Marina Veverec

Translated by Marina Veverec

1. The Poet Writes Down: The City, Frailty, Lust / Pjesnikinja zapisuje: grad, nemoć, požuda

   

   

   ENGHRV

   Darkness gusts in and again –

   everything is drained of space it takes.

   The buzz of winter, the first drops of night,

   the Earth’s spin couldn’t care less

   about the side to which the poem turns to get herself to sleep

   With the frost nipping at my fingers and metaphors,

   I rush recklessly into the grip of time:

   deadlines are coming to demand the words of my tongue:

   We need you to turn in December at least

   feel free to throw in those three

   love disappointments.

   Up ahead the city square gives in under the crowd of multitudes

   I bowl the day over: a kiss, contempt, plastics, pussy.

   The direction in which darkness accelerates comes as no surprise.

   It faces away from the city, while the street never thinks about her youth,

   even as her first menstrual flow trickles along

   Breaks through and carves a path in her thighs, all the way down to the knee cartilage.

   Someone throws a marble; someone else throws somebody’s head.

   I find my uterus my permission to write down at least one truth:

   a woman opened up to a woman and one thing led to another.

   I picked up a brick, who is without sin, let them be the first and so on,

   with this in mind I tumbled down

   and dragged the poet with me

   the one I put on paper in my idea of the city.

   A presumption, predictable too: curses sound more natural coming out of his mouth,

   but the pussy stuff is my privilege.

   The city orgasms right before dawn: my fingertips slip down and reach for simpler truths:

   I love to make out when I’m drunk.

   I wouldn’t know love if it flew into my mouth.

   The dawn is throbbing. Sweaty. Ancient.

   The city is gone, but the light has no way to know.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Mrak zapuhune i ponovno – 

   lišeno je sve prostora koje zauzima.

   Zujanje zime, prve kapi noći, 

   vrtnji zemlje svejedno je

   na kojoj strani pjesma usniva

   Dok mraz štipa za prste i metafore, 

   bespogovorno srljam u stisak vremena:

   rokovi su sjeli na jezik: 

   predaj nam barem prosinac 

   i ta tri 

   razočarana zaljubljivanja.

   Trg preda mnom pun množine popušta

   Prevrnuo sam posudu dana: poljubac, prijezir, plastika, pička. 

   Smjer u kojem ubrzava tama sasvim očekivan. 

   Gradu leđima okrenut, ulica ne promišlja svoje mladenaštvo, 

   a spustila se prva menstruacija 

   Probila i izbrazdala puteljak bedrima, do hrskavice koljena. 

   Netko baci pikulu, netko nečiju glavu.

   U meni je pristanak maternica da se zapiše i poneka istina:

   žena je ženi otvorila usta i jedno je dovelo do drugoga.

   Podignula sam ciglu, tko nema grijeha, neka prvi i tako dalje,

   u toj namjeri skotrljala sam se 

   i povukla za sobom pjesnika

   kojeg sam napisala u ideji grada. 

   Pretpostavka, također predvidljiva: pjesniku je prirodnija psovka, 

   iako je prostor pičke moja privilegija. 

   Orgazam grada pred zoru: spuštam prste u jednostavne istine:

   Volim se ljubiti pijana. 

   Ljubav ne bih prepoznala ni da mi se zabije u usta..

   Zora pulsira. Znojna. Prastara.

   Grada nema, ali svjetlo to ne zna.

2. The Poet Writes Down: The Devil, The City, The Truth / Pjesnikinja zapisuje: đavao, grad, istina

   

   

   ENGHRV

   On the road, if there is a road, you can easily check the truth you hold close:

   My statement: I do not trust anyone who does not trust their own devil.

   If bricks were to sing when the bulldozers head after them,

   and the poem was to burst into an unnamed wonder of collapse,

   maybe the truth would wiggle out and convert into seemingly

   banal politics: water is water in all languages,

   food is food in all guts.

    

   Still, when the city’s not watching, language resonates with sins

   Look – your eager, thirsty heart is a sound box

   and it’s an unavoidable trap: you talk out of both sides of your mouth

   I was to give the city a writer carved out of my own kidney,

   rationed my words, I was patient, devoted my hands.

   The city blueprint: it’s a lot easier to disappear than to stay here.

    

   On the street, if there is a street, the thing is simple:

   in every man there lies a tamed devil and it’s true, I admit,

   that I do not trust people who do not trust their devils.

   I was to give the city a poet carved out of the right atrium of my heart,

   Completely carried away I stumbled and could’ve died on the spot,

   stabbed by the sharp tongue of a vulgar passer-by,

   hadn’t my devil barked back metaphors at him.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Na cesti, ako ceste ima, jednostavno je provjeriti vlastiti istinu:

   Tvrdim: ne vjerujem čovjeku koji ne vjeruje svom đavlu. 

   Ako bi cigle zapjevale pred brzinom bagera, 

   a pjesma prasnula u neimenovano čudo rušenja,

   istina bi se možda izmigoljila pa prenamijenila u naizgled 

   banalna politička rješenja: voda je voda na svim jezicima,

   hrana je hrana u svim crijevima. 

    

   Ipak, kad grad ne gleda, jezik rezonira s grijesima

   Gle- tvoje je žudno, žedno srce zvučna kutija

   i zamka je neizbježna: sam sebi ulijećeš u usta

   Rezbarila sam gradu spisateljicu od svog bubrega, 

   štedljiva na riječima, pažljiva, posvećena rukama. 

   Nacrt grada: ovdje je lakše nestati, nego ostati.

    

   Na ulici, ako ulice ime, jednostavno je:

   u svakom je čovjeku pitomi đavao i istina je, priznajem,

   da ne vjerujem ljudima koji ne vjeruju svojim đavlima. 

   Rezbarila sam gradu pjesnikinju od desne pretklijetke srca,

   spotaknula se zanesena i možda bih na mjestu umrla

   od oštrog jezika priprostog prolaznika 

   da moj đavo nije zalajao metaforama. 

3. Lot’s Wife Writes Down Lust / Lotova žena zapisuje žudnju

   

   

   ENGHRV

   I don’t know what the next moment might bring,

   tell me everything – but do not stumble and drop the truth.

   It’s just the same as writing poetry, an indefinite borrowing, I came here to burst into flames

   Amid a city in ruins, at a stake of my hasty tongue. Say:

   Silence is never as sticky as when resting on your thighs.

   Sadness is never as severe as right before sleep.

   I dug out the graves, unaware of the city’s hunger, though of death I was aware

   I opted for the fastest solutions, fast food, fast love, fast truth:

   These days I can have one on top of the other two orgasms,

   But I still find my body is occasionally

   Autumn confined in a space of not much more than a meter.

   Cold weather, rain, books.

   I’m far too grown up and not grown up enough. When you tell me run, I imagine

   the city behind me perishing in dust, and I –

   No. No. No. I couldn’t resist the temptation to turn and give that metaphor a look

   Compared to being turned into a pillar of salt which I agreed to embody,

   it was hard to agree with the imposed truths:

   The tongue and the body being as chaste as the amoebas,

   the flesh torn from bones for lavish feasts, the tongue tied up,

   a heaven-kissing soundless shriek raising from a cozy cage.

   
   Who is without sin, let them be the first.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Nisam sigurna u trenutak pred nama, 

   reci mi sve– ali nemoj posrnuti u istinu.

   Tako je i s pjesmama, posudba na neodređeno, ovdje sam da planem

   Usred razrušenog grada, lomača brzopletog jezika. Reci:

   Tišina je najljepljivija na tvojim bedrima.

   Tuga je najstroža tik prije usnuća.

   Prekopala sam grobove, nesvjesna gladi grada, ali smrti svjesna

   Okrenula se najbržim rješenjima, brza hrana, brza ljubav, brza istina:

   Ovih dana mogu doživjeti jedan za drugim dva orgazma,

   Ali tijelo mi je povremeno i dalje 

   jesen zatvorena u nešto više od metra. 

   Studen, kiša, knjiga.

   Previše sam i premalo odrasla. Kad kažem trči, zamišljam

   Kako grad iza mene skončava, a ja – 

   Ne. Ne. Ne. Nisam odoljela okrenuti se za tom metaforom

   Naspram stupa od soli koji sam pristala utjeloviti,

   teže je bilo pristati na nametnute istine:

   Jezik i tijelo čedni poput amebe, 

   oderano meso za raskošne gozbe, jezik zavezan,

   do neba visok nijemi vrisak usred udobnog kaveza.

    

   Tko grijeha nema, neka prvi.

4. Magdalene Writes Down Lust / Magdalena zapisuje žudnju

   

   

   ENGHRV

   I set out to do my work with caution. In all honesty, I never liked the idea of god.

   But now, when you’re inside of me, it seems – everything’s perfectly fine. God is beautiful, tame-natured, polite, mannerly and above all manly. Unlike

    

   Other men, he always finds the right spot, without me saying a word.

   He gently pulls me into autumn. Pressure. Breath. Left speechless, I feel

   As love, blind with his saliva, splits open under me. You licked me

    

   And then, the heavy weight of sleep fell on us both. My belly brims with smashed fears,

   it’s what people call butterflies, but they are in fact fish in water so warm they’ll 

   Soon be left without oxygen, and most certainly

    

   Dead, floating on the surface hours before we open our eyes. None of that looks like love, but then again, you don’t look like a god either, I say to you while having my third orgasm on top of you, while thrusting you deceitfully to the verge,

    

   Prying the truth out of you. You’ll soon be dead, that’s why you’re so quiet. I don’t find that convincing, but then again – you, young, yet seasoned, don’t seem immortal either. Then we fall asleep among the dead fish that tomorrow have to feed a few hundred starved mouths.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Oprezno sam prionula na posao. Sasvim iskreno, nikada nisam voljela ideju boga.

   Ali sada, kada si u meni, čini mi se – sve je u savršenom redu. Bog je lijep, pitom, pristojan, uglađen i sasvim muževan. Za razliku 

    

   Od drugih muškaraca, prstima uvijek pogodi točno mjesto, bez da ja progovorim. 

   Nježno me privuče u jesen. Pritisak. Udah. Zanijemim, a poda mnom rastvori se ljubav slinom zaslijepljena. Polizao si me 

    

   I potom, teški se uteg sna svalio na oboje. Trbuh mi je pun smrskanih strahova, to je ono što zovu leptirićima, a zapravo je riječ o ribama u pretoploj vodi koje će 

   Uskoro ostati bez kisika, i sasvim sigurno

    

   Mrtve na površini plutati satima prije nego otvorimo oči. Ništa od toga ne nalikuje na ljubav, ali opet, ni ti ne nalikuješ na boga, govorim ti dok svršavam na tebi već treći put, dok te nabijam do ruba 

    

   Na prevaru iskamčene istine. Uskoro ćeš umrijeti, zato si šutljiv. Ni to mi ne zvuči uvjerljivo, ali opet – ni ti ne izgledaš, mlad, a iskusan, besmrtan. Pa zaspemo među mrtvim riba kojima već sutra treba nahraniti par gladnih stotina.

5. Eve Writes Down Lust / Eva zapisuje žudnju

   

   

   ENGHRV

   I bite into the engorged city, loud so loud raging, a thick

   Sadness split at the sight of nudity. Mine, of course.

   Your snake gave me a tickle, then not at all ominously 

   Twisted its presumption around my wrists

   That I am green when it comes to lust and not at all brave, then tightened

   Sentences around my thighs, writing love, then stretched the borders wide.

   I’m choking on the apple. You know how a woman gags when she

   Recklessly swallows passion on an empty stomach, I choked

   Like I’ve never choked before, and there it was, the first sin.

   I never told you, I almost cried,

   When you spread me open, so smug, instead I just sighed

   Ants are crawling about taking away the pieces of apple,

   the men inside me, your fingers

   And the boy whose skin I wear whenever I have to make myself

   Loud and assertive.

   Ants ants ants taking away my words –

   I masturbate with fingers mine and yours.

   The soft tissue of pleasure is more vulnerable than virginity –

   I plant a kiss first on the snake’s then on your tongue.

   We can all walk together

   Through the already busted door at the end of my lust.

   I greatly sinned through my fault,

   through my fault, through my most grievous fault!

   Just please let this apple somehow

   Slide down my throat.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Nabrekao grizem grad, glasna glasna goropadna, gusta 

   Tuga se raspolovila pred golotinjom. Mojom, dakako. 

   Tvoja me zmija poškakljala, potom je oko zapešća

   Nimalo zloslutno zavezale svoju zamisao

   Da sam zelena u žudnji i nimalo hrabra, oko bedara stegnule

   Rečenice, zapisale volim, pa razvukle granice.

   Gušim se u jabuci. Znaš, ono kad se žena zagrcne jer je natašte, neporezno

   Progutala strast, zagrcnuh se

   Kao nikada dotada, i eto prvog grijeha. 

   Nisam ti rekla, gotovo sam zaplakala,

   Kada si me otvorio, tako samodopadan, ipak samo uzdahnula

   Mravi hodaju i raznose komadiće jabuke,

   Muškarce u meni, tvoje prste

   I dječaka u kojeg se oblačim kad god trebam biti 

   Glasna i nametljiva. 

   Mravi mravi mravi raznose mi riječi – 

   masturbiram s tvojim i svojim prstima.

   Meko je meso užitka ranjivije od nevinosti –

   Zmiji pa tebi u jezik utisnem poljubac. 

   Svi možemo zajedno zakoračiti

   Kroz već provaljena vrata na kraju moje požude.

   Moj grijeh, moj grijeh, moj preveliki grijeh!

   Samo da jabuka nekako

   Niz grlo sklizne.

6. The Poet Writes: Milk, Motherhood, and More Fatigue / Pjesnikinja zapisuje: mlijeko, majčinstvo i još umora

   

   

   ENGHRV

   The math is clear: you cannot be subtracted from yourself.

   A howl, or a less explosive truth: a sigh,

   an unbroken thread of lost self-confidence.

   Does every step really deserve to leave a print?

   Not more beautiful than death, but certainly calmer,

   A calcified lust, a silence raw, yet edible

   Stir your nipples to riot, aroused, visibly hard

   And you roar out milk tastes sour, milk tastes bitter:

   The mother you’ve become outgrew the woman in you, 

   fatigue got ahead of her attempt to return.

   But that’s not the deal you made.

    

   If you really have to, you’ll comb the week

   into smaller sections of fatigue, but you’ll do it tomorrow.

   For now, you’d like to stay silent just a while longer.

   You’d like to evoke something lighter than fatty metaphors.

   A woman wouldn’t gauge out another woman’s eyes, would she?

   Tired, you’re just tired all the time.

    

   Something like this? I’m still here, you try to whisper yourself back.

   On the window, a crow patiently watches this uncertain scene,

   The bones of my disjointed sentences, the way I pile up adjectives because – why not!

   You wanted to write something about milk:

   the milk crusted on my cotton T-shirt,

   the milk so stale its odor has been stinging my nostrils since early morning

   the milk that drips relentlessly.

   Body’s howl, or a less intrusive truth: a sigh.

   An unbroken thread of lost sleep.

   I put my serious, weary heart on the scales –

   It weighs a lot more than me and my bed.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Računica je jasna: ne može te se oduzeti od tebe.

   Krik, ili manje eksplozivna istina: uzdah, 

   neprekinuta nit nedostatka samopouzdanja.

   Zaslužuje li svaki korak zaista otisak?

   Ne ljepša od smrti, ali svakako smirenija, 

   Okoštena žudnja, tišina sirova, ali ipak jestiva 

   Pobunila je, probudila, ponukala tvoje bradavice da se jasno ukrute 

   Pa si zaurlala mlijeko kiselo, mlijeko gorko:

   Majka je prerasla ženu u tebi, umor je preduhitrio pokušaj povratka.

   A niste se tako dogovorile. 

    

   Ako baš moraš, rasčešljat ćeš tjedan, 

   na manje umore, ali sutra.

   Sada bi još samo malo šutjela. 

   Prizvala nešto jednostavnije od masnih metafora.

   Žena ženi oči ne vadi, zar ne?

   Umorna, samo si neprestano umorna. 

    

   Ovako? Prisutna sam, šapućeš sebe u sebe. 

   Na prozoru, vrana strpljivo gleda u neizvjesnost ovog prizora,

   Kosti mojih nesuvislih rečenica, gomilanje pridjeva jer – zašto ne!

   Htjela si zapisati nešto o mlijeku:

   mlijeku skorenom na pamučnoj majici, 

   mlijeku ustajalom do smrada koji štipa od jutra, mlijeku koje kaplje neprestano.

   Krik tijela, ili manje nametljiva istina: uzdah. 

   Neprekinuta nit nedostatka sna. 

   Važem svoje ozbiljno, iscrpljeno srce –

   Teže je od mene i mog kreveta. 

7. Delilah Writes Down Lust / Dalila zapisuje žudnju

   

   

   ENGHRV

   The secret is you have to first find a place of least resistance.

   One finger above the grundle, two inside, one pointing at the sunrise.

   Language disguises as a tool for oblivion, although you know full well that memory

   Is the first lie of the language apparatus.

   The act of writing is an attempt to defend ourselves with our lies. The transfer of intimacy

    

   From one bellybutton to another. When I slide my tongue into the spot where you were ripped from your mother,

   My words give you a tickle. Do you feel it cheering you up?

   I’ll show you the way out of the body. I’ll kiss you

    

   Right where you screamed. It’s just hair, my love. You can always ask me politely, to put you back into the womb, to swallow your semen, to tell you the truth:

    

   It’s been four days since words last came to see me, for ten days the rain

   Has been blocking a happy ending from happening.

   Death smiled upon us too, so I spit in its mouth.

   Twenty minutes before I cut your womanhood short, I was suffocating with love

   And thought I’d soon be dead. But, at the last second –

    

   I remembered: it’s just sex, my love.

   I remembered: it’s just a movie, my love.

   I remembered: I still have to capture the woman I am

   I remembered: you’re sinful, my love.

   And all this worry is toxic.

   I cut your hair, then brought me back to myself.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Tajna je u tome da najprije sama pronađeš mjesta najmanjeg otpora.

   Jedan prst iznad međice, dva unutra, jedan položen prema izlasku sunca.

   Jezik se prerušava u alat zaborava, iako dobro znaš da je pamćenje

   Prva neistina jezičnog aparata.

   Pisanje je nastojanje da se obranimo vlastitim lažima. Prijenos prisnosti

    

   Od pupka do pupka. Kad zavučem jezik tamo gdje si bio otrgnut od majke, 

   Moja te rečenica poškaklja. Osjetiš li kako te odobrovoljava?

   Pokazat ću ti izlaz iz tijela. Poljubit ću te

    

   Tamo gdje si vrisnuo. To je samo kosa, ljubavi. Uvijek me možeš zamoliti, da te vratim u maternicu, da progutam tvoju spermu, da ti kažem istinu:

    

   Riječi već četvrti dan nisu sletjele na mene, kiša već deset dana

   Zaklanja mogućnost sretnog kraja.

   Smrt se i nama osmjehnula, pa sam joj pljunula u usta.

   Dvadeset minuta prije nego ću ti odrezati ženskost, gušim se od ljubavi

   I već pomislih da ću umrijeti. Ali, u zadnji tren – 

    

   Sjetim se: to je samo seks, ljubavi. 

   Sjetim se: to je samo film, ljubavi. 

   Sjetim se: još mi ostaje zarobiti ženu koja jesam

   Sjetim se: grešan si, ljubavi. 

   I ova je briga toksična. 

   Ošišala sam te, pa se sebi prizvala. 

8. The Poet Writes Down: The Funeral, An Orgasm, Autumn / Pjesnikinja zapisuje: sprovod, orgazam, jesen

   

   

   ENGHRV

   The dead leaves are collecting on the bottom of my fear,

   It’s that autumn which neither you nor I mention,

   The tongue nailed to mouth.

   My father killed me once, I say.

   Then withdraw my tongue. Keep it trapped behind my teeth.

   He killed me then came back to life, over and over again.

    

   Yes, the days are growing shorter, the rain heavier as they 

   one by one fall into my mouth.

   The fear moved out, and the autumn blues undressed as we watched,

   Then I, too, took off my skin and cried out.

   He’s dead. The ants still crawling inside my thighs.

    

   I shut the door behind me.

   Proudly paced the length of my flat naked.

   Three orgasms, a sadness deep down in my loins,

   gentle and precise like a woman’s tongue.

   Silence afterwards. Waiting for a funeral.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   Otpalo lišće taloži se na dnu mog straha, 

   To je ta jesen koju ne spominjemo ni ti ni ja,

   Čavao ispod jezika. 

   Otac me je jednom ubio, kažem. 

   Potom povučem jezik. Držim ga za zubima.

   Ubio me pa me uskrsnuo, pa iznova. 

    

   Da, dani su kraći, i sve kišniji zabijaju se 

   jedan po jedan u moja usta. 

   Strah je iselio, a jesenja se tuga razodjenula pred nama, 

   Potom sam i ja kožu skinula i zavrištala. 

   Mrtav. Mravi gmižu i dalje mojim bedrima.

    

   Zatvorila sam vrata za sobom. 

   Ponosno prohodala cijeli stan gola. 

   Tri orgazma, tuga među mojim slabinama, 

   nježna i precizna poput ženskog jezika.

   Tišina nakon. Iščekivanje sprovoda. 

9. The Poet Tries To Write Down Her Father / Pjesnikinja pokušava zapisati oca

   

   

   ENGHRV

   The fact that my father was the first to set the hungry beasts on me is

   a whole other story. The one about domestication

    

   When the unspeakable is laid on the table, irreversibly

   changing the meaning of hunger

    

   When October light propagates

   chestnut blight, powerless over the cruelty of decay

    

   When a farsighted hunch

   collects in my gut, three seeds of an all-too-familiar fear

    

   When I put forth my shoots, despite my father,

   before his wet cruel eyes

    

   Yes, that’s the one, the story that has

   gnawed at us for years, laid the foundations for our first starvation

    

   One that threatened to wring our necks

   as if we were baby chickens fattened for slaughter.

    

   I’m more of a loud one than I belong to my father. At last.

   My body boils with the heat of July, and then

    

   Without a doubt in my mind that I am free,

   I let lust break down in the scorching sun.

   Translated by Marina Veverec

   To što je otac prvi na mene pustio gladne zvijeri, to je 

   druga priča. Ona o pripitomljavanju

    

   Kada na stol silazi neizrecivo, nepovratno

   mijenjajući riječ glad

    

   Kada svjetlost listopada oplodi 

   kestenovu bolest, nemoć pred okrutnosti propadanja

    

   Kada sam u trbuhu skupila dalekovidnu 

   slutnju, tri koštice već poznatog straha

    

   Kada sam proklijala, ocu usprkos

   ocu pred vlažnim okrutnim očima

    

   Da, to je ta priča, pripovijest koja nas je 

   godinama glodala, temelj prvog izgladnjivanja

    

   Koja nam je vratovima prijetila zavrnuti

   baš kao da smo tek ugojeni pilići.

    

   Više sam glasna, nego što sam očeva. Napokon. 

   tijelo mi vrije na vrelini srpnja, a onda 

    

   Bez ikakve sumnje u to da sam slobodna,

   puštam da se žudnja raspadne na žestini sunca.