Pred polazak u prvi razred, moja najdraža teta, darovala
mi je lijepu crvenu jaknu. Sretna, od jakne se nisam
odvajala noseći je i po dvorištu, pomno pazeći da se
ne uprljam. Bilo je to bogato dvorište obiteljske farme s
mnogim životinjama i zanimljivostima za dijete.
Zaigranu i neopreznu, gurnuvši gubicu između letvi tora, dohvatila me krmača.
teška provincija –
stara krmača nabavila
crvenu jaknu
SJEĆANJA...
Bilo je proljeće godine 1973., pretpostavljam da smo
bili najnovija obitelj imigranata u kvartu zvanom
Ukrajinsko selo. Otac i ja nosili smo vreću krumpira sa
zelene tržnice u unajmljeni stan na prvom katu kuće u
Chicagu.
Vreća je bila teška. Počela sam se smijati, pa i moj otac,
te nam je tako onemoćalima vreća s krumpirima ispala
iz ruku pri samom vrhu stubišta. Pukla je a krumpiri su
uz strašnu buku stali skakutati niz drvene stube u malo
predvorje u prizemlju. Otvorila su se vrata gazdaričina
stana:
»Dragi Bože!
Zar je Varšava opet
bombardirana?«
FESTIVAL FOLKORA U ČEŠKOJ
U osjećaju beskrajne slobode i radosti putovanja, u
autobusu punom folkloraša na putu za Češku Republiku
razlijeva se razgovor, pjesma, priče i anegdote s
prijašnjih putovanja. Puni utisaka iz Beča i Bratislave,
nadomak smo Moravske regije. Kilometri brežuljkaste,
plodne zemlje, što strništa, što kukuruza, baš kao kod
kuće. Deseci sitnih kuća u selima, pred njima šljivici i
vrtovi. Ponegdje u polju zgurena starica u crnini, tu i
tamo krave na livadi. Baš kao kod kuće.
Drugi dan. Početak festivala. Kakofonija jezika, glazbe i
plesova, no svi se razumijemo. Na pozornici djeca.
Gruzijski dječaci
divlje plešu s mačevima.
U Gruziji rat.
Ljeto, 2008.
TANKA
* * *
tihi je ribnjak
gdje provodio si dane
pecajući
tvoja osamljenost još je tamo
među tužnim vrbama
* * *
cestom idu
mlada i stara žena
ususret –
njihove sjene na trenutak
posvema jednake
* * *
praznim tvoj ormar –
na dnu LP ploče Rampalla
i tvoja srebrna flauta
ne mogu se sjetiti
kada si prestao svirati
* * *
i ove noći
miris ruža zavodi
puni mjesec
moje misli odlijeću
u tvoj topli zagrljaj
HAIKU
* * *
bljesak munje
iz vida mi nesta
ona krijesnica
* * *
dugo nakon rata
naš pas cvili i drhti
za novogodišnjeg vatrometa
As a first grader, I was given a beautiful red jacket
by my auntie. Happilly I walked over our yard in the
jacket, taking due care not to become dirty. It was a rich
yard of a family farm with a number of animals, plants
and trees, offering many an interesting occupation for
a child.
Playful and careless I walked too close to the pig sty. A
large sow pushed her snout through the pen’s latticework,
breaking one of them and caught my arm.
life in the province –
an old sow acquired
a red jacket
REMEMBERING ...
In the Spring of 1973, my parents and I were, I suppose,
the newest immigrant family in the informally
called Ukrainian quart. My dad and I carried a bag of
potatoes to our rented apartment on the first floor of a
house in Chicago.
The bag with potatoes was heavy, I started to laugh
first, then my father too and the bag fell down from our
hands at the top of the stairs, broken. Large potatoes
started to fall and jump down the wooden stairs making
an annoying noise, stopping at the entrance door.
Then, our landlady opened the door of her apartment:
»Dear God!
Is Warsaw being bombed
again?«
FOLK DANCE FESTIVAL IN THE CZECH REPUBLIC
Feeling endlessly free on a trip to the Czech Republic,
our bus was full of laughter and stories, singing and
chattering. We traveled to a Folk dance festival, from
Croatia. After visiting Vienna and Bratislava, being in
Moravska I enjoyed the view through the windows. It
was just like at home, small houses in villages, gardens,
orchards, small vineyards, family farms. Here and there
in the field a tiny old woman doing some hoeing, several
cows in the pasture. And I felt like at home.
The secod day, the festival started. In a cacophony
of languages, music and dances, people from four
continents understood each other well. On the stage,
children.
Boys from Georgia
dancing wildly with their swords.
In Georgia – war!
Summer 2008
TANKA
* * *
hush at the pond
where you spent many days
angling
your loneliness is still there
among the weeping willows
* * *
amidst a wide street
a young and old woman walk
in opposite ways –
as they meet their shadows
look just the same
* * *
emptying your closet –
on the bottom Rampal LP’s
and your silver flute
I’m trying to remember
when you stopped playing
* * *
this night too
a red rose’s fragrance
seducing the Moon
my thoughts rushing towards you
in my dying dreams
HAIKU
* * *
flash of lightning
the firefly
out of sight
* * *
long after the war
our dog trembles and whines
at New Year’s fireworks
* * *
road curve −
the sun in a puddle
moves straight ahead
* * *
forest clearing
a summer breeze suddenly
changes the contour of the sky
* * *
through the harpsichord
of a bare weeping willow
fingers of the wind
