Martina Vidaić

- Croatia -

Martina Vidaić was born in Zadar, Croatia on February 19, 1986. She graduated in Croatian language and literature at the University of Zadar. In 2011 she won the Goran prize for young poets. At this occasion her first book of poetry Era gmazova was published. After that, she participated in several international festivals and readings. In 2016 her new collection Tamni čovjek Birger was published (VBZ, Zagreb).

Besides poetry, she writes short stories, but so far only two of them were published.

The collection of poems by Martina Vidaić is characterized by metaphorically rich, polyvalent sentences, a lucid junction between different layers of language and the lightness with which a fresh and innovative order of things is created with the usual, every-day language.

The book opens with the sentence "this is the era of reptiles". The enigmatic feeling of the opening of the first poem is at the base of the poet's style. However, it is not a closed, hermetic, dark writing. Between the intertwined metaphors and images peeks a lyrical heroine who, by using elements of the confessional poetry style, sometimes leads the reader through her richly articulated world.

Her lyrical world is based in the local and private: in the yard, at home, in a dead-end street, but this world suddenly unflods before readers' eyes into its own mythological time and the mythological beginning, into the unique genesis of the world, written with the help of a "reptilian dictionary".

The dominant motive in Vidaić's poetry is the family - mother, father and sister, as well as neighbors from the dead-end street. Different poems thematize kaleidoscopic shifts in their identities, according to the poem's immanent logic of the image transformation.

Vidaić's poetry is built from open metaphors that do not end, but continue and evoke a new sequence of images that come through the cracks of the previous ones. And comparisons, often risky place in poetry, in this book offer interesting contiguities.

On a formal level, Vidaić's poems are built of a syntactically regular structure of the verses, while the rhythm, as a kind of intimate poet's signature, is based on semantic entanglings and unwindings, and the constitution of sense is dynamized by the literary and film references and signals.

A journey through Vidaić's poems is a move through semiotic tunnels at the end of which awaits us - not a conclusion, the reduction or the point - but the serenity of the new insights into the complex and dynamic relations of things and beings.

More about the poet

Poetry

Bird, fruit of a plum / Ptica, šljivin plod

that summer plums have been ripening in reverse.
their flesh was blue
then green
then brightened into blossom.

the dark fruit ripened fast by denial,
by pale walls in which iva had shrouded herself
before every party.

iva's parents have thought their children that brain
is imprinted manually. iva's brother had large
hands, a hemisphere for every fist,

he shared everything in half with his sister.

and that ripening existed in order to make us stiff,
to fill us with plum buds, gorge to gorge.

with self-confidence the plums were breaking, their pits
falling like hardened tears, the crushed vertebrae,
a bent tree sprouting from each one of them.

and afterward, iva's brother
hanged himself from the tree
which also could have been a plum tree.

the fruit of dark knowledge ripening into oblivion.

I have seen it, death, an unusually large sampler
of the most ordinary, personal darkness,
for they can be seen everywhere, they grow, I have seen them
even on the edges of furniture.

and after that, my eyes have clouded over, nothing was
dark enough to be discernible.

I have decided: to wrap my eyes with the blind room,
to fiercely, fiercely keep silent,
to pluck the sullen dead silence,
to keep numb with the dark cerebral hemisphere
so that it shines forth into love,

but that summer
the walls were bending poorly.
all the time, the plum skins kept breaking against the concrete
as if someone
was trying to break out into song.
© translated by Boris Gregorić
tog su ljeta šljive dozrijevale unatrag.
meso im je bilo modro
pa zeleno
pa posvijetlilo u cvijet.

tamno voće najbrže dozrije nijekanjem,
blijedim zidovima u koje se iva umatala
pred svaki tulum.

ivini su starci učili djecu da se mozak
utiskuje ručno. ivin je brat imao velike
ruke, po jedna polutka u svaku šaku,

sve po pola sa sestrom.

zrenje je postojalo da nas učini drvenima,
napuni pupovima od grla do grla.

šljive su pucale od samopouzdanja, koštice
padale kao okoštale suze, smrvljeni kralješci,
iz svake je niklo po jedno savijeno stablo.

poslije, ivin brat
objesio se na stablu
koje je također moglo biti šljiva.

plod tamnog učenja zrio je u zaborav.

vidjela sam, smrt je neobično velik primjerak
najobičnije privatne pomrčine,
ima ih posvuda, rastu, vidjela sam,
i na rubovima namještaja.

poslije su mi se oči smrkle, ništa nije bilo
dovoljno tamno da bi se uočilo.

odlučila sam: omotat ću oči slijepom sobom
i žestoko žestoko šutjeti,
brati mrkli muk,
mučati tamnom polutkom mozga
da posvijetli u ljubav,

ali tog su ljeta
zidovi bili slabo savitljivi.
stalno su se kore pupova razbijale o beton,
kao da će
netko propjevati.
The fall birthed the tissue / Jesen je rodila tkivo

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
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.
The plan of plans / Plan nad planovima

one should live as quietly as possible. we live in dangerous times;
the balcony doors are killing the birds.
we live surrounded by retirees, and being surrounded is
one step toward surrendering.
each time we are to say something, the vent hood sucks in the fumes,
something white, paper plane like, flies out.
after an accident
the neighbors dig out the black box from the rubble,
attempting to grasp the gist.
the world is what we see from the windows.
when we look through the balcony doors, it seems bigger.
it doubles on the outside if we count the glass.
the birds killed by the nonexistence of sky.

one should live as quietly as possible. walk on one's toes.
when they harden into hoofs, cover them with a sponge.
hunker down, train the armpits so they don't fold over.
press the earphones in the ears, like tiny shower heads
showering the noise inside
so we do not hear the clash, but find a bird
and think: the neighbors are attacking us with the Chinese goods.
and if, by some chance, we hear what is on the outside,
it will be quiet,
like it is before any accident.
© translated by Boris Gregorić
treba živjeti što tiše. živimo u opasno vrijeme;
balkonska vrata ubijaju ptice.
živimo okruženi penzionerima, okruženost je
korak do predaje.
svaki put kad zaustimo, napa usisa isparine,
vani izlijeće nešto bijelo kao papirnati avion.
poslije nesreće
susjedi iščeprkaju crnu kutiju iz krhotina,
pokušavajući dokučiti srž.
svijet je ono što vidimo s prozora.
kad gledamo kroz balkonska vrata, nešto je veći.
izvana je dvostruk, ako računamo stakla.
ptice ubija nepostojanje neba.

treba živjeti što tiše. hodati na prstima.
kad otvrdnu u papke, obložiti ih spužvom.
pritajiti se, dresirati pazuhe da se ne sklapaju.
utisnuti u uši slušalice, nalik na male tuševe
koji ulijevaju buku unutra
da ne čujemo sudar, nego kad pronađemo pticu
pomislimo: susjedi napadaju kineskom robom.
ako tada kojim slučajem i osluhnemo vani,
bit će tiho,
kao pred bilo koju nesreću.
The chicken are responsible for the existence of God / Kokoši su krive što postoji bog

tonight my hair is the cap made of worsted wool
which unravels at the neck and that part under the forehead (which I call reason)

my room barfed me out of the window,
she felt nauseated by so much anxiety.

the sky wrapped, caked red from the clouds,
this is how the blazing inside of the oven must look like
the one dad purchased at the fair in Benkovac
a little cracked on the side so the dawn can pour in.

behind the house the darkness is densest with the rustling,
as if we still had the chicken coop.
we used to have one, together with other neighbors,
so nobody minded the smell. one neighbor
had discovered a butcher in my dad and sacrificed the chicken to him.
when the wings would flutter, she'd fold her hands
praying for his soul. rightly she had believed
that god should be in charge of dad
as dad is in charge of chicken.
as the created is usually above the creator.
I stayed away from the chicken, especially the gray one
having hair like Mr. Karadzic.
I could not tolerate that much power.

my tissue tonight wants to overcome itself.
become a point that will barf out a new evolutionary line.
the chicken know,
that's how every new god is made.

the consequences are permanent, but removable,
a cock that knows how to split the chink in the oven,
and to spoil the god's lunch,
to feed the birds with the crudity.
© translated by Boris Gregorić
kosa mi je noćas kapa od grube vune
koja se truni na vrat i ono pod čelom (to zovem
razum).

soba me izbljuvala kroz prozor,
bilo joj je mučno zbog toliko nemira.

nebo je obloženo, zgrušanocrveno od oblaka.
tako mora da izgleda užarena unutrašnjost peke
koju je ćaća kupio u benkovcu na sajmu,
malo napukle sa strane pa zora ulazi.

mrak iza kuće je najgušći šuškanjima,
kao da još uvijek imamo kokošinjac.
imali smo ga dok su ih imali svi susjedi,
tako da nikome nije smrdjelo. jedna susjeda
otkrila je u ocu koljača i prinosila mu kokoši.
kad bi krila zaklepetala, sklopila bi ruke
i molila za njegovu dušu. mislila je s pravom
da bi bog trebao biti nadležan za oca
kao što je otac nadležan za kokoš.
kao što je većinom stvoreno iznad stvoritelja.
ja nisam prilazila kokošima, pogotovo onoj sivoj
koja je imala kosu kao karadžić.
nisam mogla podnijeti toliko moći.

moje tkivo želi noćas nadići sebe.
biti točka koja će izbljuvati novu liniju evolucije.
kokoši znaju,
tako nastaje svaki bog.

posljedice su neuklonjive, ali otklonjive,
pijetao zna kako rascijepiti pukotinu u peki,
pokvariti bogu ručak,
sirovošću nahraniti kokoši.
The first cat I have not eaten / Prvu mačku nisam pojela

when the first cat dropped out of a Baudelaire,
I've touched her gingerly, with one finger, like the E.T.
tensely soft she was,
a life jacket hating the water.
in the myopic view, shine on the outside, darkness on the inside,
the night bath for beginners.
I've asked: what is it?
the thing that, once you wipe off a lot of dust
curls up, the mother suggested.
it has plastic eyes, is made of velvet, the sister concluded.
the slippers, the father gladdened, but could not find
a hole big enough for his feet.
the cat created nothing but harm:
with its claws she tattooed light dots on trouser legs,
with its tail she drew out laughter out of the palms of our hands,
its paws designed the tiles.
nohow could we have mellowed at her presence,
we had to let the gypsies steal her.
from the venus' mound in a forest they've picked their tents
taking them toward the opposite side of a triangle,
as if toward the tip of the Balkans.
some years later they've returned,
those same ones, it seemed, but you could never tell with the gypsies;
always the same and never quite the same.
the cat, expectedly, was not with them any more,
in those dark gorges only a Kusturica
survives sometimes.

since then I've become much smarter,
whenever a cat drops out of a Baudelaire
I swallow it smoothly.
with an Eliot's it's somewhat harder, one needs to Chew.
© translated by Boris Gregorić
kad je prva mačka ispala iz baudelairea,
dotakla sam je oprezno, jednoprsto kao e.t.-a.
bila je napeto meka,
pojas za spašavanje koji ne voli vodu.
kratkovidno gledano, izvana svjetlucava, iznutra tamna,
noćno kupanje za početnike.
pitala sam: što je to?
ono kad odjednom obrišeš puno prašine
pa se zarola, ponudila je mater.
ima plastične oči, plišana je, zaključila je sestra.
papuče, obradovao se ćaća, ali nije mogao naći
rupu dovoljno veliku za svoja stopala.
mačka nije radila ništa osim štete:
kandžama tetovirala točke svjetla na nogavicama,
repom izvlačila smijeh iz dlanova,
šapama dizajnirala pločice.
nikako se nismo mogli pripitomiti na nju,
morali smo pustiti da je cigani ukradu.
oni su pokupili šatore s venerinog brijega šume
i odnijeli ih prema suprotnom kutu trokuta,
kao prema vršku balkana.
vratili su se koju godinu kasnije,
oni isti, činilo se, ali s ciganima nikad ne znaš;
uvijek su isti i nikad nisu isti.
mačka više nije bila s njima, očekivano,
u tim tamnim gudurama samo kusturica
ponekad preživi.

od tada sam postala puno pametnija,
kad god mačka ispadne iz baudelairea,
glatko je progutam.
s eliotovim je nešto teže, treba žvakati.
The eye of the screen / Oko ekrana

you lean over the round glass of a small table
in the living room, a lake
in which your own ugliness will drown.
you don't feel sorry. your ugliness is your principle.

under the glass a childhood is laid out in a circle,
a numerical sequence of layers on a cake.
the reflection is the axis of a vehicle, a ritual's object,
in each iris it guards one of each of you, blackmailing.
you raise your head
and disappear from your eyes
which automatically buttress the t.v., still live
with an afterimage of a woman in white. it could be an ad for Tampax,
if blood had not the color of blood,
which means it is not blood at all
for true blood has the color of the toilet cleaning gel.
beside, the woman is fallen in the mud, now she could get saved
only by one of those detergents
which overpower the double challenge of washing.

again you lean over your principle.
the ugliness comes from within and to within it returns,
weighing the bowels so it can sink easier.
the drowning in the reflection releases from the tissue,
you become flat like the t.v.,
horizontal
in relation to it.
© translated by Boris Gregorić
naginješ se nad okruglo staklo stolića
u dnevnom boravku, jezero
u kojem će te utopiti vlastita ružnoća.
nije ti žao. ružnoća je tvoj princip.

pod staklom je kružno poslagano djetinjstvo,
brojčani slijed katova na torti.
odraz je osovina kola, objekt rituala,
u svakoj zjenici ucjenjivački čuva po jednu tebe.
podižeš glavu
i nestaješ iz svojih očiju
koje refleksno podupru televiziju, još uvijek živu
sliku žene u bijelom. bila bi reklama za uloške,
da krv nema boju krvi,
što znači da to i nije krv
jer prava krv ima boju wc-gela.
osim toga, žena pada u blato. sad je može spasiti
samo jedan od onih deterdženata
koji svladavaju dvostruke izazove pranja.

opet se naginješ nad svoj princip.
ružnoća dolazi iznutra i unutra se vraća,
oteža utrobu da lakše potone.
utapanje u odrazu oslobađa od tkiva,
postaneš plošna kao televizija,
vodoravna
u odnosu na nju.
In the beginning there were few people / U početku je bilo malo ljudi

the era of reptiles is still lasting,
above the courtyard is a huge hairdryer.
the head allows its snakes excess heat.
crickets are good servants, piercing the eardrum’s blind spot
so that green lizards can noiselessly throw ice on the back of the head.
the turtle is emptying its shell for the rain.

under the hairdryer is the car bonnet like a pan with a lid.
in the double excess of heat figs are frying
if monitor lizards should come.

in the window like in a stopped snapshot, behind the curtain, father is sleeping
and possibly breathing.
in reptile language, the heat made love
swell to the size of a dinosaur.
the heat is a mighty thing when something should be heated,
but it cannot possibly move the curtain,
bring dinosaur fossils back to life
without simulation.

the sun is weakening in jumps like a battery, night-and day flowers
are still needles
to welcome the monitor lizards. once,
we used to make juice from the flowers
and offered them to children from other streets,
intending to poison them. we knew
we would easier plant a child to a monitor lizard
than a fig.
mammals have just developed and only the shrewdest
had a chance.
and those who were not afraid of someone else’s death.
© translated by Iskra Pavlović
traje era gmazova,
nad dvorištem je golema frizerska hauba.
glava dopušta svojim zmijama suvišak topline.
cvrčci su dobra posluga, buše slijepu pjegu bubnjića
da zelembaći nečujno bace led na potiljak.
kornjača prazni oklop za kišu.

pod haubom hauba auta kao tava s poklopcem.
u dvostrukom suvišku topline prže se smokve,
ako dođu varani.

u prozoru kao u stopiranoj snimci, iza zavjese, otac spava
i možda diše.
gmazovskim rječnikom, toplina je natjerala ljubav
da nabrekne do veličine dinosaura.
toplina je moćna stvar kad nešto treba zagrijati,
ali nikako ne može pomaknuti zavjesu,
oživjeti fosile dinosaura
bez simulacije.

sunce slabi skokovito kao akumulator. dan-noć cvjetovi
još su igle
kojima ćemo dočekati varane. nekad,
od tih smo cvjetova pravili sok
i nudili djeci iz drugih ulica
s namjerom da ih otrujemo. znali smo
da ćemo varanu prije podmetnuti dijete
nego smokvu.
sisavci su upravo nastali i samo su najlukaviji
imali šansu.
i oni koji se nisu bojali tuđe smrti.
The horticultural plan / Hortikulturni plan

for the moment I am making geometric bodies from the hedge,
but I should also extend my work
to other bodies,
start with an animal,
adam and eve,
then god.
(how tall is god?)

not to make it so hopeless,
to leave a possibility for the roots to turn
by buying a new swing,
possibly in the interspar across the road,
because the old one comes from the same place,
from the yugoslav army barracks,
from the uniform hanger and floor boards
and dad made a wonder from them.
this is tested quality,
negation of heaven which has been going on for decades.

one should keep buying new swings,
a moving percentage
by which the remainder will become questionable.
except, of course, garden gnomes.
they remain unshaken behind the fence,
firmly believing in the garden,
somewhat funny and somewhat horrid,
like god.
© translated by Iskra Pavlović
zasad od živice oblikujem geometrijska tijela,
ali trebalo bi proširiti posao
i na druga tijela,
početi s ponekom životinjom,
adamom i evom,
zatim bogom.
(koliko je visok bog?)

da ne bude toliko bezizlazno,
ostaviti korijenju mogućnost obrtanja
kupnjom nove ljuljačke,
najbolje u onom intersparu preko ceste,
jer i stara potječe s istog mjesta, iz kasarne jna,
od vješalice uniformi i podnih dasaka
s kojima je ćaća napravio čudo.
to je provjerena kvaliteta,
negiranje raja koje traje desetljećima.

treba neprestano kupovati nove ljuljačke,
pomični postotak
po kojem će ostatak postajati upitan.
osim, naravno, vrtnih patuljaka.
oni ostaju nepoljuljani iza živice,
čvrsto vjerujući u vrt,
pomalo smiješni i pomalo strašni,
kao bog.
Sudoku / Sudoku

nine fields times nine rows is nine columns.
nine fields times nine little squares is a big square.
In the nine fields you have to write nine fingers nine times.
at the moment it is more important
to weave this useless mat
than meet you.

at the moment let’s be content with the fabric.
it is the most realistic ting we possess,
although it says little about us,
just like when you say land snails turn your stomach,
bloodless tongue licking everything it comes across,
you would rather eat their sea twins, dye murexes,
but you do not know they cling to drowned men
(there were some on ivan when they took him out.
my father was among those that found him;
since then he can never have enough of land).

what is in your fabric, written in invisible fields,
what dissent does it use to defy the regime of the body,
and what is behind the fabric what you use it for,
i don’t really care.
at this moment and in the future,
no matter how hard we try,
dye murexes will never become ivan. even if you eat them,
he will not be more dead.

fabrics do not add up, they perhaps multiply.
i mean,
sudoku is the meaning of life.
© translated by Iskra Pavlović
devet polja puta devet redova je devet stupova.
devet polja puta devet malih kvadrata je veliki kvadrat.
u devet polja treba devet puta upisati devet znamenki.
u ovom trenutku važnije je
istkati taj beskorisni tabletić
nego upoznati te.

u ovom trenutku zadovoljimo se tkivom.
ono je najstvarnije što posjedujemo,
premda malo govori o nama,
kao kad kažeš da ti se gade kopneni puževi,
beskrvni jezik koji liže sve na što naiđe,
radije bi jeo njihove morske dvojnike, volke,
ali ne znaš da se volci hvataju za utopljenike
(bilo ih je na ivanu kad su ga izvukli.
moj se otac našao među nalaznicima;
od tada se ne može najesti kopna).

što je u tvom tkivu, upisano u nevidljiva polja,
kakvim buntom prkosi režimu tijela,
i što je iza tkiva, za što ga koristiš,
zapravo me ne zanima.
u ovom trenutku i ubuduće,
koliko god nastojali,
volci neće nikada postati ivan. ako ih i pojedeš,
on neće biti ništa mrtviji.

tkiva se ne zbrajaju, eventualno množe.
hoću reći,
sudoku je smisao života.
The back of the "Zagreb" hotel / Stražnja strana hotela "Zagreb"

hitchcock once stayed here,
pleased with the view, pleased by the chambermaid.
you never stay in old hotels,
you are afraid of showers.

you wonder how died the man they are taking out.
the doctors still knead him with commitment,
but it is clear he will turn out over-risen and black,
although, everything round the “zagreb” hotel
is smeared with the central european patina
and death can only be a matter of impression,
as probably from the same hotel
the view of the sea
is a shade darker.

the first aid is given on the pavement.
death may not win at all,
and it is the supporting fabric of a poem,
and without it everything falls on the other side of the street,
in front of a café looking like a nursery-garden,
where several girls grow happily.
there is nothing left for you but
think they are chambermaids.
© translated by Iskra Pavlović
tu je jednom odsjeo hitchcock,
zadovoljan pogledom, zadovoljen sobaricom.
ti nikad ne odsjedaš u starim hotelima,
bojiš se tuševa.

pitaš se kako je umro čovjek kojeg iznose.
liječnici ga još predano mijese,
ali jasno je da će ispasti prekisao i crn.
premda, sve oko hotela «zagreb»
premazano je srednjoeuropskom patinom
i smrt može biti stvar dojma,
kao što je vjerojatno iz istog hotela
pogled na more
koju nijansu tamniji.

hitna pomoć je pružena pločnikom.
smrt možda uopće ne pobijedi,
a ona je potporno tkivo pjesme,
bez kojeg sve pada na drugu stranu ulice,
pred kafić nalik na rasadnik
u kojem zadovoljno raste nekoliko djevojaka.
ne preostaje ti drugo nego
smatrati ih sobaricama.
Beach by the hospital / Plaža pored bolnice

you exist because of hospitals,
like hollow books for unite furniture in a showroom.
kitchens are decorated with plastic fruits,
surgeons are decorated with blood.

your own tissue has conspired against you.
the revolt was put on a platter,
round and final like a medal won.
well-deserved,
you ran and came first.

then you, tired, stretched on the beach.
women tourists provokingly displayed their tits,
each had two at least.
sea left no room for the dead at the table,
it immediately filled the hole,
equally at the service,
sick-nursing kind-heartedly, unfeeling
like poetry.
© translated by Iskra Pavlović
ti postojiš radi bolnica,
kao šuplje knjige radi eksponatog regala.
kuhinje se ukrašavaju plastičnim voćem,
kirurzi se ukrašavaju krvlju.

vlastito se tkivo urotilo protiv tebe.
pobunu su postavili na pladanj,
okruglu i konačnu kao osvojenu medalju.
zasluženo,
trčala si i stigla prva.

zatim si se izmorena ispružila na plaži.
turistice su izazivački izložile sise,
svaka je imala najmanje dvije.
more nije ostavilo mjesta mrtvima za stolom,
odmah je popunilo rupu,
jednako stojeći na usluzi,
bolničarski dobrodušno, neosjetljivo
kao poezija.
A WOMAN STOWAWAY / SLIJEPA PUTNICA

I could hardly wait for the border,
but now, when the train stopped
and let the blue uniforms of customs officers in, and the passengers
pulled their legs off as if to avoid the water,
I am being drowned in fear

A woman opposite me caresses, caresses,
calms down the rabbit in the sweater,
an Indian bent over the naked shirts
explains his own skin
Three lines ahead I see a girl
combing her hair with a kind of despair,
so smooth looks like a wig
Are we real?

Hairs are crackling, electricity is in the air

Our eyes staring into the caps of customs officers,
they take them away

Alone in the dark, I go into something else
Now all the courage needs to be gathered
and two horizontal lines be drawn in pencil,
then
open the eyes
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Jedva sam dočekala granicu,
ali sad, kad se vlak zaustavio
i pustio plava odijela carinika, a putnici
povukli noge kao da se sklanjaju od vode,
strah me potapa

Žena nasuprot gladi, gladi,
umiruje zeca u džemperu,
indijac nad golim košuljama
objašnjava vlastitu kožu
Tri reda dalje vidim djevojčicu
koja kosu češlja s nekim očajem,
preglatku kao periku
Jesmo li stvarni?

Čuje se vlasi pucketaju, struja je u zraku

Naše oči upiljene u carinske kape,
oni ih odnose

Sama u mraku, ulazim u nešto drugo
Sad treba skupiti svu hrabrost
i olovkom povući dvije vodoravne crte,
potom
otvoriti oči
THE MAID WHO EARNED HER DEGREE IN THOMAS HOBBES / SOBARICA KOJA JE DIPLOMIRALA NA THOMASU HOBBESU

I've been looking for my place all morning
and now, when the noon sat on the forehead as a sweaty arse
and the bathers are desperately seeking air at the flying vendors,
two men and two women come with two plus two children
threatening to take away that little distance I've won
from the towels resembling the sheets waiting for us


The square of the air that belongs to me as a beach given right
is being pumped into mattresses, rollers, cushions,
into shoulders, arms, tits under the American flag
into the shoulders that spread, thighs and into Our Lady on the biceps
swelling off  like an old alcoholic
desiring more and more intoxicating worship

Tanned and shiny, my skin expresses them
just like white  background expresses text:
I am replaceable and yet necessary
if the words want to be important
Sun sun, damage me
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Cijelo sam jutro tražila svoje mjesto,
a sad, kad je podne sjelo na čelo kao znojna guzica
i kupači očajno traže zrak kod letećih prodavača,
dolaze dvojica i dvije s dvoje plus dvoje djece
pa ručnicima nalik na plahte što nas čekaju
prijete uzeti to malo odmaka koji sam izborila

Kvadrat zraka koji mi po plažnom pravu pripada
upumpavaju u madrace, kolutove, jastuke,
u ramena, ruke, sise ispod američke zastave,
u šije što se šire, butine i gospu na bicepsu
koja otiče kao stara alkoholičarka
željna još i još opojnog obožavanja

Preplanule i sjajne moja ih koža izražava
kao bijela podloga tekst:
zamjenjiva sam a ipak nužna
da bi riječi dobile na važnosti
Sunce sunce, ošteti me
A MALE FASHION MODEL WITH A CANCER / MANEKEN S RAKOM

It takes a doubt to get an illness
As in the equation, I stared
into the dark crescents of the eyebags,
and one morning they fell onto the lungs

The sun went out and the X-ray Shadow
was evident I said:

o, I have always loved black holes
which arise when a star forgets its glow,
let's say, janis joplin
every now and then extinguishes a fag end
on so-called healthy alveoli

This world has deserved every cough,
a world in which nobody is drugged sincerely,
a world in which there is too little swearing,
and a little little breathing seems to be enough
a general thought
that maybe it's only about me,
that others can understand what this is about

Sister, I need more of October,
a more evident poverty, a summer to end
as hair gone during chemotherapy,
never to return
as long as death does not give up
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Za bolest je potrebna sumnja
Kao u jednadžbu buljio sam
u tamne polumjesece podočnjaka,
i oni su jednog jutra pali na pluća

Izašlo je sunce i jasno se vidjela
rendgenska sjena Rekao sam:

o, oduvijek obožavam crne rupe
koje nastaju kad zvijezda zaboravi svoj sjaj,
recimo, janis joplin
svako malo ugasi čik na takozvanim
zdravim alveolama

Ovaj svijet zaslužio je svako kašljanje,
svijet u kojem se više nitko ne drogira iskreno,
svijet u kojem se premalo psuje,
i dovoljno je malo malo disanja
jedna općenita misao
da je možda samo o meni riječ,
da drugi razumiju o čemu se tu radi

Treba mi, sestro, više listopada,
očitija besparica, da ljeto završi
kao kemoterapijom pokošena kosa,
ne vraća se
dok smrt ne odustane
A FEMALE VISITOR OF A SECOND-HAND SHOP / POSJETITELJICA DUĆANA RABLJENE ROBE

It's scary to bite
wool-loaded spaces

Jumper-gall next to jumper-night,
jumper-god next to jumper-blood

jumper-milk in sickening quantities,
the rows of pants cold-bloodedly deprived of aim

Can anyone tell me what they have done with the bodies?

Mechanical hands are picking out, picking out, searching,
they must know who they are coming from

I've stumbled upon a brecht-shirt which says:
it is a crime to talk about flowers with so much pain around

I'm insensitive, I can feel it in my pockets,
my fists crumbling it,

and the stereotype cashier shudders
having touched what coins say,
but her empty look keeps staring straight into the heaven

Tell me, what have they done with the bodies?

Soon,
when wood knocks on wood and I stay closed,
I'll be home
(What, what have they done?)

Out of darkness the consultation of plants will whisper:
breathe, breathe, breathe
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
U prostore pune vune
jezivo je zagristi

Džemper-žuč do džempera-noć,
džemper-bog do džempera-krv,

džemper-mlijeko u mučnim količinama,
redovi hlača hladno lišenih cilja

Može li mi netko reći što su učinili s tijelima?

Mehaničke ruke prebiru, prebiru, traže,
traže da im se objasni od koga dolaze

Iskopala sam brecht-košulju koja kaže:
zločin je govoriti o cvijeću kraj toliko boli

Neosjetljiva sam, osjećam to u džepovima,
šakama to mrvim u sitno,

i stereotip blagajnice strese se
od dodira onog što kažu kovanice,
no pogled joj, prazan, ostaje uperen ravno u raj

Reci mi, što su učinili s tijelima?

Uskoro,
kad udari drvo o drvo i ostanem zatvorena,
bit ću kod kuće
(Što, što su učinili?)

Iz mraka konzilij biljaka šaptat će:
diši, diši, diši
A HAIRDRESSER WHO DROWNED HERSELF / FRIZERKA KOJA SE UTOPILA

All those who nowadays want their hairdo
got their own inborn hair
from the pile in auschwitz

I have touched it too many times, my fingers
have only learned to write death:

alarm clock button was a death,
toaster button was a death,
all the buttons in the sea of buttons -

and then at seven in the morning
the sea came
and I extended my hands
and the world quickly and for good
stiffened from fear
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Svi koji danas hoće frizuru
dobili su svoju rođenu kosu
s hrpe u auschwitzu

Previše sam je doticala, prsti su mi
naučili pisati samo smrt:

tipka budilice bila je smrt,
tipka tostera bila je smrt,
sve tipke u moru tipki –

i onda je more u sedam ujutro
došlo
i ja sam pružila ruke
i svijet se brzo i zauvijek
ukočio od straha
A HOMELESS BEFORE THE RESTAURANT WINDOW / BESKUĆNIK PRED PROZOROM RESTORANA

What's that in the glass?
An air terrified of wind, a space without error

I look at them how perfect they are,
desiring to stay there forever  If only,
eating is an emotional act, and the food they are chewing
feels good to my tongue:

I wait for them, I, their horror of life,
with a cat in my lap
which can jump in a way that her feet
can hook up the car top and a smaller town,
and for a moment everything gets tense and wild

A young woman inside brings me a glass of tea,
she approaches me as the tiger is approached with meat
Her belly lets the sound
of an animal craving for fur

The air between us is for a moment vibrant from the steam
and, I know, I have to throw the tea in her face
because I need a cry to break up the scene
to fit the question perfectly:

Where is the milk,
are you saying  we are not in England?
Oops, all the caked whiteness is hanging over the city,
they say, Christmas decorations - I think:

too much cheesecake, horror of cow,
her humble contribution to death
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Što je to u staklu?
Zrak koji se užasava vjetra, prostor bez greške

Gledam ih savršene,
željne da tako ostane zauvijek Kamo sreće,
jedenje je emotivni čin, i hrana koju žvaču
godi mom jeziku:

čekam ih, ja, njihov užas pred životom,
s mačkom u krilu
koja umije skočiti tako da o noge
objesi krov auta i manji grad,
i sve načas bude napeto i divlje

Mlada žena iznutra mi nosi čašicu čaja,
prilazi kao što se tigru prilazi s mesom
Iz njenog trbuha čuje se
da životinja žudi za krznom

Zrak među nama načas zatitra od pare
i, znam, moram joj baciti čaj u lice
jer trebam krik koji će rasparati prizor
da lijepo pristaje pitanje:

Gdje je mlijeko,
želiš li reći da nismo u engleskoj?
Ups, sva bjelina skoreno visi nad gradom,
kažu, božićni ukrasi – ja mislim:

previše kolača od sira, užas krave,
njen skroman doprinos smrti
A FEMALE MARATHON RUNNER / MARATONKA

The hospital wall went off my shoulder,
the sheet fell off my heel
I left behind my legs, my womb and my thoughts,
Houses became lighter
Hanging on my breath as on child’s airplane, I was running
Crows notified us about the mines in the fields,
here the knife reached the neck of some granny,
here the fire reached the childhood in the album,
here everything reaches
I was running faster and faster
Only by the nose profile of the contestant
who had outrun me at the seventh kilometer
was it obvious I did not believe in any goal,
and the darkness began to rise from my soles
as if the water in the bottle hunted down a beetle
I ran toward the light at the end of my nostrils,
the marking line rose from the edge of the road,
sweet bloody asphalt settled in my mouth,
and the paper path on my back coiled
into the snail's house Body, slimy,
helpless as a tongue, stammered:
pain
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Bolnički zid otpao je s ramena,
plahta je otpala s pete
Zaboravila sam noge, maternicu i misli,
kuće su postale lakše
Obješena o dječji aviončić daha, trčala sam
Vrane su oglašavale mine u poljima,
ovdje je nož dostigao vrat neke babe,
ovdje je vatra dostigla djetinjstvo u albumu,
ovdje sve dostiže
Ja sam bježala brže brže
Tek u profilu nosa natjecatelja
koji me prestigao na sedmom kilometru
vidjelo se da ne vjerujem u cilj,
i mrak se počeo dizati iz tabana
kao da voda u boci proganja bubu
Potrčala sam prema svjetlu na kraju nosnica,
podigla se traka s ruba ceste,
slatki krvavi asfalt legao je u usta,
a papirnati put na leđima savio se
u puževu kuću Tijelo, slinavo,
bespomoćno kao jezik, promucalo je:
bol
A WOMAN WHO FLIES FOR THE FIRST TIME / ŽENA KOJA LETI PRVI PUT

My body temperature was too low,

I watched my skin peel off and fall off,
the carpets disappeared under the snow

The blades of my books, my pots and lids,
all in agreement to ignore me

Still, I used my unprotected muscles
to clear my way to the nearest plane,

sat down, ate a black pepper cookie, and said,
major tom, major tom, are you still up there?

Then I
felt that memories were dangerously accelerating,
and just when it seemed they would hit the wall,

they went out of their way, lost weight

In the air, I was waiting for the vehicle to touch the ground again,
just like  the crow waiting for the car tires

to crush the walnut shell and disclose
its intact naked brain
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Temperatura tijela bila mi je preniska,

promatrala sam kako se koža mrvi i pada,
pod snijegom su nestajali sagovi

Oštrice mojih knjiga, moji lonci i poklopci,
sve složno da me prešuti

Ipak sam nezaštićenim mišićima
prokrčila put do najbližeg aviona,

sjela, pojela papreni keks, i rekla:
major tom, major tom, jesi li još uvijek gore?

Tada sam
osjetila da se sjećanja opasno ubrzavaju,
i baš kad se činilo da će puknuti o zid,

odlijepila su se, izgubila težinu

U zraku, čekala sam da kola opet dotaknu tlo,
kao što vrana čeka da gume auta

zgnječe koru oraha i otkriju
njen netaknuti goli mozak
A BEGGAR RESEMBLING A BLACK CAT / PROSJAK KOJI NALIKUJE CRNOM MAČKU

Whatever word I said to her
it made the town a little bigger and more dangerous

A woman with a suitcase in front of the kiosk
with chicken all dead under aivar spread
looked into the darkness between her body and the hotel
and the car headlights made her eyes
the eyes of a trapped beast,
behind which something cold and hard
quickly and loudly fell onto her palm:

will these two coins be enough?

I love indifference of people,
because I love when truth is near

In the kiosk the cook has run out of meat
so he cuts off part of his belly which he then grills,
and the wallet in her hands suddenly
opens wide to me,
black from the saved blood, like a heart
which the butcher palms off on the old man,

but I am neither blind nor forgetful:
the thing we call love is often
just the way to survive
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
Svaka riječ koju sam joj uputio
napravila je grad malo većim i opasnijim

Žena s kuferom pred kioskom
u kojem su kokoši mrtve pod ajvarom
pogledala je u mrak između tijela i hotela
i farovi su učinili njene oči
očima zatečene zvijeri,
iz kojih je nešto hladno i tvrdo
brzo bučno palo na dlan:

hoće li mi biti dovoljne dvije kovanice?

Volim ravnodušnost ljudi,
jer volim kad je istina blizu

U kiosku kuharu nedostaje mesa
pa odsjeca od svog trbuha i baca na grill,
a novčanik u njenim rukama odjednom se
rastvara prema meni,
crn od ušteđene krvi kao srce
koje mesar podvaljuje starcu,

ali ja nisam ni slijep ni zaboravan:
to što zovemo ljubav često je
samo način da preživimo
A WORKWOMAN OF WORN OUT KNEES / RADNICA ISTROŠENIH KOLJENA

At four a.m., when other people are dead,
from the dead I rise
(be gentle, the land of theirs)
Across the water I walk
to the roughest island

I am alone and in company, like the fish
on the white counter of the factory surrounded by the sea:

the fish which, predictably,
smell of stale vaginas,
the fish which dare not say anything,
for I tear off their heads,
I lay down their flesh into gentle oil,
cover it with the tin tongue
It's useless

to send them in trucks toward the inland:
when I return, others will be still dead
I will resolutely lie down in my bed,
count how much my day worth is:
fifty coins
Little tunas on their reverse
falling, splashing, squirming,
nothing will hurt us by morning

Tomorrow
I will be tearing off their heads, tearing off their heads

One day
I will be tearing off their heads
Translated by Miroslav Kirin
U četiri ujutro, kad drugi ljudi su mrtvi,
ja od mrtvih ustajem
(neka im nježno bude kopno)
Idem preko vode
do najgrubljeg otoka

Sama sam i zajedno, kao ribe
na bijelom pultu tvornice okružene morem:

ribe koje, očekivano,
vonjaju kao ustajale vagine,
ribe koje se ništa ne usude reći,
jer im kidam glave,
slažem meso u nježno ulje,
pokrivam jezikom konzerve
Uzalud ih

kamionima šaljem prema kopnu:
kad se vratim, drugi će još biti mrtvi
Odlučno leći ću u krevet,
izbrojiti koliko vrijedi moj dan:
pedeset kovanica
Male tune na njihovoj poleđini
padaju, praćakaju se, grče,
do jutra nas ništa neće boljeti

Sutra
kidat ću glave, kidat ću glave

Jednoga dana
glave ću kidati

Martina Vidaić

- Croatia -

Poetry

Bird, fruit of a plum / Ptica, šljivin plod

The fall birthed the tissue / Jesen je rodila tkivo

The plan of plans / Plan nad planovima

The chicken are responsible for the existence of God / Kokoši su krive što postoji bog

The first cat I have not eaten / Prvu mačku nisam pojela

The eye of the screen / Oko ekrana

In the beginning there were few people / U početku je bilo malo ljudi

The horticultural plan / Hortikulturni plan

Sudoku / Sudoku

The back of the "Zagreb" hotel / Stražnja strana hotela "Zagreb"

Beach by the hospital / Plaža pored bolnice

A WOMAN STOWAWAY / SLIJEPA PUTNICA

THE MAID WHO EARNED HER DEGREE IN THOMAS HOBBES / SOBARICA KOJA JE DIPLOMIRALA NA THOMASU HOBBESU

A MALE FASHION MODEL WITH A CANCER / MANEKEN S RAKOM

A FEMALE VISITOR OF A SECOND-HAND SHOP / POSJETITELJICA DUĆANA RABLJENE ROBE

A HAIRDRESSER WHO DROWNED HERSELF / FRIZERKA KOJA SE UTOPILA

A HOMELESS BEFORE THE RESTAURANT WINDOW / BESKUĆNIK PRED PROZOROM RESTORANA

A FEMALE MARATHON RUNNER / MARATONKA

A WOMAN WHO FLIES FOR THE FIRST TIME / ŽENA KOJA LETI PRVI PUT

A BEGGAR RESEMBLING A BLACK CAT / PROSJAK KOJI NALIKUJE CRNOM MAČKU

A WORKWOMAN OF WORN OUT KNEES / RADNICA ISTROŠENIH KOLJENA