Sava Mihailović

Translated by Sava Mihailović

1. (Pop. Linden-Tree Tongue) 1 / (Pop.Jezikom lipa) 1

   

   

   ENGSRP

   there is no voice to

   say come out of

   yourself or the april scenery is

   warm or anything

   else

    

   the last light calmly

   echoes the word it

   signifies and out of the greenish evening

   scent slowly grow 

   hills and the countryside the nuclear plant

   silhouette

    

   gubec is alone while his

   conscience is looking at something new

   for him which he doesn’t

   even see the equality liberty and

   fraternity but also things

   touched by more common

   notions

    

   he doesn’t know whether

   the reality should first be 

   changed to truly become

   real or it is enough to simply

   be in this calm sunset be

   humble and similar to

   the rest the instability of the

   flame he carries down 

   the mudy village street

   on the good friday procession

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   nema glasa koji bi

   rekao izađi iz

   sebe ili aprilski vidik je

   topao ili bilo šta

   drugo

    

   poslednja svetlost mirno

   odbleskuje o reč kojom je

   označena i iz zelenkastog mirisa

   večeri polako izrastaju

   brda i seoski atar obrisi atomske

   centrale

    

   gubec je sam dok njegova

   svest gleda u nešto za njega

   novo što zapravo i 

   ne vidi u jednakost slobodu i 

   bratstvo ali i stvari

   dodirnute običnijim 

   pojmovima

    

   ne zna da li

   stvarnost prvo treba 

   promeniti da bi se zaista i postalo

   stvarnim ili je dovoljno jednostavno

   biti u ovo mirno predveče biti

   pokoran i sličan

   ostalima nestalnosti tog

   plamena kojeg u litiji za veliki petak

   nosi niz blato seoske ulice

2. (Pop. Linden-Tree Tongue) 5 / (Pop.Jezikom lipa) 5

   

   

   ENGSRP

   gubec is reading to the linden-trees

   gathered in the yard

   mathew 27:29 the passion of

   christ

    

   out of the strength of his body words 

   are rhythmically growing warts

   above the left eye moustaches

   branching he’s stretching the stub of a

   finger lost in the uprising a hard

   round piece of meat holding

   the pages

    

   and the words are truly breaking against

   that rustic winter scene like

   against glass easily like hot

   rye bread of his breath blinding

   smelling of hooks and graves that

   still need to be crossed in order

   to speak the linden-tree tounge

    

   gubec is reading about the cities

   boiling about judea and the misery of cooperative

   buildings dark with humidity and 

   persistent sunsets quoting 

   electric substations marx and justice

   that cracks under a hard

   frost knowing that only linden trees grow

   back leaves in the spring only them

   anew only them the same and gubec

   is whetting his speech 

   spending the secret bunkers of

   reasons using rhetoric of underground

   shelters invoking

   the gods of steel reinforced concrete and humus 

   decomposing herbicides yet all the time

   aware of defeat always thinking of

   the moss the limbs and the easter

   mud the smell of his own flesh already burning

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   gubec čita lipama

   okupljenim u dvorištu

   matej 27;29 stradanje 

   hristovo

    

   iz snage njegovog tela ritmično

   izrastaju reči bradavice

   iznad levog oka granaju se

   brkovi pruža patrljak nekog 

   prsta izgubljenog u buni kao tvrd

   i zaobljen komad mesa koji

   pridržava stranice

    

   i reči se zaista prelamaju o taj

   rustičan zimski prizor kao

   o staklo lako kao vrela

   ražana pogača njegovog daha zaslepljujući

   mirišući na kuke i groblja koje 

   još treba preći da bi se

   progovorilo jezikom lipa

    

   gubec čita o gradovima

   koji kipte o judeji i bedi zadružnih

   zgrada tamnih od vlage od

   upornih zalazaka spominjući

   trafostanice marksa i pravdu

   koja puca pri svakom jačem

   mrazu znajući da tek lipe

   olistaju s proleća jedine

   ponovo jedine iste i gubec

   brusi svoj govor upućen

   njima trošeći tajne bunkere

   razloga retoriku podzemnih

   skloništa apostrofirajući

   bogove čelika armaturu i humus

   razlaganje herbicida sve vreme ipak

   svestan poraza i stalno misleći

   na mahovinu na udove i uskršnje 

   blato na miris svog već usijanog mesa

3. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGSRP

   completely empty and

   soft an autumn’s handful of ashes (before 

   you) and a mowed lawn or

   dishes and the highest

   shelf still empty and

   soft without any 

   gods (before you) just

   the lawn the solitude the glittering of

   mediocrity or a dying image the hero

   of my own ordinary storyline and a palm and a sunbeam

   on the skin or maybe even less than 

   a touch than a beginning you 

   timidly waving

   back

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   sasvim prazan i

   mek jesenja šaka pepela (pred

   tobom) i pokošen travnjak

   ili posuđe i najviša

   polica ipak prazan i 

   mek bez ikakvih

   bogova (pred tobom) samo

   travnjak samoća blistanje

   prosečnosti ili ugašena slika junak

   svoje obične fabule i dlan i zrak

   na koži ili možda čak manje nego

   dodir nego početak tvoje

   bojažljivo odmahivanje

   rukom

4. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGSRP

   a simple date, always like fleeting, inhaled space, from this spot, which is not here, although i surely exist. the only thing clear is the addressing, the intention which makes everything visible. then it gets dark and a shower followed by a gusty wind pours down the lines. line by line gets rolled down, crumbled into the valley, into the mud, soon afterwards gaining a soft, black crust. tomorrow sometimes hardens us, sometimes carries us away, opens the mornings which shine with an odd equality. i am everything, the underworld and the skin and the pith of young fruits. it is the same suffering, the same system of perishable moisture. i wish to get out of the room and hang myself in that unknown place, to change the world. my lungs are these two bedraggled birds. we touch each other with our beaks. the air is heavy with the colour the clouds’ synthetic fibre is giving off. i am sitting in that overcoat of drops between the coarse, ageing pieces of furniture, on a musty couch, under the tapestry  full of intact idyllic scenery and unwinding these lines. the rain is gradually ceasing. the scope of vision is forming a rope, slowly getting closer, brightening up on the edges. i am bearing the being to my neck and i stand before you, now, entirely openly alone.

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   običan datum, uvek kao prolaznost, udahnut prostor, sa ovog mesta, kojeg nema, iako uveliko postojim. jasno je samo obraćanje, intencija kojom sve postaje vidno. potom se smrkava i pljusak praćen snažnim vetrom slije se niz redove. nečiji rad je odronjen, zdruzgan u dolinu, u blato, dobivši ubrzo potom i meku, crnu pokoricu. sutra nas ponekad otvrdne, ponekad ponese, otvori jutra koja zablistaju čudnom egalitarnošću. sve sam, i podzemlje i koža i srčika mladih voćaka. ista je patnja, isti sistem truležne vlage. želim da izađem iz sobe i obesim se na tom nepoznatom mestu, da promenim svet. pluća su mi ove dve pokisle ptice. dodirujemo se kljunovima. vazduh je težak od boje koju pušta sintetika oblaka. sedim u tom šinjelu kapi među grubim, prestarelim komadima nameštaja, na memljivom kauču, pod goblenima punim netaknutih, idiličnih predela i odmotavam ove redove. kiša postepeno slabi. vidokrug formira uže, polako se bliži, razvedrava po ivicama. prinosim bivanje vratu i pred vama sam, sada, sasvim otvoreno sam.

5. I (Elvis in Korea) / I (ELVIS U KOREJI)

   

   

   ENGSRP

   The palatals of temptation, your red

   button, there begins a second

   coming, the torture, being

   born, needless duration

    

   The name flown off down the may day

   pandas, the sky with no paper

   guards. The overlapping of these

   horrors with the woodland peace of the path.

    

   The city’s teeth are loose. At noon.

   The fog of human soup

   mushrooms, and the Marches, and the dark.

    

   Thirty silver trusts,

   the bells lasting for centuries – 

   how come I’m left all alone now?

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   Palatali kušnji, ti crveno

   dugme, otpočinje drugi

   dolazak, mučenje, koje

   se rađa, trajanja bez potrebe.

    

   Ime oteklo niz prvomajske

   pande, nebo bez papirnih

   straža. Preklapaju se ti

   užasi sa šumskim mirom puta.

    

   Klate se zubi grada. U podne.

   Magla od pečurki ljudske

   supe, i martovi, i mrak.

    

   Trideset srebrnih poverenja, 

   zvona traju vekovima –

   kako to da sada ostajem sam?

6. XI (Jonah’s Lament in a Zeppelin) / XI (JONIN LAMENT U DIRIŽABLU)

   

   

   ENGSRP

   Pathetically white, the sarcophagus alone,

   is your city, planted in me,

   the god’s parasol, the hard root of

   the race, tasting like vanilla, the raft made of

    

   the emperor’s galleys. Hyperboreans

   have the a ninevite conscience,

   the burned tourism, the blitz-

   peace, the stock markets spirit upon the face of bowels.

    

   A helium dragon again before the city,

   despot’s pumpkin, i’m always

   death, swollen and languid. Sprinkle

    

   with aspirin the victims’ remains,

   the house fear, the babies, i am

   the tasty nail above our late cry.

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   Patetično beo, sam je sarkofag,

   tvoj grad, poboden u mene,

   božji suncobran, tvrd koren

   roda,  ukusa vanile, splav od

    

   carskih galija. Hiperborejci

   imaju savest ninive,

   spaljeni turizam, munjevit

   mir, glas berzi nad utrobama.

    

   Pred gradom opet helijumski zmaj,

   despota tikvo, uvek sam

   smrt, otečen i trom. Pospi

    

   aspirinom ostatke žrtava,

   kućni strah, bebe, ukusni

   nokat sam nad našim poznim plačem.

7. * / *

   

   

   ENGSRP

   no one has a reason to be silent anymore

   the walls have fallen

   we stare like insects awoken by the ring of the burning leaves

   the world’s becoming smaller

   after the gynaecological intervention the animals remain calm yard devices 

   we’re packing small toys plastic or made of coloured metal

   sweden burning like a cigarette in the saleswoman from the corner’s room

   the mint oil is freezing under the alcohol sunset

   the wind is swaying obituaries criminal proceedings and the stride of the 

                                                                                                             border police

   winter and children’s palms

   the dead and warm rabbit’s skin touching you

   someone’s mumps breathing

   there’s no reason to be silent about everything a body can tell

   blindness

   drunkenness

   free fall

   pliant ankles protected by the god’s firm grip 

   in the consultants firm window lips hovers:

   just jump

   the bubbles of joyous news in impeccably airy syntax of stock market reports

   quiet shores holding the shiver of the bridges with their long palms 

   from the rivers’ eyes growing willows fiscal bills empty cigarette boxes the 

                                                                                                   weekend packaging

   the life that may day picnic-goers had forgotten about  left them behind

   the river current’s blurring the reflections of the shapes with soft garbage

   the boys are blinded by the avalanche of heartbeats when the pen of a tennis player 

                                                                                   leaves a short trail on a sweaty ball

   the commercials shallows filling up with noon

   everything tied up by stretched ligaments and relentless juice is flowing away 

                                                                                                                    down the time

   to the right the bodies under the pleasant chlorine of the city pool are  

                                                                                                                crowding

   branch-offices in glass refreshed used cars shaved anger

   saying: we can do more

   we can do more because there’s no reason

   melting turnover calls for a mild caution

   above the sluggish city the winds have already been slowly trying on the flag 

                                                                                                                              dresses

   the patrol car again at the same spot

   the streets full of empty things

   how to speak to the tanned arms trained smiles imposing curves

   notice everything and nothing at the same time

   corporations agreeing on the relentless decrees of our body and skin

   the air’s tingling from the all-encompassing nodding

   yes yes yes

   while those in the night whisper about the night

   while the factory noses are being cut by an invisible hand of decay

   don’t you feel all the unspoken slowly melting in warm spit

   say yes

   the voice sprouts emerging through the tears on the cheap t-shirt

   or expensive blouses making long phone calls and driving off into  the 

                                                                                                                           sunset

   why just stand between the fallen walls

   speak freely

   and say:

   yes

   say yes

    

   yes

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   више нико нема разлога да ћути

   срушени су зидови

   гледамо као инсекти разбуђени прстеном тек запаљеног лишћа 

   свет постаје мањи

   за гинеколошком интервенцијом животиње остају мирни дворишни апарати

   пакујемо мале играчке од пластике или обојеног метала

   шведска гори као цигарета у соби продавачице са угла

   ментино уље леди се под сутоном алкохола

   ветар њише посмртнице кривични поступак корак граничне полиције

   зима и дечији дланови 

   додирује те мртва и топла зечија кожа

   нечије заушке дишу

   нема разлога да се прећути све оно што се може рећи телом 

   слепило 

   опијање 

   слобадан пад

   гипке зглобове чува божији сигуран стисак 

   у прозору усни консултантске фирме лебди: 

   само скочи 

   мехури радосних вести у беспрекорно прозрачној синтакси берзанских извештаја

   тихе обале својим дугим длановима придржавају дрхтаје мостова 

   из очију река расту врбе фискални рачуни кутије цигарета амбалаже викенда

   живот на који су првомајски излетници заборавили оставио их је за собом

   матица мути одразе облика меким смећем

   дечаци заслепљени лавином откуцаја када оловка

   тенисера остави кратки траг на знојавој лоптици

   плићаци реклама пуне се подневом

   све оно увезано напетим тетивама и неумољивим соком отиче низ време

   десно се тискају тела под пријатним хлором  градског купалишта 

   стаклене филијале свежа половна возила обријан бес

   говоре: можемо више

   можемо више јер нема разлога 

   промет који се топи позива на благи опрез

   над учмалим градом ветрови већ полако испробавају хаљине застава

   патролна кола опет на старом месту

   улице препуне празних ствари

   како говорити тамним рукама извежбаним осмесима наметљивим неравнинама

   истовремено приметити све и ништа

   корпорације сагласне са неумољивим декретима нашег тела и коже

   ваздух бриди од општег климања главом 

   да да да

   док они у ноћи шапућу о ноћи 

   док носеве фабрика расеца невидљива рука пропадања

   не осећаш ли како се све оно неизговорено полако топи у топлој пљувачки

   реци да

   младице гласа пробијају се из процепа на јефтиној мајици

   или скупе кошуље телефонирају дуго и одвозе се у сумрак

   зашто да само стојиш између срушених зидова

   говори слободно

   и реци: 

   да

   реци да

    

   да

8. * / *

   

   

   ENGSRP

   this war hasn’t passed us either

   a doll skirt burning in red poplin

   kindly raped in a grey audi

   movements dark from the tattooed biceps speed

   four rounds a thousand dinars

   sometimes humans are even humans

   sometimes people are satisfied

   the big industry eating the small one

   the colourless wolves of youths being jabbed into the summer

   a city under the branched out mangrove of catering objects the coasts useless 

                                                                                                                     for liberation

   even if an ulcer bursts on the street, it bursts completely in private

   the heat is unbearable and the fountains are waiting to be flooded by the 

                                                                                   hordes of a yet unknown name

   the water levels are record-low

   common poisons installed in the air

   cooled water bottles 

   still only sweating flat peace and still the lady in blue is charging for the 

                                                                                                              market stalls

   walking among the isles

   her proud blue statues available now in electronic form

   the lady in blue on a movie roll

   her words coming down the screen getting jabbed into your cheekbone 

                                                                                                            like brass knuckles

   the girls are smoking

   the girls are sitting on small plastic chairs of the minimum wage

   in the one on the right sleeps childbirth

   another grey childbirth in the darkness of july another new pump in the arms 

                                                                                                                   of her right lane

   the illegal workers ready to fill dry arteries with new blood cells

   inside of us the black market’s burning

   inside of us burning

   inside of us burning and breathing and moving

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   ни овај рат нас није заобишао

   сукња за лутке гори црвеним пуплином

   љубазно силоване у сивом аудију

   покрети тамни од брзине тетовираних бицепса

   четири круга за хиљаду динара

   људи понекад буду и људи

   људи понекад буду задовољни

   велика индустрија једе малу

   безбојни вукови младића заривају се у лето

   град под разгранатим мангровом угоститељских објеката обале неупотребљиве за 

   ослобађање

   ако на улици и пукне чир он пуца сасвим приватно

   неподошљива је врућина и фонтане чекају да их поплаве хорде још увек непознатог 

   имена

   рекордно су ниски водостаји

   у ваздух инсталирани обични отрови

   охлађене флаше са водом

   и даље само презнојан раван мир и даље дама у плавом наплаћује тезгарину

   шета се између редова

   њени горди плави кипови сада и у електронском облику

   дама у плавом на филмској траци

   њене речи силазе са екрана и заривају ти се под аркаду као боксери

   девојке пуше

   девојке седе на пластичним хоклицама минималца

   у оној с десна спава порођај

   у тами јула још један сиви порођај још једна нова пумпа у наручју њене десне траке 

   илегалци спремни да испуне суве артерије новим крвним

   зрнцима

   у нама гори црно тржиште

   у нама гори

   у нама гори и дише и помера се

9. Of Trees and Grass / O drveću i travi

   

   

   ENGSRP

   Only flora takes care of me now,

   while I lower my hands to the ground, the wooden 

   table boards are still warm from the evening sun,

   my palms cold from the shadow of black locust

   trees, I exist here, under the skin,

   the flax of my shirt, insects, in the foothill of

   everything, the bushes of grass are crumpled, the dance

   in the void, of heavenly bodies, smoking from a

   greenwood bowl like boiled tubers of young 

   potato, the air bears the scent of 

   peppermint sweat and spiking nettle, in 

   twinkling of the leaves I dissolve your

   image, I scatter the taste of sheep stone salt across 

   the space, dandelions, and the waxing shine of damp

   plantains, the day becomes dark and dull, and the

   Sun’s knees numb, while with my 

   fingers I crush shadows, coriander, everything 

   that I feel, roasted chicory, despair and 

   fields slowly turning their backs to daytime,

   I will light up the night like home-grown tobacco, feel 

   the passing of time in my throat, a sour wine, and 

   just listen the trees protecting us from the wind, 

   poverty, pain, protecting me from

   you, and you from the hollow eyes of the moon.

   Translated by Sava Mihailović

   Samo se još bilje stara o meni,

   dok spuštam ruke ka zemlji, daske

   stola su još tople od večernjeg sunca,

   moji dlanovi hladni od senke mladih

   bagremova, ovde postojim, pod kožom,

   lanom košulje, insektima, u podnožiju

   svega zgužvani su bokori trava, ples

   u praznini, nebeskih tela, puši se iz 

   drvene činije kao obarene krtole

   mladog krompira, vazduh odiše 

   znojem nane i klasalih kopriva, u 

   svetlucanju listova rastvaram tvoj

   lik, ukusom tvrde, ovčije soli posipam

   prostor, maslačke i voštani sjaj vlažnih

   bokvica, dan postaje taman i tup, i

   suncu trnu kolena, dok među prstima

   drobim senke, korijander, sve ono

   što osećam, pečenu cikoriju, očaj i 

   polja što polako okreću leđa svetlosti,

   zapaliću noć kao domaći duvan, u 

   grlu osetiti prolaznost, oporo vino, i

   samo slušati kako nas krošnje štite 

   od vetra, nemaštine, bola, mene od

   tebe, tebe od šupljih očiju meseca.

10. Carrots / Mrkve

    

    

    ENGSRP

    An Eastern-European poet has his

    fingernails tapping on the table, or pulling

    the cigarettes from a newly opened

    pack, removing the specs of reality from 

    the verses, always using 

    subtle phrases, describing 

    desolate places he speaks of civilisation,

    writing on contemporaneity, he mourns 

    the dead, as he passes through the hall, madams

    from Rotterdam are nodding their carrot juice 

    coloured hair buns, the stains of great

    expectations spraying on his jacket, at 

    the airport he passes by his namesake, 

    one clutching a briefcase in his hand, the other a mop,

    his words sore from constant change,

    the meaning flows away, departures are

    nothing like arrivals, and just the fingernails 

    are similar, the same ones God is 

    using to move him from place to place, 

    holding him by the nape, blind

    like a kitten.

    Translated by Sava Mihailović

    Istočnoevropski pesnik ima

    nokte kojma lupka po stolu, ili

    izvlači cigarete iz tek otvorene 

    paklice, njima iz stihova izbacuje 

    trunke stvarnosti uvek se služeći 

    tananim sintagmama, opisujući

    puste predele govori o civilizaciji,

    pišući o savremenosti oplakuje

    mrtve, dok prolazi kroz salu, gospođe

    iz Roterdama klimaju punđama

    od ceđene mrkve, mrlje velikih

    očekivanja prskaju mu po sakou, na

    aerodromu mimoilazi se sa imenjakom, 

    jedan u ruci stiska kofer, drugi četku,

    od stalne promene bride mu reči,

    otiče smisao, odlasci nisu ni

    nalik dolascima i slični su tek

    nokti, isti oni kojima ga i bog

    premešta sa mesta na mesto,

    držeći ga za potiljak, slepog, 

    kao mače.

11. Miroč / Miroč

    

    

    ENGSRP

    Dark leaves under the sky’s

    nape and a quiet earth, residue

    of moldy mist above a low rainbow

    and calm heights, charcoal hissing,

    stiff depth of a cloudy, wax covered day 

    ready to spring from us like an iris,

    smell of damp manure, a forest rolled up 

    in a black broadcloth of rain, birds glued 

    to each other, there is nothing else around

    while we wonder if we escaped things 

    haunting us, insomnia, the long tightness 

    of throat, persistent arrhythmia, and the rain

    is almost warm, falling straight into a 

    windless day, I say, I don’t want to be inside 

    anymore, I watch ladybugs hiding beneath a silent 

    cow’s bell, there are ash trees, resignation,

    the flowering of thyme, and no one is here

    to see it, and no one is here to hear

    me.

    Translated by Sava Mihailović

    Mrko lišće za potiljkom

    neba i stišana zemlja, talog 

    plesnive magle nad niskom dugom 

    i mirna visoravan, šuštanje ćumura,

    zapekla dubina tamnog, voštanog 

    dana što izrasta iz nas poput irisa, 

    miris raskvašene balege, u crno 

    sukno kiše uvaljana šuma, slepljene 

    ptice, samo je to oko nas, dok se 

    pitamo da li smo umakli onom što 

    nas goni, nesanici, dugom stezanju 

    grla, upornoj aritmiji, i kiša je 

    gotovo topla, i pada ravno u dan

    bez vetra, kažem, ne želim više

    da budem unutra, gledam kako se 

    bubamare skrivaju u zamuklom kravljem 

    zvonu, svuda su jasenovi, pomirenost, 

    cvetanje timijana, ali nema nikoga 

    to da vidi, nema nikoga da me 

    čuje.

12. Constantinople / Carigrad

    

    

    ENGSRP

    The streets are filled with light and an ease

    with which I would like to approach the world,

    with poplar trees breathing, alleys of cypresses,

    old balconies above the edge of a football

    fan’s scream, police cordons of Varangians

    lighting cigarettes and coachman looking for

    date palm’s sweet shadows, while trolleys evaporate

    from the depots and patchy beard Avars 

    pissing behind the temple, with beaches melting like 

    herpes on the lip of Bosporus, I say Constantinople

    thinking of everything that wasn’t meant to 

    be, dragonflies of high towers, gold 

    embroidered silk, completeness,

    wild children walking side by side

    with parents like music beside words, pomegranates 

    dripping from the mouth, cow leather 

    stretched over the void and bells shivering under 

    transparent domes, stalks of time folded inside a 

    hollow snail’s shell, incense burning, discarded 

    fish bones of hymns next to a road, an entire

    non-existent city becoming dense like air above a busy

    bus turntable, a phantasm, fever of history, dense

    like quicklime of desire and a poem trapped 

    inside me, like a symphony of something and nothing.

    Translated by Sava Mihailović

    To su svetle ulice i lakoća s

    kojom bih želeo da prilazim svetu,

    topole što dišu, drvored čempresa,

    starim balkonom obrubljen navijački

    poklič, kordon u kom Varjazi pale

    cigarete i kočijaši traže slatkaste senke

    urmi, a iz depoa isparavaju tramvaji

    i Avari retkih brada pišaju po zidu za

    hramom, a plaže na usni Bosfora se 

    tope, tople kao herpes, kažem Carigrad,

    a mislim na sve ono čemu nije suđeno

    da bude, vilin konjic tornjeva, 

    zlatom protkana svila, dovršenost,

    divlja deca što hodaju pored

    roditelja kao muzika do reči, iz usta 

    nam kaplju narovi, nad prazninu raspete

    kravlje kože, i zvona trepere ispod 

    prozirnih kupola, u šupljem pužu sklupčani

    su rogovi vremena, i svetle tamjan, na ulicu 

    bačene koščice himni i čitav nepostojeći 

    grad gust kao vazduh na okretnici, 

    fantazam, žega prošlosti, gust 

    kao živi kreč želje i pesma u

    meni, simfonija nečeg i ničeg.

13. 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.

14. 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.

15. 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.

16. 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.