Miloš DjurdjevićCroatiaWriting2007
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to je jedino moguce reci
zlatom zlato ima svoj jezik
muca pod mojim prozorima
od samog svitanja oblaže
polja sitnim necujnim
koracima isprva polako
oprezno zatim u sve širim
nanosima prekriva dolinu
sve do ruba i preko njega
dani dišu zlatni prah
sipi zrakom u nepomicnim
vrtlozima zuji pod mojim
krovom sve do veceri što
uvijek iznova kasni
privezana debelim konopima
za zdenac noci u svakoj
sobi utisnuti pecati zlata

 


this can only be said
by gold the gold gets its tongue
it stutters under my windows
from very sunrise on it lines
the fields in tiny silent
steps at first slowly
warily then in wider and wider
strokes it covers the valley
all the way to the rim and over
the days breathe golden dust
it drizzles through the air in immobile
vortices buzzes under my
roof until the evening that
is always late all over again
fastened by thick ropes
against the night’s well in every
room seals of gold are pressed

Ti koji si ušao

To write as a chisel writes on rock
so every phrase you write resounds forever:
Jamie McKendrick: Ye Who Enter In


Sunce nije izašlo, prigušeno jastucima izmaglice
Zemlje bez daha koja se tjednima suši, šušti, šara
Po prašini. Nije te cekalo. Zadovoljan nad tudom
Mrzovoljom prišao si prozoru i ostao zaslijepljen

 

Plahtama, bjelinom oblaka na tlu, zadnji pramenovi
Vec su nestali, nisi ništa vidio. Sada ideš od prozora do
Prozora i brojiš udare dlijeta, odjeci im se gube iza
Osmog ili devetog brijega. U kuhinji Francesco i

 

Giovanni ispijaju drugu šalicu kave. Prvi se nadlaktio
Nad cvrsto sklopljenom knjigom, kopce su masivne
I pouzdane kao šarke ulaznih vrata. Drugi opet briše
Skicu sa zida, lijevo uho je vece i spušteno, naculio se

 

Da cuje što se dolje dogodilo. Nije mu to drago, ali
Znamo da nece ništa reci. Spustio je glavu i par puta
Prstima lupno po teškim koricama. Kava ti se hladi,
Jesi li dobro spavao...

 

 

To write as a chisel writes on rock
so every phrase you write resounds forever:
Jamie McKendrick: Ye Who Enter In

 

The sun didn’t come out, dimmed by the pillows of haze
Of breathless soil that’s drying, rustling, scribbling in the dust
For weeks. It didn’t wait for you. Satisfied with someone else’s
Sullenness you approached the window and got blinded

 

By the linens, by the whiteness of the clouds on the ground, the last locks
Had already disappeared, you saw nothing. Now you walk from a window
To a window and count chisel strikes, their echo vanishing behind
The eighth or the ninth hill. In the kitchen Francesco and

 

Giovanni are having their second cup of coffee. The first one is leaning
Above the closely shut book, its clamps are massive and as
Reliable as the main gate’s hinges. The other is again scraping
The sketch from the wall, the left ear is bigger and lowered, he’s trying

 

To hear what had happened down there. He’s not pleased, but
We know he won’t say anything. He lowered his head and tapped
His fingers on the heavy covers a couple of times. Your coffee’s getting cold,
Did you sleep well…

 


Poems translated by Tomislav Kuzmanovic