Their yellow luster changed to ocher,
then deepened to amber in colorful gleaming,
clear, burning orange and searing red,
there in that far off land that pulls at my heart’s
sad yearning; a land, my home, so long ago,
whose forests’ palette sheds autumn leaves
so much more intense than here, an amber more
amber, an orange more orange, a bright yellow
competing with the beating, heating sun.
The sun pauses much closer to the earth
than here, and the stars, more numerous
and low, more twinkle than here; the sky deeper
blue and darker black, and the moon, its smile
hovering over great cities and vast plains
with their red rocks, and the history
of millenniums; plains that do not end
when the sun goes down, but carry on
to the following days.
We roamed those plains,
you and I, together then,
and never to part, in that land, my home.
Now here alone, I see only yellow leaves
in autumn.
JESENSKO LISTJE
Njihov rumeni lesket se je spremenil v okro,
nato globoko ambro v barvitem žaru,
svetlo plamtečo oranžno in žgočo rdečo,
tam v tej daljni deželi, ki me prikliče stok v srce;
deželi, ki je bila pred daljnim časom moj dom,
katere gozdna paleta senči jesenski listje
močneje kot ta tu, ambra je bolj ambra,
oranžna bolj oranžna, svetlo rumena
se kosa s suvajočim vročim soncem.
Sonce zastane bližje zemlji kakor tu
in zvezd je več in nižje so,
bolj migotave kakor tu; nebo je globlje
modro in temnejše črno, in luna, njen smehljaj
lebdi nad velikimi mesti in širokimi
planjavami z rdečimi skalami, in zgodovino
tisočletij; planjavami, ki se ne prenehajo,
ko zaide sonce, temveč se nadaljujejo
v naslednje dni.
Hodila sva tam, ti in jaz,
skupaj tedaj, in za vselej,
v tej deželi, moji domači.
In zdaj sama tu vidim
le rumeno jesensko listje.
Prevedla Zdenka Hribar
WHITE BUTTERFLY
Remembering Cvetka)
White butterfly,
a fragile thing,
glides softly by.
Stunning
is her patterned wing,
and pure,
against the darkening sky.
BELI METULJ
Spominjajoč se Cvetke
Beli metulj,
krhki stvor,
nežno plove mimo.
S čarobno
potiskanimi krili
brezmadežen proti
temnečemu se nebu.
Prevedla Sandra Vida
NOBODY
Reporters described a homeless man, ragged,
nearly barefoot, pockets torn. A nameless,
unclaimed nobody. He had been seated
cross-legged on one of those pigeon-blotched
park benches encircling the square. Citizens
of concrete and glass scuttled past
and the summer sun scorched the pavement.
Police appeared after he toppled over,
like a beach chair in the wind. Someone screamed.
A dog barked. The stench no one noticed before
now kept bystanders babbling at a distance.
The coroner claimed the man had been dead
for at least two days. A petrified log.
He suspected a weak heart -- and an empty
stomach. Rigid fists still clutched the edges
of an outstretched newspaper as he lay sideways
on the ground.
I recall having sat across the square
on a shaded bench and noted tattered jeans
on crossed legs, shabby sandals and grimy fingers
gripping the daily news. I had wondered
what spellbinding story kept him from moving
or turning the page as I sat there,
eating my sandwich.
NIHČE
Novinarji so opisali moža brez strehe nad glavo, razcapanega,
skoraj bosega, z raztrganimi žepi. Brezimen,
nikogaršnji nihče. Sedel je prekrižanih nog
na eni tistih od golobov popackanih klopc,
ki obkrožajo središče parka. Prebivalci
betona in stekla so hiteli mimo,
in poletno sonce je žgalo pločnike.
Policija je posredovala, ko se je prevrnil kot zložljivi stol
na vetrovni plaži. Nekdo je zakričal.
Pes je zalajal. Smrad, do sedaj prezrt,
sili očividce nejeverno ostati na razdalji.
Oglednik je ugotovil, da je bil mož mrtev
že vsaj dva dni. Okamenel hlod.
Sumi šibko srce – in prazen trebuh.
Njegovi prsti so še vedno grabili
robove razgrnjenega časopisa,
medtem ko je bočno ležal na tleh.
Sedeč nasproti na klopci v senci,
se spominjam razcapanih kavbojk na prekrižanih
nogah, oguljenih sandalov in sajastih prstov,
ki se oklepajo dnevnih novic. Spraševala sem se,
kakšna fascinantna zgodba mu ne da migniti
ali obrniti strani, medtem ko sem tam sedela
in jedla svoj sendvič.
Prevedla: Sandra Vida
SPECTER
On pathways hiding Turkish bones
a cry, a moan
or faintest word
is sometimes heard
when wind is strong and I’m alone.
A haunting tone
spills through the air,
and floating there
in spooky remnants, tall and lean
a spirit’s seen
from history.
He beckons me.
SPEKTER
Poti s turškimi kostmi
zakrivajo
ta jok in stok
in tih šepet,
slišen le skozi veter kdaj,
ko sem sama,
tesnoben zvok
prereže zrak
in tam lebdi,
sloka prikazen, kot duh iz
zgodovine.
Namigne mi.
Prevedla Sandra Vida
AGEING
Place your bouquet
respectfully beside the coffin,
step over to the side,
count to two hundred
not looking at the mute remains
of someone you knew
as neighbor, friend, mother, brother.
Bow to the corpse,
cross yourself, if you’re so inclined.
Express condolences to the bereaved,
go home.
Just one more day
of increasingly many like it.
STARANJE
Položi svoj šopek
spoštljivo poleg krste,
stopi na stran,
štej do dvesto
in ne glej nemih ostankov
nekoga, ki si ga poznal,
soseda, prijatelja, matere, brata.
Prikloni se truplu,
prekrižaj se, če meniš, da je prav,
izreci sožalje domačim,
pojdi domov.
Samo še en dan
med vedno več podobnimi.
Prevedla Sandra Vida
PATRON OF THE ARTS
For a colleague
You wouldn’t give two hoots in hell
about the man otherwise,
as he saunters ’round
to inspect your work,
smiles and is ever so gracious.
You might write him off
as just one more gusher and warbler
whose »Oh, it must be wonderful
to know how to paint,« has piqued you
all the days of your career.
You might send him on his way
with a wisecrack otherwise,
but there’s money to be had here,
so be nice to him.
Otherwise, he’ll take it somewhere else.
POKROVITELJ
Za nekega kolega
Ob kaki drugi priložnosti
bi ga poslal k hudiču,
tega človeka, ki podrsava naokoli
in nadzira tvoje delo,
se smehlja in je tako priljuden.
Lahko bi ga odpravil,
kot še enega navdušenca,
čigar: »Oh, čudovito mora biti,
če znaš slikati,« razburi vse dneve
tvoje ustvarjalnosti.
Lahko bi ga s prisiljeno
besedo odpravil, če ne bi
igral vloge denar,
zato bodi prijazen z njim,
drugače ga bo odnesel kam drugam.
Prevedla Sandra Vida
LOST HORIZONS
The gruff call of gulls confirms this is no dream.
Though horizon is lost between water and sky,
I hear the splash. Salt-sharp and fresh, the smell
is the scent of sea.
Village folk stroll and chat with me on the beach:
friendly sailors and their sun-baked wives, hardened
to the sea’s cycles. We watch the surf scudding
to coastal breezes.
»Lucky there’s no south wind,« they say, "today
is mild, the tides are gentle. You should see the ocean
when of a sudden water swells up
and waves dash the shore.
»Foaming breakers crash our boats, tatter our nets.
There’s no fishing when clouds tumble heavy
as sleet and fog’s thick as chowder.«
I see only trinkets on the sand,
magic gifts of raging storms gleefully snatched up
by children, or inland strangers like me,
whose horizons are sometimes foggy as dreams,
shifting, like the sea.
IZGUBLJENI HORIZONTI
Prediren zvok galebov potrdi, da niso sanje.
Horizont je izgubljen med vodo in nebom,
a vseeno slišim pljusk, slano ostra aroma svežine,
to je vonj morja.
Vaščani postopajo po plaži in klepetajo,
krepki mornarji z zagorelimi ženami, utrjenimi
v ciklično plimovanje. Zremo v gladino,
razburkano od vetra.
»Severnega vetra ni, na srečo,« rečejo. »Dan
je mil in plima nežna. A morala bi videti
ocean, ko se naenkrat speni
in valove butne na obalo.”«
»Peneči valovi se zaganjajo ob barke, trgajo nam mreže.
Ko težki oblaki se podijo in je megla gosta kot ragu,
takrat ribarjenje odpade.«
Vse, kar vidim, je le šara na obali,
magični darovi besnih neviht, ki otroci
grabijo po njih, ali tujci kot sem sama,
katerih horizonti so zamegljeni kot v sanjah,
spremenljivi kot morje.
Sandra Vida
SYMBIOSIS
They looked like large, golden bubbles,
almost transparent. Dad plucked them
like a privilege, disregarding showers
of sticky-mites, blight rusting its greenery,
wire-restrained lesions in its trunk.
The plums decayed as they ripened,
one by one, but he guarded his trophies
year after year, deaf to our nagging.
Some connection must have taken hold
in the planting of it: an umbilical,
man-to-tree cord, a symbiosis of souls.
Perhaps he saw in its fruit the fountain
of youth, figured its longevity would slow
his own senescence. Still, his relief surfaced
when we toppled it and towed it out back
one day, when he was not at home.
SIMBIOZA
Bile so kot veliki, zlati mehurji,
skoraj prozorne. Oče jih je obiral
s ponosom, ne meneč se za točo
listnih uši, od bolezni zarjavelo zelenje,
poškodovano deblo, prevezano z žico.
Slive so gnile hkrati z dozorevanjem,
druga za drugo, a vendar je čuval svoje trofeje
leto za letom, gluh za naše nerganje.
Že pri sajenju je morala med njima
nastati neka vez, popkovnica, ki spaja
človeka in drevo, simbioza duš.
Mogoče je v njegovih sadežih videl vrelec
mladosti, čutil, kot da večnost drevesa
upočasni njegovo lastno staranje. Vseeno je
olajšanje privrelo na dan, ko smo ga podrli
in odvlekli, nekega dne, ko ga ni bilo doma.
Sandra Vida
MISSING BRIDGE
After a painting by Seid Hasanefendić-Trabzon
Though the view at first glance seems the same,
the other painter spotlights empty space
while mine erupts in pantomimes of spring:
a golden-ocher path divides the greens,
it tinges mirrored hills and plants the sun
on sprouting plains.
His tar-black planes blot out each canvas side;
an unlit sky streaks in between and forms
a dismal, unrelenting stream. Jagged
silhouettes zig-zag the split horizon
like teeth bared in a scream.
And though configurations seem the same,
their lines and shapes set down in common ways,
our paintings stand apart like cheer from tear.
My brush strokes sketch a stroll on sparkling grass,
his echo in destruction’s anguished groans,
a town destroyed, its bridge, a hollow scar.
Till then, I had no clue about Mostar.
MANJKAJOČI MOST
Po sliki Seida Hasanefendića-Trabzona
Čeprav je prizor na prvi pogled enak,
ta drugi umetnik izpostavi prazen prostor tam,
kjer je v moji sliki izbruh pantomime pomladi:
okrno zlata pot ločuje zelenici in prežema
odsevajoče hribe ter zasaja sonce
na brstečih poljanah.
Njegove katransko črne ploskve zabrišejo obe strani platna,
vmes švigne neosvetljeno nebo in tvori
mračen, neizprosen tok. Robati
obrisi vijugajo med razdeljenim horizontom
kot v kriku razgaljeni zobje.
Čeprav se obrisi zdijo enaki
linije in oblike zastavljene na podoben način,
se najini sliki razlikujeta kot smeh in solze;
zamah mojega čopiča skicira sprehod po travi,
njegov odmeva v tesnobi opustošenega ječanja;
mesto uničeno, njegov most le prazna brazgotina.
Do takrat nisem imela pojma o Mostarju.
Prevedla Sandra Vida
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
His gifts reach out to me
like votive offerings: this bite
of ham, that bit of cake, a fishing trip,
a walk in the snow. He urges
me to enjoy what he enjoys.
But I am in no mood to share,
refuse, swat the presents away like flies,
upset at being forced to flaunt
my fussiness.
And yet he never desists. He never asks
why I am so finicky -- about food,
about offerings, about acceptance.
Year after year his coaxing nods cudgel
my disdain, my unwillingness to yield.
He could have given up on me.
Long ago.
BREZPOGOJNA LJUBEZEN
Njegova darila me dosegajo
kot votivno darovanje; ta grižljaj
šunke, tisti kos potice, ribiški izlet,
sprehod v snegu. Spodbuja me
uživati v tem, kar ima rad sam.
A meni ni do družbe,
zavrnem darila, odženem jih kot muhe,
jezna, ker me sili razkazovati
svojo sitnost.
Pa vendar nikoli ne odneha. Nikoli ne vpraša
zakaj sem tako zahtevna – glede hrane,
ponudb, sprejemanja.
Leto za letom njegovi spodbudni gibi tolčejo
moje zavračanje, pripravljenost ustreči.
