The fall birthed the tissue

by Martina Vidaić


The fall birthed the tissue

perhaps I don't know much about life, but I do know about colors;

when the cherry and the house grow yellow, the boots need blackening.

a devil's job, and the devil never sleeps, not even in the afternoon,

he crawls under the nails and later is hard to wash off.

 

the yellow house madly quakes on the puddle.

farther off, the puddle ruffles the cherry tree like

a merchant does in his booth with a cheaply made tee,

the last pitch of nature's to underwrite its colors.

a snail attempting to drag a canopy back into the house,

thinking that every house is made like his,

when the hardest bit of self is extracted.

 

like a cuckoo bird the cowgirl Zdenka gets in and out of the house.

she too drawn out to surface by the yellowness.  a good day exchanged at the well

she spreads over me like the processed cheese she shares the name with.

she is bald because of the cancer and wears a pink scarf.

she should have worn a yellow one, or at least a black one.

this way, once written down, the life sounds unconvincing.

still, the good side of the colors is their adaptable symbolism;

if you just want to see someone live,

why not allow them a bit of the pink-colored lie.

 

the puddles freeze, the ice blackens from the glance at the boots.

now to get inside the house and attempt to type life in arial black

the blackest font, as if the patina of nail dirt

had crept across the keyboard, to surrender to the poetry's aim

of overcoming life in which it is drawn,

to extract from a soft tissue even softer one.

and in doing so the house is not created at all.

© translated by Boris Gregorić

Jesen je rodila tkivo

možda ne znam puno o životu, ali znam o bojama;

kad se trešnja i kuća zažute, čizme treba zacrniti.

to je vražji posao, a vrag nikad ne spava, čak ni popodne,

uvuče se u nokte i kasnije ga je teško isprati.

 

žuta kuća luđački titra na lokvi.

malo dalje, lokva mreška trešnju kao

trgovac majicu na štandu, robu sumnjive kvalitete,

zadnji trzaj prirode da podvali boju bez pokrića.

puž pokušava odvući krošnju u kuću,

on misli da svaka kuća nastaje kao njegova,

kad se izluči najtvrđi dio sebe.

 

zdenka izlazi i ulazi u kuću kao kukavica.

i nju je žuto izmamilo na površinu. bunarski dobar dan

razmazuje po meni kao sir s kojim dijeli ime.

ćelava je zbog raka pa nosi ružičastu maramu.

trebala bi nositi žutu, ili barem crnu.

ovako, život zvuči neuvjerljivo kad se napiše.

ipak, dobra strana bojā je njihova prilagodljiva simbolika;

ako baš hoćeš da netko živi,

dopustit ćeš mu malo ružičaste laži.

 

lokve se lede, led se crni od pogleda na čizme.

sad treba ući u kuću i otipkati pokušaj života arial black,

najdeblje, kao da je patina iz noktiju

ušla preko tipkovnice. popustiti težnji poezije

da nadvlada život u koji je uvučena,

da iz mekog tkiva izluči još mekše.

i pritom uopće ne nastane kuća.

© Martina Vidaić