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ADELAIDE Independent Bimonthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Bimensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 


Poetry by MARKO POGACAR
Translated by Andrea Jurjevic

 

 

 

 

MESNI ROMEO

Stajao sam na prozoru golih prsa, vikao
volim ćufte, najviše volim ćufte, dolje je far kao
flak prste kada se goni sabljarka rezao noć
dijelio mrak na dvoje. jedan je pas, gubav i brz,
zaspao u lokvi vlastite sjene, mlaki koja se pomiče
kako se u snu pomiče pas; kako ga pohode u snu  
misli o vrućoj srnećoj utrobi.

taj topli trak svjetlost, neopipljivi tepih, teče između čestica
nalik na klin. provlači se, trlja leđima o bijele zidove,
bljesne o zube, da bi završio u jednostavnoj logici čempresa.
mašina koja u mjestu turira
u nebo podiže stručke bezglasnog dima. kada na njega svjetlost
u svom krivudanju iznenada nabasa,
u oblacima konzervirani kukci i noćni leptiri, goruće točke,
zatečeni lebde u mjestu. povežu li se točke masnom olovkom
u zraku titra precizni portret mećave, obris i flota šume. 

tako: već su postrojeni heroji koji će šumu sasjeći. oštrice
sjekira sjaje nalik na oči, kad ih obliže far. tišina reži, bježe
mirisi povučeni u kuće. čuju se samo mjehovi cvrčaka i ja
koji s prozora urlam volim ćufte, kako suludo volim ćufte,
i zatim je netko, možda i pripit, prošao, pitao: a kakve to ćufte voliš?,
i ja sam rekao u sosu, u paradajz sosu, u onoj trorogoj konzervi,
zna se kako se jedu ćufte! i noć je zapekla crna kao kut tavana, hladna
kao sjeverno srce.

 

ROMEO OF MEAT

I stood bare-chested at the window, yelled
I love meatballs, I love meatballs the best, below headlights
cut the night like flak slices fingers in swordfish hunt
split the dark into halves. a dog, leprous and fast,
fell asleep in a puddle of its own shadow, a pool that moves
like the sleeping dog; how in slumber he’s hounded 
by thoughts of hot doe womb. 

that warm stream a light, an intangible rug, pours between particles
like wedges. it squeezes through, rubs its back against white walls,
flashes off teeth, to end in the simple logic of the cypress.
an engine that revs in place
lifts sprigs of soundless smoke into the sky. when the twisting light
stumbles upon it,
in the clouds canned insects and moths, blazing specks,
float stunned. if the specks are traced with a greasy pencil
air flickers, a precise portrait of a blizzard, form and fleet of woods.

so: already the heroes who’ll cut down the woods are lined up. whetted
axe blades shine like eyes, when licked by headlights. the silence growls,
the indraft of household aromas flee. just crickets’ pairs of bellows and I
at the window howl I love meatballs, I’m crazy about meatballs
and then someone, perhaps drunk, passes by, asks: what kind do you love?
and I say, with sauce, tomato sauce, ones in tricorn cans,
the only way to eat meatballs! and the night burns black as an attic corner,
cold like a northern heart.

 

 

 

 


O SLABOM VREMENU         

Nije to nikakvo proljeće.
samo se cvijeće izvija tupo iz svojih čašica
i pčele pjevaju linoleum i tepih vjetra. zrak,
dubok i težak, uvlači se pod trave i podiže
trbuhe miševa: ne prođe dan a oni 
razgrnu tijelo kao zavjesu i raznesu
kosti i iznutrice. nije to nikakvo proljeće. 
samo vode u rijekama rastu i smočnice
čekaju da ih ispuni pusta novost. gdjegdje bogovi
guču iz grobova, kao golubovi. i njihov narod  
drugom narodu kopa oči, no noću, to se dešava
noću. po danu pupa i u grad se vraćaju ptice: žice
teške od pjesme i zemlja plodna od govana zatežu grlo.
živice pužu u nebo. konobari iznose stolove
i muhe upadaju u čaše. zeleno brzo uči svoj jezik–
pouzdan rječnik čempresa, slova bukvi i breza;
čak i zemlja pod noktima spremna je cvasti. ipak nije
to proljeće. nije to ništa. nema proljeća bez tebe, dosta je
dosta je bilo laži.

 


ABOUT POOR WEATHER

This is no Spring.
only flowers twisting tediously out of small cups
and bees singing linoleum and the carpet of wind. the air,
deep and heavy, draws under the grass and lifts
bellies of mice: in less than a day they
bare the body like a curtain and spread
bones and guts. this is no spring.
only the river rising and pantries
waiting to be filled with sheer news. here and there gods
coo from graves, like pigeons. and their people
gouge the eyes of other people, but at night, that happens
at night. it buds in daytime and birds return to the city:
song-heavy cables and shit-fertile soil tighten the throat.
hedges crawl to the sky. waiters bring out tables
and flies fall into glasses. green learns its language fast—
the reliable vocabulary of the cypress, letters of beech and birch;
even the dirt under fingernails is ready to bloom. still this is
no spring. it’s nothing. there’s no spring without you, enough
enough with lies.

 

 

 

 


OBRAČUN (BOG I BLAGAJNICA)

Svijet je knjigovođa s češljem
u džepu košulje, zlatni prsten, karika

koja nedostaje, karika 
usječena u meso prsta, u svinjsku os–

knjigovođa, taj svijet, sa svim svojim ušima,
šamponom od koprive bespomoćnim, o posve
suvišnim.

ljubav tamna blagajnica.
i zatim izlet, godišnji zimi na Tisi, klizanje

ledenim jezerom, u ludim osmicama,
kao znakom za beskonačno, u snu,

u snu o svinjama skonča konačnim padom.
blagajnica jede kiflice, sir i buhtle, sama:

blagajnica pod nebom. među zubima joj zaostaju
mrvice. u ušima odzvanja zveket klizaljki.

a u kutijici šibica, gadan i prazan, trezor za mrtve,
bog: bog je bankomat. 


SETTLEMENT (GOD AND CASHIER)

The world is a bookkeeper with a comb
in his shirt pocket, a gold band, a link

that’s missing, a link
cut into the flesh of the finger, into a hog’s axis —

bookkeeper, that world, with all his lice,
with his nettle shampoo helpless, oh entirely
needless.

love, a somber cashier.
and then a trip, winter vacation on the Tisa, skating

across a frozen lake, in crazy eights,
in the symbol for infinity, in a dream,

in a dream about hogs it ends with a final fall.
the cashier eats croissants, cheese and sweet rolls, alone:

the cashier under the sky. between her teeth stick
crumbs. in ears rings the clink of ice skates.

and in the matchbox, foul and empty, coffer for the dead,
god: god is an ATM.

 

 

 

 

TRIJEM, PRAZNINA PROZORA

Postoji povijest. ondje sam strgnuo list
rebrast i zelen između zima, u njega zario zube
i zatim gutao od gorčine. vani je cvjetao vrisak.
bazga gnječila nosnice. netko je trpao 
namještaj na kamion, pretijesno disao, asfalt
se ljubio s njegovim golim trbuhom.

ondje, kroz kišu kaiševa moglo se vidjeti
vodu kako se prelijeva preko sapi.  
kako vuku, kako podižu, kao volovi.
ondje sam stajao – pod znakom zabrane kretanja,
na trgu koji bježi od noći, sklapa se
s mrakom u sebe kao ljiljan, pod tendom diskonta
gdje čuče fantomi-taksisti. lišće je bilo smeđe pa zeleno
pa opet smeđe i snjegovi su se spremno slili u rijeke.

postoji povijest. prostor pod noktima. list sam istrgnuo
iz knjige bijel kao svečana košulja
i do kasnog popodneva s njega prepisivao slova.
sumrak se skupio u rečenicu: sloboda nije 447 iz Rija
ni tupa ptica, za slobodu se potrebno boriti – 
dok sam čitao gnječio sam listiće čaja u grudicu 
ususret mi je kroz šumu znakova dolazio kamion
nestvaran, mastan od noći; vode su se još jednom podigle
i snijeg je prljav lio kroz prste.

ondje sam kroz kosti ramena vidio lisice kako reže
na jednu nedovršenu kuću, trijem kojeg nema, prazninu prozora, 
tamo te čekam.


PORCH, THE EMPTINESS OF WINDOWS

There is a history. I tore a leaf,
ribbed and green between winters, dug my teeth in it,
swallowed from bitterness. outside heather bloomed.
the elderberry kneaded nostrils. somebody stowed
furniture onto a truck, breathed too tightly, the asphalt
was kissing with his naked stomach.

there, thorough the rain of belts you could see
water spilling over the crupper.
how they drag, how they lift, like oxen.
I stood there—under the don’t move sign,
on the square that flees from the night, folds
with the dark into itself like a lily, under a shop awning
where phantom taxi drivers crouch. the leaves were brown then green
then again brown and snows readily poured themselves into rivers.

there is a history. space under the fingernails. I tore a leaf
from a book, white like a festive shirt,
and until late afternoon I copied letters from it.
the dusk gathered into a sentence: freedom isn’t 447 from Rio
or a dumb bird, freedom had to be fought for—
while I read I pressed tea leaves into a clot
through a forest of signs a truck approached me
unreal, greasy from the night; the waters rose once more
and the snow, dirty, poured through fingers.

there through shoulder bones I saw foxes growl
at an unfinished house, porch that isn’t there, the emptiness of windows,
there I wait for you.


 

 

 

H. C. ANDERSEN BOULEVARD 50, KLASIČNO

Cijelog dana mislio sam o kruški.

probudio sam se osjećajući je kako se, zrela,
širi i skuplja do svoje srži i koštica
kao golemo srce svijeta.

u podne, kada je sunce zaista na svom mjestu,
zamišljao sam umjesto žutog smeđe i zeleno kako liju
ljubav na moje tjeme, u onu rupu koju je
ondje bušio bog.

u isto vrijeme mislio sam o kruški u tvojim ustima
i ne znam što me veselilo više:
trak sline što se, blistav, slijevao niz tvoj jezik
ili što je sve to bilo zbog kruške.
također napala me je tuga, čežnja za nečim tvojim,
ali ju je misao o kruški brzo odagnala 
čuvajući mi dostojanstvo.

popodnevima sam ponekad sklon novim stvarima,
pa sam probao meditacijom skloniti krušku iz misli.
međutim um nisam uspio očistiti:
u blizini je zasjedao Hrvatski sabor,
pa su mi samo gluposti padale napamet,
opasne gluposti s kojima nisam znao što početi.

predvečer bio sam već umoran od razmišljanja
ali sam opet, sklopivši oči, vidio krušku kako se, svježa,
njiše u rupi prozora.
zgrozio sam se i ustao, jer su lebdeće stvari strašne,
zatvorio prozor i spustio zavjese, legao
no kruške ni tad nije nestalo.

poslije svega, već u dubokoj noći, s rukom na čelu
pričinja mi se sve slike svijeta stanu u jednu:
kruška, ogromna slasna kruška kako se sveti i planine,
kvrgave žute planine: moji zubi njen obzor. 

 

H. C. ANDERSEN BOULEVARD 50, CLASSIC

All day long I kept thinking about the pear.

I woke up feeling the ripe fruit
swell and tighten down to its core and pips
like a vast heart of the world.

noontime, the sun truly in its place,
instead of yellow I imagined brown and green pouring
love onto the crown of my head, into the hole
God drilled.

at the same time I thought of the pear in your mouth
and I don’t know what made me happier:
the trail of saliva that, radiant, poured down your tongue
or that it happened because of the pear.
also sadness struck me, longing for something of yours,
but the thought of the pear pushed it away
sparing my dignity.

afternoons, I’m sometimes prone to do new things,
so I tried to meditate the pear out of my thoughts.
still I didn’t manage to clear the head:
the parliament was in session nearby
so only nonsense came to mind
dangerous nonsense I didn’t know how to use.

in the evening I was tired from thinking
yet even so, eyes closed, I saw the pear, fresh,
swaying in the hole of the window.
terrified I got up, because hovering things frighten,
I closed the window and drew the curtains, laid down
but the pear didn’t disappear.

later, in the deep night, with my hand on forehead
it appeared all pictures of the world fit into one:
a pear, large succulent pear taking vengeance and mountains,
lumpy yellow mountains: my teeth its skyline.

 

 

 

 

About the Author:

marko

Marko Pogačar was born in 1984 in Split, Yugoslavia. His publications include four poetry collections, four books of essays, and a short story collection. He edited the Young Croatian Lyric anthology (2014). He was a fellow at Civitella Ranieri, Literarische Colloquium Berlin, Récollets-Paris, Passa Porta, Milo Dor, Brandenburger Tor, Internationales Haus der Autoren Graz, and Krokodil Beograd fellowships, among others. His work has received Croatian and international praise, and has been translated to over thirty languages. Slovene poet Tomaž Šalamun wrote, 'Marko Pogačar is a miracle; it’s not fully clear where he emerged from and how – it’s just obvious that he is here among us, central.' Pogačar resides in Vienna as a freelance author.

 

About the translator:

andrea

Andrea Jurjević, a native of Croatia, is the author of Small Crimes, winner of the 2015 Philip Levine Prize. Her poems, as well as her translations of contemporary Croatian poetry, have appeared in journals such as Epoch, TriQuarterly, Best New Poets, The Missouri Review, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere. Her translation of Mamasafari (and other things) from Croatian will be published by lavender Ink / Diálogos in 2018.

 

 

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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