Puttane di Venezia
fruit and vegetables in the bowl on the table
several drafts with that motif
windows were open
like a machine that stopped
and framed the landscape
...

to je američka kolonija, mali otočić u moru
pas sklopljenih očiju
opisujem nekog svog rođaka, ništa u luci, gledam led

kocke, ne stignu se formirati
Louis spominje MOSAD, gdje je to čuo
prsti su mlaki, kao i duhan
Ništa se ne može raditi po ovakvom vremenu
pričam o tome što nam se dogodilo, ali on se
ne sjeća
vozimo male barke ja, Louis i njegov brat
i ide nam vrlo slabo

vozimo male barke
ja, Louis i njegov brat koji spava čitavo popodne

okolni zrak jede kameleone
mirno je
...

it is an American colony, a little island in the sea
dog keeping eyes closed
I'm describing some distant relative, nothing in the harbor, I'm watching the ice

cubes, they keep melting
Louis talks about MOSAD, where he heard about it
fingers lukewarm, like tobacco
You can't do anything in this weather
I recount what happened to us, but he
does not remember
we are sailing in little boats, me, Louis and his brother
and we are very clumsy

sailing in little boats
me, Louis and his brother, he sleeps in the afternoon

the air around us eats chameleons
all is quiet
...

nekako dolazimo na temu
školskih sastava
uvijek sam za osmi mart
pisao o tome kako moja majka
ima žuljevite ruke
što je bio potpuno kriv opis
no, činilo se da se ne može drukčije

u njenom razredu, kaže
jedan dečko nije imao mamu
pa je mogao pisati
o kome god želi
o teti, o baki, o . . .

nastavnica mu je tako rekla
bila je pažljiva
ali svejedno: bilo mu je neugodno
gledao je okolo
nefokusirano

je li ikad pisao o mami, pitam
ne, reče

zamišljam ga
sjedi u klupi
i misli da drugi stvarno pišu o svojim mamama

kao netko zaljubljen, sanjari o tim riječima

tako sam nekad zamišljao pjesmu
...

we start to talk about
primary school essays
for the eighth of March
I always wrote about my mother
and her calloused hands
it was the wrong description
but, I thought you have to write in that style

in my class, she said
there was a motherless boy
so he could write
about whomever he wanted
his aunt, his granny, his . . .

the teacher told him so
she was tactful
even so: he was uncomfortable
he was looking around
unfocused

did he ever write about his mother, I ask
no, she said

I can see him
sitting in his class
and thinking that others are really writing about their mothers

like a lover, daydreaming about those words

and once I thought a poem must be just like that
...

kondukteri imaju sjajno pamćenje, jednom me
pogleda u facu i dosta mu je
lampicu za čitanje ne palim nikad
glava se treska u mraku
zurenje kroz prozor u šumu
glave političara na stupovima uz cestu, smiju se, izbori
filmovi na videu s puno mrtvih Iračana
b produkcija
Hrvatska
cigareta i WC ispred neke birtije
nepojedeni sendvič sa sirom
kratki pogled suputnice i šutnja
gazim cigaretu
ulazim unutra

glava se treska
autobus juri uz pogašene kuće
bura tjera duhove

te šume, gradići, kraška polja
prostranstva, golemi predjeli
u kojima se, u najboljem slučaju, ništa ne događa
...

conductors have great memory, he gave me
just one look and that was enough for him
I never switch on the reading light
my head bobs in darkness
gazing through the window at woods
laughing heads of politicians on the poles by the road, elections
movies on VHS with many dead Iraqis
b production
Croatia
a cigarette and a toilette in front of a tavern
an unfinished cheese sandwich
my fellow traveler gives me a look, silence
I put out my cigarette
and enter the bus

a head bobs
bus drives by, snubs out houses
northern wind drives out ghosts

those woods, towns, karst fields
open spaces, vast landscapes
nothing ever happens, a best-case scenario for them
...

nešto
Radi i ti!
ovo je mali lav, tek je prohodao
brojevi od 1 do 500, nestali su
dio žita kombajn ostavi za se
seljak sumnja na sve
imućne ptice na debelim granama
bolesnici grade bolnicu
nije dobro biti neženja
šutnja svih doktora
pronalaze metke u meni, to sam ja - njemački novinar
ubijen na putu prema Glini
loša cesta, brate
netko već radi umjesto mene
želiš li upoznati svog poslodavca?
zašto Amerikanac popravlja ogradu?
uvijek, uvijek popravlja ogradu, gledajući usput žene što prolaze

ali noći
ah, pune su razbojnika
oči lopova sjaju u mraku
seljak čeka u silosu
za radnim stolom Marx pada u san
nešto se događa vani
svjetla po svim ustanovama
Ludi rad večeras, manekenke šeću, pilot
leti, predsjednik govori, Ana uči jezike, seljak
čeka, vlak ide, evo ih! odmetnici
od 1 do 500
lavina!
...

You have to do
something!
this is a small lion, he is learning to walk
numbers from 1 to 500, all vanished
a combine keeps a part of the harvest for itself
the farmer doubts in everything
affluent birds on fat branches
patients are building the hospital
don't be a bachelor
silence of all doctors
they found bullets in my body, that's me - a German journalist
killed on the road to Glina
a bad route, buddy
someone already works instead of me
do you want to meet your employer?
why does an American repair his fence?
he always, always repairs his fence, and stares at passing women

but the nights
oh, full of bandits
eyes of thieves shining in darkness
the farmer waits in the silo
at his writing desk Marx falls asleep
something is going on outside
lights are on in all offices
Crazies work tonight, models are strolling, a pilot
is flying, the president is speaking, Ana learns languages, the farmer
waits, a train goes by, they are here! outlaws
from 1 to 500
avalanche!
...

moja draga i ja na terasi sanjamo duhove
more nešto govori u sebi
i nebo je čisto, mračno
naš automobil ispred kuće radi na minimumu
radi
ništa se ne vidi
evo čitavu noć sanjamo golubove
i katedrale
kao da nismo bili komunisti
i, zašto bi nekoga pitao?
Isus sjeda u naš automobil
i nijem vozi cijelu noć

meni je podne zakon
tad me zovu mobitelom
ustajem
ništa ja ne vidim od svjetla
jer sam gotički čip
a on popravlja retrovizor
prstima prolazi kroz kosu
i pita stopere koji idu u Frisco
Zabok
Lyon
nitko ne ide u Korenicu
i pita ih
zašto smo tako siromašni?
njegov mozak radi
radi
bilo tko to može vidjeti
naša djeca rastu i odlaze
na cestu

ispred kafića Charlie
na stotine ljudi
zagleda u motor našeg novog automobila
i govore, pljujući
...

with my girlfriend I'm dreaming about ghosts on terrace
sea mumbles for itself
and the sky is clear, and dark
our car outside the house runs at idle
it runs
you can see nothing else
but we are dreaming about pigeons all night
and cathedrals
as if we were never communists
and, why should you ask?
Jesus sits in our car
and drives all night without a word

to me, the noon is the best
they call me on my cellphone
I'm getting up
light blinds me and I can't see
because I'm a gothic chip
and he fixes the rearview mirror
runs his hand through his hair
and asks hitchhikers on their way to Frisco
Zabok
Lyon
no one goes to Korenica
and he asks them
why are we so poor?
his brain works
works
anyone can see that
our children grow up and get
on the road

outside Charlie Café
hundreds of people
are looking at the engine of our new car
and they talk, they spit
...