Maša Seničić

Poetry

1. gentler side of the blast / nežnija polovina eksplozije

   

   

   ENGSRP

   for months I've been trembling; in the town I wake, almost a dynamite, 

   knowing that nothing will ever happen on the outside. rage and relief

   light up as two floors of a building I am preparing to blow up.

    

   curled up, and therefore serene, I am at the foot of the plot of land where

   the dog was to be lain. underground, where tomatoes once thrived, I repeat:

   body is non-existent, it is dust, it is simply a performative manifestation of being.

    

   there is no oven in this rented apartment, there is thus no place to rest 

   my head. my upbringing casts away thoughtlessness: tragedy belongs to

   poets – I am expected to act subtly, prudently, pragmatically;

    

   and yet, my paws are sullied from the soil, overly dry; from the wood, 

   unworkable; from lukewarm wine. starving for the blast

   I satisfy my hunger with sunrise; this has become unbearable

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   mesecima treperim; budim se kao poludinamit u srcu grada

   i znam da se spolja nikada ništa neće desiti. bes i olakšanje

   dva su sprata zgrade koju se spremam da dignem u vazduh. 

    

   sklupčana zato, i mirna, stojim u dnu placa gde je trebalo položiti psa.

   pod zemljom, u kojoj je jednom nikao paradajz, ponavljam: telo ionako

   ne postoji, telo je prašina, telo je samo performativna manifestacija bića. 

    

   u iznajmljenom stanu nemam rernu pa u nju nije moguće smestiti

   glavu. vaspitanjem odbacujem nepromišljenost: tragedija pripada

   pesnicima – od mene se očekuje postupak suptilan, razborit i praktičan; 

    

   pa ipak, moje su šape prljave od zemlje, preterano suve, od drveta

   neobradivog, od nerashladjenog vina. u priželjkivanju praska uspešno

   dočekujem samo svitanje, a to je postalo nepodnošljivo.

2. the summer that doesn't belong to me, I / leto koje mi ne pripada, I

   

   

   ENGSRP

   I spent all night on the road to enter the harbour before dawn.

   a man walks his grand hounds, grand and obedient. 

   behind him, tourists empty their stomach onto the salty seawall.

    

   the ferryboat named after a poet takes ages to cross a blue surface,

   named only after itself. the Sun sets, people talk to me

   but say nothing. the figs are ripe, I cannot reach them.

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   celu noć sam se vozila da bih sama dočekala jutro u luci. 

   čovek šeta lovačke pse, grandiozne i poslušne. iza njega, 

   strani turisti izvrću svoj želudac na slani kamen. 

    

   trajekt nazvan po pesniku dugo putuje preko plave površine 

   koja nosi samo svoje ime. sunce zalazi, ljudi mi se obraćaju,

   ali ne govore ništa. smokve su zrele, ja ne mogu da ih dohvatim.

3. that very same summer, II / to isto leto, II

   

   

   ENGSRP

   beneath high ceilings the back of my expectations ache,

   the pain runs deep. I endure under a burden whose shape

   horrifies me; I did not commit to nourishing it.

    

   I lean through a window, framed with distrust. all I can offer

   is poetry, and the island is as deserted and gentle as thickets.

   the burden, it is you. I hitch-hike hoping no one will pick up

    

   both of us.

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   pod visokim plafonima boli me u predelu očekivanja,

   celom dužinom. savijam se pod teretom čiji me oblik

   užasava, a na čije se staranje nisam ničim obavezala. 

    

   naginjem se kroz prozor oivičen nepoverenjem. nemam ništa

   osim poezije da ponudim, a otok je pust i nežan kao šikara.

   ti si, taj teret; stopiram u nadi da niko neće hteti da nas poveze

    

   zajedno.

4. botany of silence / botanika ćutnje

   

   

   ENGSRP

   I dream of being a she-Greenwich, a reference for timekeeping,

   convenient for making flight schedules; I find it disappointing.

   I then become a she-museum, dizzy from excessive archiving

   that serves no purpose. at the very centre of my tiny body

   are fruit pickers, seasonal workers, ready to revolt.

    

   narrow post offices, in whose corners payment forms meet 

   their fate, I preserve them as final sanctuaries of losing control:

   in my basements I conceive a choreography of respite.

   on the surface, I pay bills, fill in questionnaires, remove my cuticles.

    

   I stick to the agenda: I ask who takes care of plants at public institutions,

   for that person will take care of me, touch me gradually and methodically,

   moisturise me meticulously, if needed. I make a plan, slowly knit inevitable death,

   when I remember – it's only April. it is too early to admit that I’m tired.

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   sanjam da budem žena-grinič, da po meni računaju vreme,

   i po mojim obodima naslućuju plan letenja; to mi nije dosta.

   postajem žena-muzej: vrti mi se u glavi od arhiviranja

   koje ničemu ne služi. tačno na sredini mog sićušnog tela

   sezonski berači, najamni radnici, spremaju se za protest. 

    

   pošte male kvadrature u čijim uglovima umiru uplatnice

   čuvam kao poslednja utočišta odsustva kontrole:

   u svojim podrumima smišljam koreografiju predaha.

   spolja: plaćam račune, popunjavam upitnike, skraćujem zanoktice.

    

   držim se agende: pitam ko brine o biljkama u državnim institucijama,

   jer takav će brinuti i o meni, dodirivaće me postupno i sistematično,

   kvasiće me studiozno, po potrebi. pravim plan, sitno tkanje očekivane smrti,

   a onda se setim – tek je april. još uvek ne smem da priznam da sam umorna. 

5. the weight of July / težina jula

   

   

   ENGSRP

   the reek of decay and melted plastic

   lingers above the pit in sticky juices;

   it reminds me that I am thirsty and compliant enough.

   it reminds me of where I come from and of everywhere I come to.

    

   I help her walk: her demented body,

   wrinkled and noiseless, requires cosmetic products.

   sweat and the pharmaceutical industry make my skin itchy. 

                                                            

   discomfort keeps me awake:

   my middle-class roots and likable gestures,

   my refined sense of indifference,

   it all frames me as a decent life material, 

   but I am well-informed about where

   expectations end and the Third World War begins:

    

   at dawn, the sound of nails scratching dry skin

   burns, detaches, stumbles. 

   I take the plastic container, scrub it, refill it with fruit.

   during the afternoon, as she chews it,

   I persistently think about death.

   Translated by the author

   smrad truleži i istopljene plastike

   nadvija se nad košticom u lepljivim sokovima;

   podseća me da sam žedna i dovoljno prilagodljiva.

   podseća me odakle sve potičem i u šta se sve slivam. 

    

   pomažem joj da zakorači: njeno zbunjeno telo, 

   smežurano i tiho, insistira na kozmetičkim proizvodima.

   mene koža svrbi, od znoja i farmaceutske industrije.

    

   ne mogu da zaspim od nervoze:

   moji srednjeklasni koreni i simpatična gestikulacija,

   moj istančan osećaj za ravnodušje,

   sve me to čini materijalom za zadovoljavajući život,

   ali dobro sam se, naime, informisala gde

   prestaju očekivanja, a počinje Treći svetski rat:

    

   u svitanje, zvuk noktiju po suvoj koži

   peče, razdvaja se, zapinje.

   kutiju uzimam, ribam, punim voćem. 

   tokom popodneva, kada ga žvaće, 

   najupornije mislim na smrt.

6. the fatigue of an average sea captain / umor prosečnog kapetana plovidbe

   

   

   ENGSRP

   they said it was practically non-sinkable, the Titanic, 

   or non-submersible; they didn't even say it, they wrote it.

   she asks me: what do we do with me now?

   and if this is the end, will she ever see her home again, who are

   these people who feed her food and feed her medicine and turn on

   the television and make her hit an iceberg:

   "is it called an iceberg?"

   (it is, can you read at all?)

   "no, I can’t see clearly and I have no patience."

    

   they said it was a she, the Titanic, 

   I tell her, they didn't say it, they wrote it;

   she set sail from Southampton,

   I was there and the ocean seemed

   tinier than I remember it did 

   when seen from the deck.

    

   (are you bored?) she

   becomes silent and then:

   "I'm terribly bored,"

   she says and hits

   the top of the glacier

   that will eventually melt

   and the flooring will rise like a mountain,

   and the neighbours will insistently knock on the door

   as we sit through probate hearings,

   and her bones will be ashes in a pile,

   a soft little hill, silent and cared for

   Translated by the author

   za Titanik su govorili da je praktično nepotonjiv, 

   ili nepotopiv; nisu čak ni rekli, već napisali.

   pita me: šta ćemo sada sa mnom?

   i da li je to to što se dešava kraj,

   hoće li ikada videti svoju kuću ponovo, ko su

   ovi ljudi koji je hrane i daju joj lekove i uključuju

   televizor i navode je da udari u u ledeni breg:

   „da li se kaže ledeni?”

   (kaže se, možeš li da čitaš uopšte?)

   „ne mogu, ne vidim i nemam strpljenja”

    

   za Titanik su rekli da je ženskog roda,

   kažem joj, nisu rekli, već napisali; 

   isplovio je iz Sautemptona, 

   bila sam tamo i okean je delovao 

   manje nego što ga se sećam

   sa palube

    

   (da li ti je dosadno?) ona

   ćuti nekoliko trenutaka pa:

   „strašno mi je dosadno”

   kaže i udari 

   u vrh smrznute gromade

   koja će se jednom ipak istopiti

   i parket će se dići poput planine

   i komšije će neumorno lupati na vrata

   dok budemo sedeli na ostavinskim raspravama,

   a njene kosti budu prah na gomili,

   mekan breg, nečujan i zbrinut

7. a meal of one’s own / sopstveni obrok

   

   

   ENGSRP

   in the beginning was the dining table

   and the dining table was with family, 

   and the dining table was family. 

   then I grew older and recognized 

   that the cutlery has been inherited

   and that the tablecloth has been flattened.

   that someone had, surely, ironed it,

   and that this someone is a woman

   seated closest to the kitchen; her hands

   must bake and serve, bring and take.

   then I grew older and this woman became me

   – the table decides where I should stand

   and which conversations are not

   to be opened. 

    

   still, I never learned how to bake. 

   I sway on the edge of the chair, halfway

   into my role, my other leg inside this body

   of text. on distant shores I learn that the smell of the sea

   is the smell of death; what about the salt, I ask,

   and my hand is stretching from the castle

   over the muddy harbour, across all the dishes,

   reaching for the seasoning.

   the birds’ voices take over the sunset and the tower

   is on fire shortly before becoming stone again, 

   a spectacular corpse, diet for visitors 

   who are food for the seagulls, 

   as is gulfweed abandoned at low tide.

   sea salt is the bedrock for both landscapes I inhabit. 

    

   miles away from home it is finally hunger 

   who invites me to dinner: hot air 

   in the small kitchen appliance obeys 

   by moving particles of a precooked meal, 

   ding! I open its door and eat using a fork 

   familiar with countless strangers’ mouths. 

    

   what I’ve always known is that the smell of death

   is the smell of the feast; of all concerns this one is crucial. 

   if I am not the one eating then I must be the one 

   being devoured. it is only through accurate verbs

   that I can see clearly: at whichever waterfront I arrive 

   I remain reduced to my family’s silverware – 

   in all the languages, 

   with all my tongues.

   Translated by the author

   u početku beše sto za ručavanje

   i sto za ručavanje beše u porodici 

   i porodica beše taj sto. 

   zatim sam odrasla i prepoznala

   escajg - nasleđen, i videla

   da je stolnjak poravnan. 

   da ga je neko, sasvim izvesno, opeglao,

   i da je taj neko žena koja me gleda 

   sa stolice najbliže kuhinji; njene šake

   moraju da mese i služe, donose i odnose. 

   zatim sam odrasla i postala, ta žena 

   - umesto mene, sto odlučuje 

   o mestu koje zauzimam i 

   o razgovorima koje neću započeti. 

    

   šake još uvek nisam zaronila u testo.  

   njišem se na rubu stolice, jednom nogom

   u svojoj ulozi i drugom unutar ovog tela, 

   teksta. na udaljenim obalama čujem da je miris mora

   zapravo miris smrti; a šta je sa solju, pitam, 

   i moja se ruka proteže od zamka preko luke

   prepune mulja, preko svih sudova 

   posežući za tim začinom.  

   ptičiji krici otimaju predeo od zalaska i toranj izgara 

   nakratko pre nego što ponovo postane kamen, 

   izvanredan skelet, obrok za posetioce

   koji su hrana za galebove, 

   poput mokre trave napuštene za osekom. 

   nad morskom solju dižu se oba prizora

   koja naseljavam. 

    

   daleko od kuće, naposletku me glad

   odvlači na večeru; vreo vazduh 

   unutar malog kuhinjskog uređaja poslušno

   pomera čestice spakovanog obroka, 

   ding! otvaram vrata i načinjem ga viljuškom 

   čiji su vršci lutali po ustima nepoznatih ljudi. 

    

   uvek sam bila uverena da je miris smrti

   zapravo miris gozbe; od svih briga, ova je ključna. 

   ako nisam ja ona koja jede, moram biti ona 

   koju proždiru.tek kroz precizne glagole vidim jasno:

   iskrcavam se na nepoznatu obalu

   ne udaljavajući se ipak

   od porodičnog srebrnog pribora – 

   koji god jezik da prevaljujem

   preko svih svojih jezika.

8. solitude is / samoća je

   

   

   ENGSRP

   a sacred word, a building block of life,

   the bed I rise from early and eagerly return to.

   a mountaineering club

   above a shallow, tepid swamp.

    

   I don't trust the cashier or my father and my mother,

   intermediaries or instructors, for upon leaving

   the bathtub my feet touch

   thin, feathery thicket.

    

   solitude is a roundtable I moderate

   for hours, and in which I am the sole speaker.

   I conclude the debate with saying: home

   is not the final, ultimate answer. what is advisable

    

   is to be waves (plural)

   Translated by the author

   sveta reč, gradivna jedinica bića, 

   krevet iz kog ustajem rano i u koji 

   se vraćam željno. planinarski klub

   nad plitkom, mlakom baruštinom. 

    

   ne verujem kasirki, ocu, majci, 

   posrednicima, predavačima, jer moja 

   stopala po izlasku iz kade dodiruju 

   tanko, paperjasto šipražje. 

    

   samoća je tribina koju moderiram

   satima i na kojoj sam jedini govornik. 

   zaključujem raspravu rečima: kuća

   nije konačni, konačni odgovor. poželjno je

    

   biti talasi (množina)

9. for whom, what for: dative / kome, čemu: dativ

   

   

   ENGSRP

   to not belong to people individually

   is equally unrewarding as

   not belonging to political parties,

   self-proclaimed associations,

   nations, majorities or minorities:

   they won't invite you to their gatherings,

   they won't send you postcards,

   they won't know what to expect from you,

   and unpredictability

   is a stone in a shoe,

   a stone in a pocket,

   a stone in a kidney,

   a stone in any case;

    

   to not belong to people

   is equally humorous as

   belonging to them,

   simply not as exhausting

   and gloomy on holidays

   Translated by the author

   ne pripadati pojedinačno ljudima

   podjednako je nezahvalno

   kao ne pripadati političkim partijama, 

   samoproklamovanim društvima, 

   nacijama, većinama ili manjima:

   neće te zvati na skupove,

   neće ti slati razglednice,

   neće znati šta od tebe da očekuju, 

   a nepredvidivost

   je kamen u cipeli, 

   kamen u džepu, 

   kamen u bubregu,

   kamen u svakom slučaju; 

    

   ne pripadati ljudima

   podjednako je smešno 

   kao pripadati im, 

   samo manje naporno

   i tužno praznicima

10. other people’s suburbs / tuđa predgrađa

    

    

    ENGSRP

    a man leans in to read newspaper headlines

    refusing to buy them for eighty cents. 

    people open their trunks in the square houses’ gardens

    and look inside them, searching. it is a small dead bird

    in front of an esteemed university

    that future academics walk over— they tell me:

    what are you doing, these beggars receive social assistance

    higher than your salary. inequality makes me naive, and

     

    back streets always look the same, 

    empty and negligently cleaned, 

    men hold their gaze on me,

    I don't blink, I challenge Western Europe

    with how fast I walk and with how close I hold my fists. 

     

    *

     

    a pin placed on the subway map

    points to the station below a famed theatre,

    and as the brakes make the train interior shudder

    that same pin falls on me; I bend, 

    its tip stays blunt. the retriever in the dog food ad

    is always content.

     

    the bells on a Catholic church echo, children yell

    behind the Jewish museum. for a moment,

    I truly believe that the rooftops are on fire.

     

    *

     

    yet they've constructed many buildings, academics 

    charity cases citizens say to me, many and magnificent;

    I never associated Bavarian pastry with this region,

    only with the crust that breaks softly. I never linked birds

    to the city squares where people once proudly saluted

     

    in the gallery, where my whole day equals ticket worth,

    the security guard takes a notebook and a pencil

    and writes something down in my line of sight:

    I feel special. my feet hurt,

    and the leftovers of a single-person lunch

    swirl around the room

    covered with my trench coat.

    I would gladly trip over chestnuts,

    but some people are well-paid 

    to remove them from the sidewalks every morning

     

    *

     

    everything is golden and still and smells like a herbarium:

    in an Alpine pension a young married couple

    sells walking sticks.

    everyone’s ankles are bare and they pretend

    that the rain isn't falling, well maybe it isn't falling

    on Germans

     

    a woman in a mountain lodge

    reeks of warm wine and cinnamon.

    something in the Munich suburb

    brings me peace, probably the fact 

    that I'll never be a part of it

     

    *

     

    a man in mustard-coloured velvet pants

    wipes away oil from a well-preserved car;

    the gate is open carelessly, and the house overgrown with ivy.

    a bit further away, a middle-aged alcoholic recycles

    brown bottles. he separates them from the green ones. brown, green,

     

    everything blends into the same picture. the park is lengthy and all over 

    people speak various languages. an obese lady calmly calls her dog

    in the middle of the street. I can hear birds chirping, many more

    than these backyards could keep,

     

    this is the only thing that leaves me

    confused

    Translated by the author

    čovek se naginje da pročita naslove novina

    koje ne želi da plati osamdeset centi,

    ljudi otvaraju gepeke u dvorištima kockastih kuća

    i gledaju unutra, traže. malu mrtvu pticu

    ispred prestižnog univerziteta 

    preskaču budući akademici – kažu mi: 

    šta to radiš, ovi prosjaci primaju socijalnu pomoć

    veću od tvoje plate. nejednakost me čini naivnom, a 

     

    stražnje ulice svuda su iste:

    puste i ovlaš prebrisane, 

    muškarci zadržavaju pogled na meni,

    ne trepćem, izazivam zapadnu Evropu

    brzinom hoda i blizinom šaka. 

     

    *

     

    igla je u mapu metroa ubodena

    u stanicu ispod čuvenog pozorišta, 

    i dok enterijer vozila treperi od kočenja

    na mene pada ta ista igla; krivim se, 

    njen vrh ostaje tup. retriver na reklami 

    za pseću hranu uvek je sit. 

     

    katolička zvona odjekuju, deca vrište

    iza jevrejskog muzeja. na trenutak

    mi se zaista učini da krovovi gore. 

     

    *

     

    ipak su podigli mnoge građevine, kažu akademici

    socijalni slučajevi stanovnici, mnoge i grandiozne;

    nisam nikada bavarsko pecivo vezivala za regiju,

    već za koru koja meko puca. nisam ni ptice povezivala

    sa trgovima na kojima se ponosno salutira. 

     

    u galeriji za koju karta vredi kao čitav dan

    obezbeđenje uzima svesku i olovku

    i zapisuje nešto u mom vidokrugu: 

    osećam se posebno. bole me stopala

    i ostaci ručka za jednu osobu

    u kovitlacu kruže prostorijom

    ogrnuti mojim mantilom.

    spotakla bih se rado o kestenje,

    ali neki ljudi dobro su plaćeni 

    da ga svakog jutra sklone sa pločnika

     

    *

     

    sve je zlatno i tiho i miriše na herbarijum:

    u alpskom pansionu mladi bračni par

    prodaje štapove za hodanje.

    svima su goli članci i prave se

    da kiša ne pada, a možda i ne pada

    na Nemce

     

    žena u planinarskom domu

    zaudara na mlako vino i cimet.

    nešto u minhenskom predgrađu

    me smiruje, verovatno to što 

    nikada neću biti njegov deo

     

    *

     

    čovek o somotske pantalone boje senfa

    briše ulje iz dobro očuvanog automobila; 

    kapija je nemarno otvorena, a kuća obrasla u bršljan.

    nešto dalje, sredovečni alkoholičar reciklira

    braon staklo. deli ga od zelenog. braon, zeleno, 

     

    sve se stapa u istu sliku. park je dugačak i u njemu ljudi govore

    raznim jezicima. gojazna žena mirno doziva psa nasred ulice.

    čuje se mnogo više ptica nego što staje u sva ta dvorišta,

     

    to me jedino

    buni