(I)
Green is the memory and the garden:
The rabbit nibbles on a ruddy carrot in the well of the hat,
the magician momentarily mats the stage with the cape of his secret cant
and a flock of mallard explodes...
a stroll on the edge (of self)
a hypnagogic skill:
the thread of that dream escapes,
eludes,
meanders through the garden
to the green gates of the locked city:
Green are the clusters of childhood,
voracious verbs of boyhood,
always hungry sparrows,
above the hill, cinnamon rust trickles skywards
girding the gilded sky,
rustling colours of summer,
voices in the garden,
a grassy path through beds of greens leads
to the railway embankment and the river,
a familiar straw hat juts out
from fragile stalks of young, white maize.
The tongue was brittle and transparent,
it gently clung to the world;
it slid down the world in dark-green cascades:
down the piles of ripe fruit and firewood
that laugh and sink into the bowels of family homes,
down the jar-logs,
up the mysterious well-pots quietly
boiling on old stoves
in front of summer kitchens,
twirling in alluring, maturing aromas
settling in the cellar,
it tickled, stuck and clung and
slithered up the slender legs of
just married neighbours,
fluttered and vanished in a plume of bluish smoke above the house.
He who bit into a green, tart apple
in the lee of the old, forever green family tree then,
later ran, hunted young serpents,
fed rabbits with stolen clover
and ruddy carrots,
shot squirrels with an air gun,
crushed snails
puffing with pride at his vague, impotent rage,
removed evidence in his wake
wiped their slimy trail off his boots on the grass:
Green was the tongue and the combative verbs of boyhood,
the world visible, within reach –
a punching bag.
Green it remains,
this unreachable remainder,
a lighthouse on a desolate strand.
(III)
To be a pale prince on a white horse of sublime,
unnameable suffering,
to glide through the kingdom of your sleeping city,
as composed as a cactus (in the desert),
of disciplined fancy,
an eyelet, not a knot, in the malignant tissue
of family networks,
good neighbourly relations,
friendly concern,
advice dispensed by seasoned seniors,
of corner sofas, new tv sets,
curtains, carpets, pleasing patterns, fine textures,
the national team’s sporting successes,
and stray from the expected path
throwing itself at your feet,
to master escapist techniques,
to reach for ecstatic substances,
smash it all up, elegantly,
like Bruce Lee,
vain and melancholy,
like Corto.
He who then delved nude into the lake
on which swam dirty young swans
longed for concrete boxes,
for his own place in the sand.
And he loved himself, emerging
different,
expelling himself,
alone in the street,
he followed his shame and pain,
his lost,
his only,
home.
(XI)
A post-pop homage to the wanderings of Godunov-Cherdantsev
When words became body,
when body became a store-room:
he darted out into the street,
merrily /merriment – mama – milk:
a subliminal trajectory/,
wresting himself from the tiny talons of shady noisy
/he believed that the noisiness lent it
a certain intellectual ring/,
pop,
whole afternoon he persistently persevered
/just an alliterative knot/,
he wrote /silently/ a chronicle of collapse,
descended that slope
/a sudden stridency of “slope”,
a fracture, a fall/:
Walk and say what you see and how you see it:
a tide of twilight in early summer;
laden with long rains, runny,
yet transparent, vulnerable;
folds in the greenish tissue of the day
which is changing clothes,
which is passing.
A parentheses of corners:
gardens can be glimpsed in the deep
greenish gold in the street /Zahumska Street:
psychogeographical refrain, a space of edenness
as a microtopological assonance/,
by the open window orange peel is curing,
a grey cat /a desirable, yet
unshaped contrast/ leaps on the table clothed with
fruit-patterned oilcloth,
on which a watermelon pip sheens black,
prances, sniffles,
disappears in the slit of the gate
from which greying greenish paint is flaking;
a woman appears on her window /in Loznička Street/,
bites into a blackcurrant
/discreet asymmetry of the consonant clusters in “blackcurrant”:
two halves of a blackcurrant:
when bitten
//relish – pulp – vulva//
a thread of juice trickles
from the first plosive/.
Nearby, a sweethurt moan
of tyres on asphalt /syncope/ was heard,
from round the corner /Knez of Semberija Street/ elegantly
sailed out a cabriolet in a cloudlet of saccharine funky jazz
/eschatological catachresis/,
and the flash of their smiles, and light
stuck to their hair,
and it disappeared, slid down /Žarka Zrenjanina Street/ towards Boulevard,
sunk into the greenish
/a skein of chromatic assonance/
rustlegrove in the gloaming.
A lame grey pigeon pecks at some scraps of bread
at an improvised landfill in the shade of
a stunted apple tree.
Into the shade quietly ambles
a cat /from a moment ago?/.
Out of the shop walks a
cheerful girl in a denim
shirt cut off above the navel,
underneath which
/he saw that/
she wore only her body
/he saw that clearly
just as he saw himself
mounting her/,
her bare belly,
her buxomness, litheness of limbs
/magnetic fields, waves,
69 love bouts/.
The one who went to meet him halfway
from around the corner /from Niška Street/,
in a grey dress, on an orange bike
/first, a pale triangle flashed above the saddle
then the top of the saddle touched and lifted up
the hem of the dress,
then, after the third turn,
only the straps of the dress
flowed down the honey back,
and a rivulet of hair/,
disappeared behind the next,
fast corner /Čučuk Stana Street/,
sent everything spinning.
...
Under ideal lab conditions
the bedroom and the bathroom provided,
or in the twilit hush of the /imaginary/ terrace,
he reconstructed the tissue of the experience precisely,
he poured it all out
/he also kept, inadvertently,
a melancholy resonance at the end of the breath,
in the rising vowels of desire/:
reviving all the bodies in the street,
each face, each tiny /three-minute/ death
and the city–gar-
den of pleasures through which,
in a sweet spasm,
with its palms on its burning cheeks,
the day breathes out,
on it lands the honey,
night glides.
(XIII)
One should return to the beginning –
to the sea.
His gaze followed a lizard that darted
up the dry stone in the garden,
found a crack
disappeared in it.
The light entered the garden slantwise,
a greenish mist was woven by the
flickering of pine needles and acacias.
By then, the town and the island had become ordinary:
a monotonous existence behind
varicoloured façades,
stairwells barely wide enough
for two to squeeze by one another
and have a quick exchange,
incessant speaking compensating for
the scarcity of events,
little churches that appeared from nowhere
and kept in their bowels the good
god of man,
old women, with their whole lives behind them,
sitting in the churchyards in the gloaming.
At breakfast and at dusk he watched
the quarter-hour disembarkment cabaret from the terrace:
guests took the stage
right out of the water,
like the gods of antiquity
armed with great expectations
prepared for all manner of machinations.
And they two,
scantily clad, in the paradise of another language,
an all day long battle with masses of sunbeams
falling on the water and the island
nipping any attempt of shadow (secret)
in the bud.
In the morning the host
left a plate of fruit from his garden for them
and plum jam,
fruits modest, but
lovingly offered.
And then, the night before departure,
the unexpected appearance of the small city square.
And that garden.
From the small stone bench on could see the bay,
the dark-green birthmarks of islands
on the wide back of the wild
black animal of the sea,
and a lighthouse on the desolate strand.
Some wine leftovers,
barely audible, nonchalant cheering,
a tangent of light that made its way
through the thickness of the garden and vanished
in the clink of glasses,
heralded the ancient bodybond game.
The waves of the body,
the way they sank,
he felt each motion, stomach essence,
patiently inserted, enjoyed
his own coarseness, savagery,
a profusion of sweetness – blood embowed,
a rush of shivers – flowed into the horn,
up to a perfect absence,
non-recognition, blending with the shadow.
A ruddy waterfall on the horizon
in a split second burst
into a myriad of droplets of young light,
which he kissed,
as if they were that woman by his side,
with his green boyish dream.
The slope of that dream,
and the rising cape:
the fishmonger’s voice
heard by the naked (foreign) ones in the street,
the first little anchor dropped into the morning,
return, to where?
From the deck it seemed to him
that there stood a dilapidated building
(a hospital? a churchlet? A workhouse?),
which, as they moved away,
blended with the surrounding greenery.
In the pastel gloaming
familiar sands of the room and the city –
no concern of his!
Because real is the garden,
and liveable the underskin tissue:
the green flame of the tongue
which night after night is.
Awake.
Translated from Serbian by Mirza Purić
(I)
Zeleno je sećanje i vrt:
zec gricka rumenu mrkvu u zdencu tog šešira,
mađioničar na tren natkriva scenu plaštom svog tajnog jezika
i jato divljih pataka rasprsne se na sve strane...
šetnja ivicom (sebe)
hipnagogička veština:
nit tog sna beži,
skriva se,
vrluda kroz vrt,
do zelenih kapija zaključanog grada:
Zeleni su grozdovi detinjstva,
gladni glagoli dečaštva,
uvek gladni vrapci,
iznad brda cimetasta rđa sipila je uvis
i obujmljivala pozlatu neba,
šuštave boje leta,
glasovi u vrtu,
zatravljen puteljak kroz leje povrtnjaka vodi
do pružnog nasipa i reke,
poznati slamnati šešir viri
iznad krhkih stabljika mladog, belog kukuruza.
Jezik je bio krt i proziran,
meko prianjao uz svet;
jezik je klizio niz svet u tamnozelenim kaskadama:
po hrpama zrelog voća i naslaganih drva što
uz smeh tonu u utrobe porodičnih kuća,
niz oblice staklenki,
uz tajanstvene zdence lonaca koji su tiho
ključali na starim šporetima
ispred letnjih kuhinja,
vrtložio se u primamljivim, memljivim mirisima
nataloženim u podrumu,
golicao, lepio se, pripijao,
uvijao uz još samo tren vitke noge
tek udatih susetki,
vijorio se i nestajao u plavičastom dimu iznad kuće.
Onaj ko je tada zagrizao zelenu, kiselkastu jabuku
u senci starog, večno zelenog porodičnog drveta,
posle je trčao i lovio mlade zmije,
ukradenom detelinom i rumenom mrkvom
hranio je zečeve,
gađao veverice iz vazdušne puške,
i gazio puževe,
pun ponosa na svoj nejaki, nejasni bes,
i uklanjao dokaze za sobom
otirući njihov sluzav trag o travu:
Zelen je bio jezik i prgavi glagoli dečaštva,
a svet vidljiv i dohvatljiv,
vreća za udaranje.
Zelen je ostao,
taj nedohvatni višak,
svetionik na pustoj obali.
(III)
Biti bledi princ na belom konju uzvišene,
neimenljive patnje,
jezditi usnulim kraljevstvom svoga grada,
pribran kao kaktus (u pustinji),
disciplinovane mašte,
okce, ne čvor u zloćudnom tkivu
porodičnih mreža,
dobrosusedskih odnosa,
prijateljske brige,
saveta starijih i iskusnijih,
ugaonih garnitura, novih televizora,
zavesa, tepiha, prijatnih šara, fine teksture,
sportskih uspeha reprezentacije,
skrenuti sa tog očekivanog puta
bačenog pred noge,
ovladati eskapističkim tehnikama,
posegnuti za ekstatičkim supstancama,
razlupati sve to, elegantno,
kao Brus Li,
melanholično tašt,
kao Korto.
Onaj ko je tada nag zaronio u jezero
po kom su plivali prljavi mladi labudovi,
čeznuo je za kutijama od betona,
za svojim mestom u pesku.
I voleo se, izronivši
drugi,
izgnavši se,
sam na ulici,
pratio svoj stid, i bol,
svoj izgubljeni,
i jedini,
dom.
(XI)
postpop omaž lutanjima Godunova-Čerdinceva
Kada su reči postale telo,
kada je telo postalo skladište:
požurio je na ulicu,
omamljen /mamiti – mama – mleko:
subliminalna trajektorija/,
otržući se iz kandžica bukolikog
/verovao je da lica buke imaju
izvestan intelektualni prizvuk/,
senovitog popa,
celog popodneva uporno je ponirao
/aliterativni čvorić/,
ispisivao /u sebi/ hroniku urušavanja,
spuštao se tim nagibom
/iznenadna vokalna strmina „nagiba“,
prelom, početak pada/:
Hodaj i kaži šta i kako vidiš:
plima ranoletnjeg sutona,
otežalog od dugih kiša i razlivenog,
ali prozirnog, ranjivog;
nabori u zelenkastom tkivu dana
koji se presvlači,
dana koji prolazi.
Parenteza uglova:
vrtovi koji se slute u dubini
zelenkastog zlata ulice /Zahumske:
psihogeografski refren, edenski prostor
kao mikrotopološka asonanca/,
na otvorenom prozoru suši se kora pomorandže,
siva mačka /željeni, ali
neuobličeni kontrast/ skače na sto prekriven
mušemom sa voćnim motivima,
na kojoj se crni semenka lubenice,
propinje se, njuška
i nestaje u prorezu kapije
sa koje se ljušti posivela zelenkasta boja;
jedna žena se pojavljuje na prozoru /u Lozničkoj/,
zagriza breskvu
/diskretna asimetrija suglasničkih grupa „breskve“:
dve polovine breskve:
zagrizavši
//slast – pulpa – vulva//
končić soka počinje da curi
iz poslednjeg sonanta/.
U blizini se začulo slatkobolno
ječanje guma po asfaltu /sinkopa/,
iza ugla /iz Kneza od Semberije/ elegantno je isplovio
kabriolet u oblačku sladunjavog fanki-džeza
/eshatološka katahreza/,
i blesak njihovih osmeha, i svetlost
im se pripijala uz kosu,
i nestao, skliznuo dole /niz Žarka Zrenjanina/ prema Bulevaru,
utonuo u zelenkasti
/petlja hromatskih asonanci/
šumor sutona.
Hromi sivi golub čeprka po otpacima hleba
na improvizovanom đubrištu u senci
zakržljale jabuke.
U senku tiho ulazi
mačka /malopređašnja?/.
Iz prodavnice je izašla
dobro raspoložena devojka u košulji
od teksasa prevezanoj iznad pupka,
ispod koje je
/video je to/
bilo samo njeno telo
/video je to jasno
kao što je video sebe
kako je uzjahuje/,
njen goli trbuh,
jedrina, gipkost udova
/magnetna polja, talasi,
69 ljubavnih okršaja/.
Ona koja mu je naišla u susret,
iza ugla /iz Niške/,
u sivoj haljini na narandžastom biciklu
/prvo je zatitrao svetli trouglić iznad sedla,
onda je vrh sedla dodirnuo, izbočio
donji kraj haljine,
a potom, u trećem okretaju,
samo tračice haljine koje se
slivaju niz leđa od meda
i rečica kose/,
iza sledećeg /Čučuk Stanina/,
brzog ugla je nestala,
i sve zavrtela.
...
U povoljnim laboratorijskim uslovima
spavaće sobe, kupatila,
ili predvečernje tišine na /zamišljenoj/ terasi,
tkivo doživljaja precizno je rekonstruisao,
izbacio je iz sebe sve
/sačuvao je, iako slučajno
i melanholičnu rezonancu na kraju daha,
u uzlaznim samoglasnicima želje/:
oživevši sva tela ulice,
svako lice, malu /trominutnu/ smrt
i grad-vrt-
log uživanja kroz koji,
sa rukama na vrelim obrazima,
u slatkom grču,
izdiše dan,
po kome pada med,
klizi noć.
(XIII)
Treba se vratiti na početak –
moru.
Pogledom je pratio guštera,
kako se uspinje vrtnim suhozidom,
pronalazi pukotinu
i nestaje u njoj.
Svetlost je u vrt ulazila postrance,
zelenkasta koprena izatkivala se
treperenjem borovih iglica i čempresa.
Do tada, gradić i ostrvo postali su im obični:
jednolična sudbina prikrivena
raznobojnim fasadama,
stepenišni usponi jedva dovoljni
da se dvoje mimoiđu,
ali i razmene na brzinu,
neprestano govorenje nadomeštalo je
odsustvo događaja,
crkvice koje su iskrsavale niotkuda
i čuvale u svojim utrobama dobrog,
ljudskog boga,
pred njima, s večeri, sedele su starice,
koje su sav život već videle.
Sa terase je za doručkom i pred sumrak
posmatrao četvrtčasovni igrokaz iskrcavanja:
gosti su na pozornicu
stupali pravo iz vode,
kao antički bogovi,
naoružani velikim očekivanjima
i spremni na svakovrsne opačine.
I njih dvoje, napokon sami,
golišavi, u raju drugog jezika,
u celodnevnoj borbi sa svetlosnim masama
što padaju na vodu i ostrvo
i svaki pokušaj senke (tajne)
već u začetku osujećuju.
Domaćin im je izjutra
ostavljao tanjir sa voćem iz svoje bašte
i marmeladu od šljiva,
plodove skromne, ali
priložene s ljubavlju.
I onda, noć pred polazak,
neočekivana pojava malog trga,
i taj vrt.
Sa kamene klupice video se ceo zaliv,
tamnozeleni mladeži ostrvaca
na širokim leđima trome
i divlje životinje mora,
i svetionik na pustoj obali.
Malo preostalog vina,
jedva čujno i nemarno nazdravljanje,
tangenta svetlosti koja se probila
kroz gustiš vrta i nestala
u dodiru stakala,
nagovestila je drevnu sutelesničku igru.
Talasi tela,
način na koji su tonuli,
osećao je svaki pokret, stomačnu suštinu,
strpljivo ugrađivao, uživao
u sopstvenoj grubosti, divljini,
izobilje slasti – krivulje krvi,
nalet trnaca – uticalo je u rog,
do savršene odsutnosti,
neprepoznavanja, stapanja sa senkom.
Na horizontu rumeni vodopad
u trenu se rasprsnuo
u mirijadu kapljica mlade svetlosti,
koju je poljubio,
kao tu ženu pored sebe,
svojim zelenim dečačkim snom.
Kosina tog sna,
i plašt se podigao:
glas prodavca sveže ribe
koji su na ulici čuli goli (strani),
prvo sidarce porinuto u jutro,
povratak, ali gde?
Sa palube mu se pričinilo
da tu stoji urušena građevina
(bolnica? crkvica? dom za beskućnike?),
koja se, kako su se udaljavali,
utapala u okolno zelenilo.
U pastelni suton
poznati pesak sobe i grada,
i šta ga se tiče sve to!
Jer stvaran je vrt,
i življivo ovo potkožno tkivo:
zeleni plam jezika
što iz noći u noć jeste.
I bdi.
