Mirza Purić

Mirza Purić is a literary translator working from German and BCMS. He is a contributing editor of EuropeNow and in-house translator for the Sarajevo Writers’ Workshop. From 2014 to 2017 he was an editor-at-large for Asymptote. He has published several book-length translations into BCMS, including Nathan Englander’s The Ministry of Special Cases, Michael Köhlmeier’s Idylle mit ertrinkendem Hund and Rabih Alameddine’s The Hakawati. His translations into English have appeared, or are due to appear, in Asymptote, H.O.W. (blog), EuropeNow, PEN America, AGNI, the Well Review and elsewhere. His co-translation, with Ellen Elias-Bursac, of Miljenko Jergovic’s story collection Inshallah, Madonna, Inshallah, will be released in 2018 by Archipelago Books.

More about the translator

Translated by Mirza Purić

WRATHS / BJESOVI

if winter is cold enough
village dogs freeze where they stand and for months
their skinny bodies look like museum pieces
if cold wind blows
their tails fall off
and they stand mangled

in such winters packs
of wolves come down from the mountains
for there are no dogs to raise alarm
in such winters
wraths multiply by the hearths
and overcome the villagers like seasonal flu

nana says it’s always been that way
wraths enter through your mouth when you least expect them
after midnight they go from one wolves’ den to another
and wolf children grow in women’s wombs

we mustn’t let ourselves be fooled says nana
by the childly faces they wear
the wolven in them grows faster than the human
sooner or later
they will bite
Translated by Mirza Purić
ako je zima dovoljno hladna
smrznu se seoski psi i njihova mršava tijela
izgledaju mjesecima kao muzejski primjerci
zapuše li ledeni vjetar
otpadaju im repovi
pa stoje osakaćeni

za takvih zima iz planina
spušta se čopor vukova
jer ih psi neće odati
za takvih zima
množe se bjesovi u ognjištima
i ulaze u seljane kao sezonska gripa

baka kaže da je tako oduvijek
bjesovi se u usta uvlače kad najmanje očekuješ
pa iza ponoći obilaze vučje brloge
u maternicama žena izrastu vučja djeca

ne smije nas prevariti kaže baka
što nose dječja lica
u njima vukovi rastu brže od ljudi
i kad tad
ugrist će
BONDING WITH DEATH / ZBLIŽAVANJE SA SMRĆU

father died
everything is ajar
god could sneak through
our house without us ever knowing

it’s draughty

I keep my hands on my kidneys lest they come to grief
now that everything’s been flooded
my fingers are wrinkly like walnut skin
I spend hours with my feet in cold water
and I run for a pee all the time

my hair is wet
mother shouts I’m apt to catch a cold
but she cannot shut
the doors or the windows
Translated by Mirza Purić
otac je umro
sve je širom otvoreno
i bog se može provući
kroz cijelu kuću da nikad ne saznamo
propuh je

držim ruke na bubrezima da ne stradaju
ovih dana kad je sve poplavljeno
prsti su mi smežurani kao orahova ljuska
satima sam nogama u hladnoj vodi
i stalno trčim piškiti

mokra mi je kosa
majka viče da ću se prehladiti
ali ne može zatvoriti
ni prozore ni vrata
BROTHER / BRAT

he had polio as a kid
and they tossed him in freezing water all the time
to cool off his incandescent organs
but he took a breath and he burnt
as if he’d taken nuclear processes of stars under his roof

st anthony may have jumped in later
since god couldn’t be bothered
and brother started to walk again though by then they’d read
three more sicknesses from his spongy skeleton

in his head he grew unnamed birds
talked with them more often than with people

there are remnants of the sun’s incandescent corona
underneath his inexperienced skin
and sometimes
when no one is looking
he glows in the dark
Translated by Mirza Purić
imao je dječju paralizu kao mali
i bacali su ga neprestano u mrzlu vodu
da ohlade njegove užarene organe
a on je tek udahnuvši gorio
kao da je udomio nuklearne procese zvijezda

možda je kasnije uskočio sveti ante
kad se bogu nije dalo
pa je prohodao makar su pročitali još tri bolesti
u njegovom spužvastom kosturu

u glavi je uzgajao neimenovane ptice
s kojima je pričao češće nego s ljudima

ostalo je još nešto od užarene sunčeve korone
ispod njegove neiskusne kože
i ponekad
kad nitko ne gleda
svijetli u mraku
TRAINS / VLAKOVI

when the first train passed
the villagers thought the night was a candle
lit up and put out
at the will of the roaring machine
and nothing was quiet and holy
anymore

only kata loved the noisy metal caterpillars
on tuesdays she grazed her sheep
and cows by the tracks
and observed obediently
as they spoke with god
Translated by Mirza Purić
kad je prošao prvi vlak
učinilo se seljanima da je noć svijeća
koja se pali i gasi
prema volji glasnog stroja
i ništa više nije ostajalo
sveto i tiho

samo je kata voljela bučne metalne gusjenice
utorkom je vodila ovce i krave
na ispašu kraj pruge
i promatrala poslušno
kako razgovaraju s bogom
* * * / * * *

When frost falls, the village stutters.
The doors are sealed shut, the windows mum.
He who has no house is eaten by pigs.
He who has no pigs is eaten by the frost.

First frost is remembered,
we count days on fingers in its wake.
If we run out of fingers, it’ll be a year of drought
and dearth of male children.
If there are fingers left over, the village gathers,
– this augurs a fruitful year.

Dearth of female children, silent bellies,
a rainy yellow summer.
Such years are like the sixth finger.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Kada nastupi mraz, selo zamuca.
Vrata se zapečate i prozori šute.
Tko nema kuću, pojedu ga svinje.
Tko nema svinje, pojede ga mraz.

Prvi se mraz pamti,
nakon njega dane brojimo prstima.
Ako ponestane prstiju, bit će sušna godina,
slabo će se rađati muška djeca.
Ako ostane viška prstiju, selo se okuplja,
to je najava plodnosti godine.

Manjak ženske djece, trbusi koji šute,
žuto kišno ljeto.
Takve su godine poput šestog prsta.
* * * / * * *

Morana slices the cap of a fool’s webcap,
an orange boat for the cauldron
that spreads the scent
of turnip and overgrown field.

Morana feeds the webcap to rabbits,
the bashful balls of cloud.
They drink from the cauldron a starless sky,
a permanent winter sleep.
Their mouths incandesce and they evaporate from thirst.

Rabbit fur is made into
hats to repel the cold.
A flayed rabbit feeds a family,
supper suddenly no longer seems strange.

Morana needs rabbit kidneys,
from their shape she senses the fertility of the soil,
the nature of mothers’ wombs.

She who suffers the fate of the kidneys
sails the waters of the webcap cauldron.
She who suffers thirst is a field and a boat
with no plough, no sojourner.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Morana reže klobuk crvenjače,
narančasti čamac za kotao.
Iz njega do nosa dopiru
mirisi repe i obraslog polja.

Morana crvenjačom hrani zečeve,
stidljiva klupka oblaka.
Oni iz kotla piju nebo bez zvijezda,
trajni zimski san.
Usta im se žare pa ishlape od žeđi.

Od zečjeg se krzna rade
kape koje odbijaju mraz.
Od ogoljenog se zeca prehrane obitelji,
večera se najednom ne čini stranom.

Morani trebaju zečji bubrezi,
iz oblika naslućuje plodnost zemlje,
narav majčinskih utroba.

Koju zadesi usud bubrega,
zaplovi kotlom crvenjače.
Koju zadesi žeđ, polje je i čamac
bez pluga i suputnika.
* * * / * * *

Morana is a woman without a floral name,
her name is the winter she embraces.
The fathers consider her a true witch,
an old woman who withstands death.

Morana tosses bones and cutlery
to protect her crops from summer hail.
No man thanks her for it, instead
they sharpen their axes to lop off her head.

When frost falls in winter,
Morana has no more cutlery left.
She gnaws on bones in barren fields,
eats tree bark with her hands.

The elders and the fathers curse Morana
and search the plough fields for knives, spoons and
forks to feast in their misfortune,
to sate the hunger ahead.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Morana je žena bez cvjetnoga imena,
ime joj dolazi od prigrljene zime.
Očevi je smatraju istinskom vješticom,
staricom koja odolijeva smrti.

Morana baca pribor za jelo i kosti
da tijekom ljeta zaštiti usjeve od krupe.
Nijedan joj muškarac tada ne zahvali,
oštre sjekire ne bi li je obezglavili.

Kada se tijekom zime dogodi mraz,
Morana više nema jedaćeg pribora.
Grize kosti na praznim poljima,
jede rukama koru drveća.

Starješine i očevi proklinju Moranu,
po njivama traže nož, vilicu i žlicu,
da se pogoste u svojoj nevolji,
utaže glad koja im predstoji.
* * * / * * *

Mother says: ‘Tomorrow doesn’t belong to you.’
Mother means: there is no time to which you’ll belong.
Just as I do not belong to the sacks of flour,
the run-down water mill or the stacks of hay.
I belong to a shadow, an eclipsed part of myself,
and it, too, vanishes when I turn off the light.

Father says: “Go to the cherry orchard and pick your supper.”
Father means: go hungry.
Our fields are dotted with mole hills
– the frozen knolls.
In the middle of the field, the rib cage of a cow gapes
like a morselless mouth.
Supper, if there is any, ought to be
spelt with a capital S.

Sister says: “This year the frost won’t last as long.”
Sister means: I don’t want to count anymore.
Counting is solace, mushroom soup,
a cow that has survived, revelry by the bonfire.
Counting keeps the village together,
keeps the fingers from being claimed by the frost.
But there’s no use of counting
it’s the same every year.
The frost lingers, the bellies are emptier,
the fathers angrier, god less convincing.
Whosoever does not wish to count, lops off his own fingers.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Majka mi govori: „Tebi ne pripada sutrašnjica.“
Majka želi reći: nema vremena kojem ćeš pripadati.
Kao što ne pripadam vrećama brašna,
razrušenoj vodenici ili plastovima sijena.
Pripadam tek sjeni, zatamnjenom dijelu sebe,
a i ona nestane kada ugasim svjetlo.

Otac mi govori: „Idi u višnjik i naberi si večeru.“
Otac želi reći: gladuj.
Našim se poljima prostiru krtičnjaci
– zaleđene uzvisine.
Nasred polja, kravlja rebra zjape
kao usta bez obroka.
Večeru, ako je bude, treba pisati
velikim početnim slovom.

Sestra mi govori: „Ove će godine mraz trajati kraće.“
Sestra želi reći: ne želim više brojati.
Brojanje je utjeha, juha od gljiva,
preživjelo govedo, veselje uz plamen.
Brojanje drži selo na okupu,
čuva same prste da ih ne uzme mraz.
Ali od brojanja nema koristi
– svake je godine isto.
Mraz odugovlači, želuci su prazniji,
očevi bjesniji, bog neuvjerljiviji.
Tko ne želi brojati, odsiječe si prste.
* * * / * * *

As its wings go up in flickering flames
glow seeps out of the butterfly’s antennae.
A woman becomes a dwindled sun
in the overripe hands of a man.

If dust is thereby removed
and it renders a creature innocent,
the creature will find itself pressed dry
in the poets’ dead troughs.

A man strives to bring each word to heel
for he who knows language, knows the woman,
he who controls it, controls her.
Translated by Mirza Purić
U trenucima se paljenja krila
prazni svjetlina leptirovih ticala.
Jedna žena postaje ugaslo sunce
u prezrelim muškim rukama.

Skine li se pri tome prah
i učini da je biće nedužno,
naći će se tiješteno
u mrtvim pjesničkim koritima.

Muškarac svaku riječ nastoji podčiniti
jer tko poznaje jezik, poznaje i ženu,
a tko ga kontrolira, njom i upravlja.
* * * / * * *

My disenfranchisement lies in language,
the namelessness is a sign of oppression.
The elders justify the gaps in the lexicon
by invoking the natural order of things.

A doe is a female buck, a hind a female hart.
I am a female child, not someone’s daughter.
There is no name that could put that right,
the forest is lorded over by the fathers and the sons.

God to them is a man without a mate,
the doe and the hind an old wives’ cock-and-bull tale
to fill the gaps in the nomenclature.

Translated by Mirza Purić
Moja obespravljenost počiva u jeziku,
odsustvo je imena znak mučenja.
Starješine pravdaju izostanak
pozivajući se na prirodni poredak.

Košuta je ženski jelen, srna ženski srndać.
Ja sam žensko dijete, nisam ničija kći.
Nema toga imena koje će to ispraviti,
šumom kraljuju očevi i sinovi.

Bog je za njih muškarac i nema ženski parnjak,
srna su i košuta ženska izmišljotina
da bi se nadomjestila praznina nazivlja.
* * * / * * *

When god created forest,
he made the doe and the buck its rulers.
Their antlers, crowns of bone,
heralded the kingdom of game.

The buck saw that the does’ antlers
were much more beautiful than his.
Stars reposed on their tips at night,
the queen of the forest was cloaked in moonlight.

One night, as the doe was asleep,
he bit off her antlers,
hid them deep in the forest
so she couldn’t find them.
He proclaimed himself the only ruler
and scoffed at the doe.

She has since wandered the woods
in search of her antlers,
weeping, weeping till the dawn breaks,
till the heather blossoms.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Kada je bog stvorio šumu,
postavio je jelena i košutu za vladare.
Njihovi su rogovi, koštane krune,
obznanili kraljevstvo divljači.

Jelen je vidio da su košutini rogovi
znatno ljepši nego njegovi.
Na njima su noću odmarale zvijezde,
vladaricu je krasio plašt mjesečine.

Jedne je večeri, dok je košuta spavala,
pregrizao njezine rogove,
sakrio ih duboko u šumu
da ih ne može pronaći.
Proglasio se jedinim kraljem
i košutu izvrgnuo poruzi.

Otada košuta tumara šumom
u potrazi za svojim rogovima
i plače, plače dok ne svane zora,
dok ne procvjetaju vrijesovi.
* * * / * * *

Why does god allow the sacrificing of daughters
to obtain a male descendant?
Why does he fill bellies with heavy notes
and food that melds with the soil?

I often think it a mere tale of our fathers
to keeps us in fear, keep our pupils dilated.
We fall into our frightened eyes
as if into graves
for my friends,
the antlerless does.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Zašto bog dopušta žrtvovanje kćeri
radi dobivanja muškog potomka?
Zašto želucima daje teške tonove
i hranu koja se sljubljuje sa zemljom?

Često mislim da su to priče naših očeva
kako bi nas držali u strahu, proširili nam zjenice.
Upadamo u njih kao u grobljanske rupe
u kojima završavaju moje prijateljice,
košute bez rogova.
* * * / * * *

Counting. Is what the village women do.
They count ears of maize, stalks of reed, yellow pond lilies.
Then the names of the men fallen in war,
the names of the sons and grandsons of the buried warriors.
No one thinks of me, or my future friends.
We are here to birth new coffins.

Whispery singing. Is what the village elders do.
They whisper about transience, the black of the night, the closeness of death.
Then the curse we are under, the famine and the frost,
the disappearing village swallowed by quagmire.
They do not think of themselves, or their actions.
Their whispers are torches that warm no one.

Silent naming. Is what mothers and daughters do.
They name meals, famines, a month of the year.
They see themselves in plants, borrow designations,
assign them to themselves to remember who they are.
They deny the men full control.
Their names are the weapons of nature.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Nabrajanje. To čine seoske žene.
Nabrajaju kukuruze, trstike, žute cvjetove lopoča.
Onda imena muškaraca poginulih u ratu,
imena njihovih sinova i unučadi pokopanih ratnika.
Nitko se ne sjeti mene, ni mojih budućih prijateljica.
Mi smo tu da porodimo nove mrtvačke sanduke.

Šaputavo pjevanje. To čine seoske starješine.
Šapuću o prolaznosti, crnoj noći, blizini smrti.
Onda o prokletstvu koje nas pogađa, gladi i mrazu,
nestajanju sela koje guta kaljuža.
Ne sjete se sebe, ni svojih postupaka.
Njihovi su šapati baklje koje ne griju.

Tiho imenovanje. To čine majke i kćeri.
Imenuju obroke, gladi, jedan mjesec u godini.
Prepoznaju se u biljkama, posuđuju nazivlja,
dodjeljuju ih sebi da se prisjete tko su.
Ne dozvoljavaju muškarcima potpunu kontrolu.
Njihova su imena oružje prirode.
* * * / * * *

When Father seduces Mother,
the cheeks are the sky before rain,
the torso a vine tendril,
the legs a shaky night.
Perhaps the eyes harvest the stars,
perhaps the hands tear up the clouds.
The aroma of mint in the air,
breaths are blizzards,
jagged and spiteful.

When Father conquers Mother,
axes rend tree trunks,
hair twines itself into ropes,
the wig heralds slavery.
Days peel off like bark.
Troughs emerge,
trees are digested.

When Father possesses Mother,
the spine is crestfallen,
the limbs are mixers,
the womb a birther.
From sunup to sundown
Mother keeps a fawn
tucked bellow her bellowing belly.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Kada otac zavodi majku,
obrazi su nebo pred kišu,
trup vitica loze,
noge poljuljana noć.
Možda oči žanju zvijezde,
možda ruke otkidaju oblake.
Zrak ispunja miris metvice,
udisaji su mećave,
prkosne i šiljate.

Kada otac osvaja majku,
sjekire paraju debla,
kose spliću užad,
vlasulja najavljuje sužanjstvo.
Dani se ljušte poput kore drveta.
Pomaljaju se korita,
stabla se probavljaju.

Kada otac posjeduje majku,
kralježnica je pokunjena,
udovi su mješalice,
utroba rađalica.
Od sunca do sunca
majka čuva jelenče
ispod želuca koji kruli.
* * * / * * *

The elder says: ‘He who sacrifices himself is repaid a hundredfold.’
The elder means: you will die and we won’t remember you.
Just as my father who dismissed me at birth doesn’t.
Just as he doesn’t remember my sister, the sprouted seedling,
the frog weeping in a frozen well.

A village woman says: ‘My mother has gone to the forest.’
The village woman means: my mother’s been ripped apart by my father’s fangs.
A cemetery sprawls across our fields, a mass ossuary.
In the field the wind upturns the branches in search of antlers.
None of which are meant for the does.

Brother says: ‘The frost will leave after you leave.’
Brother means: a great thaw is upon us.
The frost has no respect for women, it sends the village into hibernation.
The counting of fingers is the writing of winter sleep.
Whosoever counts all the fingers, wakes up before the rest.
Whosoever counts not one, sleeps beneath the plough fields.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Starješina mi govori: „Tko se žrtvuje, vrati mu se stostruko.“
Starješina želi reći: umrijet ćeš i nećemo te se sjećati.
Kao što se ne sjeća otac koji me otpisao pri rođenju.
Ne sjeća se ni sestre, isklijanog nasada,
žabe koja plače u zaleđenom zdencu.

Seoska mi žena govori: „Moja je majka otišla šumama.“
Seoska žena želi reći: majku su mi rastrgali očevi očnjaci.
Našim se njivama prostire groblje - masovna kosturnica.
Usred polja vjetar prevrće grane u potrazi za rogovima.
Nijedni nisu namijenjeni košutama.

Brat mi govori: „Nakon tebe odlazi mraz.“
Brat mi želi reći: vrijeme je velikog otopljavanja.
Mraz ne poštuje ženu, stavlja selo u hibernaciju.
Brojanje je prstiju ispisivanje zimskog sna.
Tko prebroji sve prste, probudi se prije ostalih.
Tko ne prebroji ni jedan, spava pod njivama.
Virginia / Virginia

A summer star rests in me. The night took a knife, severed a freckle from a star and put it under my tongue.
I run my fingernails down my forearm, scraping slaked lime. Stellar wounds emerge, each akin to the freckle I’ve received. Slowly, spreading across my skin, with sudden flares I disappear into the corona of my body.
The earth wicks in the anaemia of July, the clay solidifies, the sky is lit ochre.
The body becomes an eternal lighthouse.
Every night, when fireflies encamp in my hair, I light a path between our islands.
Translated by Mirza Purić
U meni počiva ljetna zvijezda. Noć je uzela nož, skinula s jedne pjegu i postavila je meni pod jezik.
Noktima prelazeći po nadlaktici, stružem gašeno vapno. Ispod njega izrastaju zvjezdane rane, svaka nalik pjezi koju sam primio. Polako, šireći se kožom, iznenadnim bakljama nestajem u koroni svoga tijela.
Zemlja popije srpanjsku anemiju, glina se stvrdne u stabilan teren, nebo ozari pastelna žutina. Tijelo postane vječni svjetionik.
Svake večeri, kada se krijesnice utabore u mojoj kosi, osvijetlim put između naših otoka.
Probiosis / Probioza

I often arrange small fruit on myself, from my neck down. Round my belly-button I make a forest circle. I say: this space I save for you, the way I was once connected with my mother I want to be connected with you. Then I crush it all with my palms and I ripen in the sun.
Blue is the colour of the placenta, in it sleeps the cub of the universe wrapped in hellebore hair. The child climbs towards the brim of the bubble holding on to the beam of the birth cord. If the child were a date, it would be the sheen of a tit’s feather. If the child were a rosehip, it would dwell on the dried out husk of an insect. If it took lodgings in my thigh, it would be a sign pointing to the existence of a cluster of grapes.
Blood travels to the stomach with the force of a waterfall. When it floods the abdomen, it pops the belly button out and the child sprouts into a circle.
Thrive, darling baby, thrive, you shout and spit on the scion. Out of your inflamed slime, a strange child protrudes – we name it birthcordia.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Često poredam sitno voće počevši od vrata. Oko pupka načinim šumsku kružnicu. Kažem: ovaj prostor čuvam za tebe, kako sam bio spojen s majkom, želim biti i s tobom. A onda sve zdrobim dlanovima i sazrijem na suncu.
Plava je boja posteljice, u njoj spava mladunče svemira umotanu u kokosovu kosu. Dijete se penje prema rubovima mjehura hvatajući se za pupkov tračak. Kada bi dijete bilo datulja, bilo bi svjetlina s perja sjenice. Kada bi bilo šipak, prebivalo bi na osušenom tijelu kukca. Ako bi se nastanilo u mojoj butini, bilo bi naznaka o postojanju grozda.
Krv putuje prema stomaku jačinom vodopada. Kada naplavi abdomen, isturi pupak iz unutrašnjosti i dijete proklija u kružnicu.
Rasti moje dijete, rasti, uzvikneš i pljuneš na izdanak. Od tvoje upaljene sluzi, izboči se čudno dijete – prozovemo ga pupavka.
The Well / Bunar

The memory of you blooms in dim colours. You’ve lowered me into the well for I should drink still water.
The sun has baked the mud on the bricks. You’ve left me here to chew the red sky flickering on the surface of hooves.
Fingernails from the clouds have put you together. When you slacken the rope, I trip over the well’s rim. This will be my dungeon where I will awaken to slack hands which don’t pull my body out. It isn’t watched by drowned eyes, the sky above them isn’t red before dusk.
And the darkness spills on the bricks and I become the darkness. The well will bury your hands, they will have the strength left to wick out the water, meld with the mud on the bricks.
No one will find me in the deserted village. No one needs land, no one needs water, no one needs my body. All of that nothing will birth wilderness.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Uspomena na tebe cvate ugašenim bojama. Spustio si me u bunar jer trebam piti mirnu vodu.
Skorilo je sunce blato na ciglama. Ostavio si me da žvačem crveno nebo što titra na površini kopita.
Spojili su te nokti iz oblaka. Kada otpustiš uže, spotaknem se o rubove bunara. Ovo će biti moja tamnica, posljednja postaja, u kojoj ću spoznati opuštene ruke što ne izvlače moje tijelo. Njega ne gledaju utopljene oči, njima nebo nad glavom nije crveno prije sutona.
I mrak se pokida po ciglama i postanem mrak. Zakopat će bunar tvoje ruke, toliko će imati snage isušiti vodu, slijepiti se s blatom na ciglama.
Nitko me neće naći u selu bez stanovnika. Nikome ne treba zemlja, nikome ne treba voda, nikome ne treba moje tijelo. Sve to ništa, izrodit će divljinom.
Gloamer / Sumračnjak

It wasn’t easy losing him.
He was slender – he’d enter the trunk of an oak. He was tall – we looked at his head in the crown of the tree. He was on the tip of the needle – we pricked our fingers and held him on our palms.
He had all the colours in his eyes and with every look he taught me a new shade. I wanted to be like him, dredge up canals along the river and meld the roots with the fish. Unlock the padlocks from the railing, toss all those loves, be a drop of the stream for him to drink me.
He was spacious – stars collapsed within him. He was present – we hugged his leafy arms. He was mine – a thin streak of sunlight on the horizon.
The sunset I managed to miss.
Translated by Mirza Purić
Njega nije bilo lako izgubiti.
Bio je tanak – ušao bi u deblo hrasta. Bio je visok – gledali smo mu glavu u krošnji. Bio je na vrhu igle – uboli smo svoje prste i držali ga na dlanu.
Imao je sve boje u očima i svakim pogledom naučio me novu nijansu. Htio sam biti poput njega, prokopati kanale uz rijeku i sjediniti korijenje s ribama. Otključati lokote s ograde mosta, pobacati sve ljubavi, biti kapljica potoka kako bi me popio.
Bio je prostran – zvijezde su se urušavale u njemu. Bio je prisutan – grlili smo njegove lisnate ruke. Bio je moj – tanka sunčeva linija na horizontu.
Zalazak koji sam uspio propustiti.
Flowery and Fruity / Voćan i cvjetan

how to turn a two-hump camel into a single-hump, without killing the camel?
rub half a lemon on your skin
disinfect your eyes with UV light
flagellate yourself with a bundle of nettles
you say: ‘male bees bee only once in their lives and then their stingers break’
you say: ‘I like to read urban prose whilst wearing urban clothes’
you say: ‘let’s cook up some crack, smoke it off foil, innit’
I’ve always loved destruction as a boy I built mud cities dug water canals it would take a few hours to finish it all in the end I’d pour a lot of water over the city and in a few seconds everything would be flooded I derived pleasure from that momentary relief a sense of power and control the primordial instinct of man is to destroy
I dreamt I’d beaten up a 50-year-old geezer for trying to pull you I dreamt of a nuclear plant exploding I dreamt we were flatmates and we talked normally and a neighbour was having a go at me for smoking cigarettes by her window
you say: ‘if god created man in his own image, what does he need the testicles for, he’s alone and doesn’t have to procreate? or is it that god actually has both a vagina and testicles and is a hermaphrodite? hence the folk saying that such people were touched by god.’
you say: ‘our dog can go by Salazar or Neon or Otter or Electra or Orion’
you say: ‘I thought I could change the world, but the world has changed me’
to forfeit the power of managing your desires
to love me like Mexico loves the desert
to slice discs of cactus and tickle my nipples
I say: ‘one morning you wake up and you’ve got no idea
who the person you used to love is or why you loved them’
I say: ‘with you I’d build towers on the riverfront’
I say: ‘death on you smells of jasmine’
Translated by Mirza Purić
kako dvogrbu devu spojiti u jednogrbu, a da deva ne krepa?
natrljati se polovinom limuna po koži
dezinficirati oči UV svjetlom
svežnjem kopriva bičevati leđa
kažeš: „muške pčele pčelaju se samo jednom u životu i onda im popucaju žalci“
kažeš: „volim čitati jeans u trapericama“
kažeš: „ajmo kuhat krek bokte i pušit na foliju“
uvijek sam volio destrukciju kao mali bih radio gradove od blata i kopao kanale za vodu trebalo bi mi par sati da to dovršim na kraju bih izlio veliku količinu vode preko grada i u par sekundi sve bi bilo poplavljeno nalazio sam užitak u tom činu trenutak olakšanja osjećaj kontrole i moći prvobitni čovjekov instinkt uništiti
sanjao sam kako sam prebio lika od 50 godina jer ti se upucavao sanjao sam nuklearnu tvornicu koja eksplodira sanjao sam kako smo sustanari i kako normalno razgovaramo i kako me susjeda ganja jer sam pušio cigarete kraj njenog prozora
kažeš: „ako je bog stvorio čovjeka na svoju sliku što će mu testisi kad je sam i ne mora se razmnožavati? ili bog ustvari ima vaginu i testise i dvospolan je? možda se zato u narodu kaže da su takvi ljudi dirnuti od boga“
kažeš: „pas nam se može zvati Salazar ili Neon ili Vidra ili Elektra ili Orion“
kažeš: „mislio sam da mogu promijeniti svijet, ali svijet je promijenio mene“
odustati od moći upravljanja svojim željama
ljubiti me kao Meksiko pustinju
rezati diskove kaktusa i dražiti mi bradavice
kažem ti: „jedno jutro se probudiš i shvatiš da nemaš pojma
tko je osoba koju si volio ni zašto si ju volio“
kažem ti: „s tobom bih gradio kule na rijeci“
kažem ti: „smrt na tebi miriši na jasmin“
My Walls Have Seen a Massacre of Mosquitoes / Moji su zidovi vidjeli masakr komaraca

I’ve borrowed two sewing needles and I push them into the wall socket because men like to push things into holes
it’s hard to take seriously someone who obsessively penetrates other people’s crotches, but there’s one hole he just cannot fill
at night when thoughts create surreal worlds he screams through his skin and feels as though someone were ripping up his rib cage
neighbours don’t hear him for neighbours have ears only for screams of their own
he never talks about it and no one ever brings it up
until one day they all die of emptiness and meld with the dayless expanse of the universe

of all of life’s breaths the neon one with the aroma of hashish is my favourite
some deal with sorrow by drowning it in alcohol some beat their wives when they come home
I sail across the ripples of my thoughts and I only lay a hand on myself
at night when the body is motionless in bed he conjures up parasitic images of kitsch
his friends can’t see them as they’re blind to the visions and colours of others
no one ever paints the life he lives behind shut eyelids
when the eyes dream a colour darker than black

darkness rips the titanic cobwebs that have intertwined in my head into your likeness
I mark my rage with different flavours – yours is bitter coffee and self-destruction
at night when everyone runs into the caves of their eclipsed minds
you shine under the sulphur lamp and breathe, dead as you are
though we’re not earthen we go to each other’s funeral
and one day we really feel the bitterness of benumbed buds

my walls have seen a massacre of mosquitoes
it’s insufferable being in a room that oozes countless suicides
at night when feral cats shine from the bushes and birds whisper a funeral march
neighbours hang themselves from their roof-beams
Translated by Mirza Purić
posudio sam dvije šivaće igle i guram ih u utičnicu jer muškarci vole gurati stvarčice u rupe
teško je ozbiljno shvatiti nekoga tko opsesivno prodire u tuđa međunožja, a jednu rupu nikako ne zna popuniti
noću kada misli kreiraju nadrealne svjetove on vrišti kroz kožu i osjeća da mu netko cijepa prsni koš
susjedi ga ne čuju jer susjedi imaju uši samo za vlastite vriskove
nikome ništa o tome ne govori i nitko nikada to ne spominje
dok jednog dana svi ne umru od praznine i stope se s bezdanom svemirskog prostranstva

od svih životnih udisaja najdraži mi je onaj neonski s okusom hašiša
neki tugu pokušavaju riješiti alkoholnim pićima i neki tuku svoje žene kada dođu svojim kućama
plovim titrajućim valovima svojih misli i dižem ruku jedino protiv sebe samoga
noću kada tijelo nepomično leži u krevetu njegove misli stvaraju parazitske slike neukusa
prijatelji to ne mogu vidjeti jer su slijepi na tuđe vizije i boje
nitko nikada ne oslika onaj život koji živi iza zatvorenih kapaka
kada oko usne boju i od crne tamniju

mrak kida titanske niti paučine što mi se u glavi ukrstiše u naličju tebe
svoj bijes obilježavam različitim okusima - tvoj okus je gorka kava i autodestrukcija
noću kada svi bježe u pećine vlastitih pomračenih umova
blještiš pod sumpornom lampom i dišeš, a sav si mrtav
iako nismo zemljani jedno drugome idemo na sprovod
i jednog dana doista osjetimo gorčinu umrtvljenih pupoljaka

moji su zidovi vidjeli masakr komaraca
nepodnošljivo je nalaziti se u sobi koja odiše brojnim samoubojstvima
noću kada divlje mačke sjaje iz obližnjih grmova, a ptice šapću posmrtni marš
susjedi se vješaju o grede svojih krovova
north node / sjeverni čvor

I’ve sat into the north node: a dark, cold and lasting place.
dependent clauses protest in cursive –
like drunken women they lean forward and finally speak the truth.
yet, the paper form is paltry – a trapping, a decorative
stencil into which I press all kinds of things:
Ludwig II, the woman who took the cloth,
plié I learnt at twenty-one.
I stumble on my own territory.
I listen to the petals falling off lilies.
women have foregone dresses, but not the crown.
instead of a sceptre,
here’s fasting and heresy: leave self not for a week.
we shall decant all things and turn:
air into froth, water into wine,
capricorn into cancer,
man into woman.
Translated by Mirza Purić
sjela sam u sjeverni čvor: tamo je hladno, mračno i dugoročno.
nesamostalne rečenice prosvjeduju kurzivom -
nagnu se kao pijane žene i konačno govore istinu.
pa ipak, papir je bijedna forma - ukrasna, dekorativna
šablona u koju utiskujem štošta:
Ludwiga drugog, ženu koja se zaredila,
plié koji sam naučila u dvadeset i prvoj.
spotičem se o vlastiti teritorij.
slušam latice kako opadaju s ljiljana.
žene su se odrekle haljina, ali ne i krune. umjesto žezla,
evo ti post i hereza: ne izlazi iz sebe tjedan dana.
sve ćemo rastočiti i pretvoriti:
vodu u vino, zrak u pjenu, jarca u raka,
muškarca u ženu.
only verse is free / samo je stih slobodan

no hugs to be had
except those free of charge
I struggle with dialectics it struggles with me
Matija why did you lose weight
don’t say mishap

I’m a dislocated triangle they pushed into the theorem
and said: stay there,
we’ll return –
they never did

I confess to God almighty
and to you brethren:
I miss no one
yet
something
somewhere
persistently mum
can’t seem to say

I’m earth, I need air
Translated by Mirza Purić
nigdje zagrljaja osim onih besplatnih
mučim se s dijalektikom i ona sa mnom
matija zašto si smršavio
nemoj reći slučajno

ja sam iščašeni trokut kojeg su ugurali u teorem i rekli mu: tu stoj,
vratit ćemo se -
ali nisu

ispovijedam se bogu svemogućemu
i vama braćo:
nitko mi ne nedostaje
ali
nešto
negdje
uporno šuti
nikako da kaže

zemlja sam, treba mi zrak
oxymoron / oksimoron

forest, where once was sea.
park, where once were graves.
what’s walled us in, do flowers grow within?
I can never tell
flora from fauna.
every time I dream of you, something spills.
after meat, I clean my teeth with a knife (as did my forebears).
I invoke words which all understand
the most emotionally charged ones:
love, family, fabric.
I know nothing of a pentagram in the baptistery.
when children lie, means they’re afraid.
when grown-ups lie, means they’re afraid.
I like to believe I’m wiser than the day before
and that I know more.
oxymoron, an absent presence.
Translated by Mirza Purić
šuma, gdje je bilo more.
park, gdje je bilo groblje.
čime smo zazidani, raste li iz toga cvijeće?
od flore i faune
nikad ne znam koja je koja.
uvijek kad te sanjam nešto se prolije.
nakon mesa, zube čistim nožem (tako su radili moji stari).
pozivam se na riječi koje svi razumiju
i koje imaju najjači emocionalni naboj:
ljubav, obitelj, platno.
ne znam ništa o pentagramu u krstionici.
kad djeca lažu, to znači da se boje.
kad odrasli lažu, to znači da se boje.
volim vjerovati da sam mudrija nego jučer
i da znam više.
oksimoron, to je zimsko ljetovanje.
chrysanthemum / krizantema

he says chrysanthemum
I get over him instantly.
she turns chauvinism into an event:
always invites her girlfriends.

I used to once, but no more.
you’re blooming Simone, but scentlessly.
Petra, you’re a rock and on it I shall build
a kindergarten, a hospital and a bird house.

to be kind all the time?
no, thank you.
und für Sie?
nein, danke.
no, thank you.

the I in the poem menstruates.

if anyone asks,
I’ll say chrysanthemum.
Translated by Mirza Purić
on kaže krizantema
i ja ga odmah prebolim.
ona od šovinizma radi event:
uvijek pozove sve svoje prijateljice.

nešto sam nekoć, ali ne više.
rascvjetala si se Simone, ali ne mirišeš.
Petra, ti si stijena i na toj stijeni sagradit ću
vrtić, bolnicu i kuću za ptice.

to be kind all the time?
no, thank you.
a za vas?
isto ne bi'.
no, thank you.

lirski subjekt menstruira.

ako me tko pita,
ja ću reći krizantema.
Ofelia fell off her bike / Ofelija je pala s bicikla

Ofelia fell off her bike and
the asphalt wove itself into her face
five Roman emperors swore to kindness
a blade of grass wished it were a rock
a stone finally took flight, without wings
or awareness of the portentousness of the act
blood is warm only when fresh
the soul is a butterfly in a national park,
protected, without knowing
when you come, you bring me gifts
the cloud is empty, the ground cracks under the pilgrims’ feet
holy is the place where we part ways
Translated by Mirza Purić
Ofelija je pala s bicikla i
asfalt se utkao u njezino lice
pet je rimskih careva prisegnulo na dobrotu
jedna je travka poželjela biti kamen
jedan je kamen konačno poletio, bez krila
i svijesti o zloslutnosti tog čina
krv je topla samo kada je svježa
duša je leptir u nacionalnom parku,
zaštićen, a da to ni ne zna
kad dolaziš, donosiš mi darove
oblak je prazan, tlo puca pod nogama hodočasnika
sveto je mjesto na kojem se rastajemo
to let things go to hell / puštati stvari da idu k ͜vragu

to let things go to hell and return crestfallen and unstable,
to wait for him to: translate Faustus, mine residual ore, charter a city.
to grow your hair long in the meantime, wrap it round the world like a noose,
to be the menace of blue, a sad woman with swollen breasts.
to learn about stylistic devices:
eschew grandstanding, greed, gluttony, alliteration,
almost fuck up and give in to each one.
accept a thousand partial solutions till one appears walking on water.
like a shelter dog be afraid of the bicycle and the refuse bin,
rest on the floor, in a corpse pose, halfway from here to hanging (people
change their mind when there’s no going back)
I’m losing my talent for eroticism, becoming a scoliosis in a porno,
taking sorrow to what’s not the place at what’s not the time,
people don’t add me, they mostly subtract me, you’re too multiplied, they say
you come as Pi, constantly irrational,
who can put up with that now,
we have issues at the office, you have issues in your head.
I miss the sea (when you dive in, you never change your mind)
Translated by Mirza Purić
puštati stvari da idu k ͜vragu i da se od njega vrate pokunjene i nestabilne,
čekati da on: prevede Fausta, iskopa zaostale rude, osnuje grad.
pustiti kosu u međuvremenu i njome omotati svijet poput omče,
biti prijeteća nježnost plavetnila, tužna žena kojoj su nabrekle grudi.
učiti o stilskim figurama:
izbjegavati zavist, zlobu, zajedljivost i aliteraciju,
zamalo se zajebati oko svake od tih stavki.
pristajati na tisuće polovičnih rješenja sve dok se jedno ne ukaže kako hoda po vodi.
poput psa iz azila plašiti se bicikle i kante za smeće,
odmoriti na podu, u položaju mrtvaca, na pola puta od smrti vješanjem (svi se predomisle u trenu kad više nema povratka)
gubim talent za erotiku, postajem skolioza u pornografskom filmu,
donosim tugu gdje joj nije ni mjesto ni vrijeme,
ljudi me ne dodaju, uglavnom me oduzimaju, previše si pomnožena kažu,
dolaziš kao Pi s tim nebrojenim decimalama,
tko to trenutno može podnijeti,
mi imamo probleme u uredima, a ti u glavi.
fali mi more (u moru se nikad ne predomisliš)
sister: / sestra:

sister:
came in a strange form and rather late.
mother had already turned sixty.
still, a sister.
she was all I’d (itsjustanexpression) dreamt of.
beautiful, soft, with thick curly hair.
ready to play. and play we did:
she put her hand in my hair her tongue
in my mouth her finger
in my cornea
and said, these are the rules:
pronouns he/him be
what I want you to be submit
don’t touch my
breasts fuck off.
desire – enemy territory, a stern hamartia.
I pull myself out, lungs full of water, pull myself out.
mother says: now, then? isn’t that the sister you wanted, eh?
what now? don’t like her? no pleasing you…
I pretend not to hear.
for days on end, I sit on the rock pulling the arrow out of my neck:
if I’m a deer, I’ll bleed to death
I’ll turn pink, if I’m the sky
if I’m a woman, ( )
where do I go now?
Translated by Mirza Purić
sestra:
došla je u čudnom obliku i dosta kasno.
majka je već bila prešla šezdesetu.
pa ipak, sestra.
bila je sve o čemu sam (tosetakokaže) sanjala.
lijepa, bujne kovrčave kose, meka.
spremna za igru. pa smo se igrale:
stavila je ruku u moju kosu jezik
u moja usta prst
u moju rožnicu
i rekla, ovo su pravila:
zovi me on budi
što zamislim pokori
se ne diraj mi
grudi odjebi.
želja, tuđa teorija, stroga i tragična pogreška.
vadim se van puna vode, pluća puna vode, vadim se van.
majka kaže: što je? nije li to sestra za kojom si toliko čeznula, ha?
što je sad? ne sviđa ti se? tko bi tebi ugodio…
pravim se da je ne čujem.
danima sjedim na stijeni i vadim strijelu iz vrata:
ako sam jelen, iskrvarit ću
ako sam nebo, poružičastit ću
ako sam žena, ( )
kamo ću?
centring / centriranje

you’ve been centring yourself,
for ten, twenty years, or more.
you traverse precarious ground;
you check mate both the king and the queen
but the game is forever drawn.
you sit violently somehow
as you read about Saturn and female sexuality.
systematically, you silence yourself.
you bring God to a boil
then pour him into revocable moulds.
unstoppably, you condense.
you cannot sleep,
but at least you’re in no hurry.
you live in a tense expressing
a state of being before a state of being
but after its aftermath.
when everyone changes their mind at once,
that’s pronounced trebuchet, spelt
metamorphosis of intent.
stop flailing your genitive – after all
we all walk hanging from the same question
where are my slippers
or
how to love,
what to love with
you know, this is how I picture it:
at the break of dawn
I go out barefoot on the balcony,
and what do I find – a revolution:
while we slept, the world bedewed itself.
Translated by Mirza Purić
dugo se namještaš,
deset, dvadeset godina, možda i duže.
pomjeraš se na svim prolaznim mjestima;
matiraš i kralja i kraljicu
ali ostane neriješeno zauvijek.
sjediš nekako nasilno
dok čitaš o Saturnu i ženskoj seksualnosti.
sistemski se sve više stišavaš.
zagrijavaš boga dok ne prokuha
potom ga izlijevaš u kalupe koji se daju opozvati.
nezaustavljivo se kondenziraš.
ne možeš spavati,
ali barem nikamo ne žuriš.
živiš u glagolskom vremenu
kojim se izražava stanje prije stanja, a poslije posljedice.
kada se svi istovremeno predomisle,
to se izgovara katapult, a piše se
metamorfoza namjere.
prestani mahati genitivom – uostalom
svi hodamo obješeni o isto pitanje
gdje su mi papuče
ili
kako voljeti i čime
znaš, ja ti to ovako zamišljam:
u praskozorje
izađem bosa na balkon,
a kad tamo - revolucija:
dok smo spavali, svijet se sam orosio.
a remove / odmak

you’re a gap in my secondary literature
an inequitable equation for the new century
an irreversible touch

if there’s a system that can encompass you:
let it be lenient and imprecise
if there’s a weapon that can protect you:
let it be cold and in someone else’s hand
if there’s a love that won’t cripple you:
let it be bestowed on you every day

this is a new forest
and in it we’re lost anew
Translated by Mirza Purić
ti si izostavljena stavka u mojoj sekundarnoj literaturi
neujednačena jednadžba za novo stoljeće
nepovratnost dodira

ako postoji sustav koji te može obuhvatiti:
neka bude blag i neprecizan
ako postoji oružje koje te može zaštiti:
neka bude hladno i u tuđoj ruci
ako postoji ljubav koja te neće osakatiti:
neka ti je dodjeljuju svaki dan

ovo je nova šuma
i u njoj smo ponovo izgubljeni
trade in sad / tužna trgovina

numismatic collections of memory sell best
great myths of small lives
bourgeois notes on times and people
cognitive distortions from the centre
and the centre is always stern
its claim on the luxury box
sacrosanct.
we condemn the clergy, for clericalism
nationalists, for nationalism
violators, for violence
we want applause for our deduction, a gallantry cross
wide, all-encompassing blind spots become
our brands –
all rights reserved
our own above all
to you we magnanimously gift the ones we don’t fancy
we’re anti-capitalists, but our capital keeps increasing
we’re feminists, but the blueprint is male
we’re anarchists, embedded in institutions
we’re here to teach you:
our justice is selective
our equality pharisaic
our intentions noble
stay safe and naive
your stupidity is fertile soil for our joint success
Translated by Mirza Purić
najbolje se prodaje numizmatika sjećanja
veliki mitovi o malim životima
buržujski zapisi o vremenu i ljudima
kognitivne distorzije iz centra
a centar je uvijek strog
njegovo mjesto u loži
sveto je pravo.
osuđujemo kler, zbog klerikalizma
nacionaliste, zbog nacionalizma
nasilnike, zbog nasilja
zahtijevamo pljesak za dedukciju i medalju za hrabrost
široke i sveobuhvatne slijepe pjege
postaju naši brendovi -
sva su prava pridržana
a najviše vlastita
vama velikodušno dajemo ona koja nam nisu zanimljiva
mi smo antikapitalisti, ali naš se kapital neprestano umnaža
mi smo feministi, ali prema muškom modelu
mi smo anarhisti, ali unutar institucije
tu smo da vas podučimo:
naša je pravda selektivna
naša jednakost farizejska
naše namjere plemenite
stojte nam dobro i naivno
vaša je glupost najplodnije tlo za zajedničke uspjehe
BAD FATHER / LOŠ OTAC

bad father likes the carnival
he changes masks year-round
finds it immensely amusing
he’s phonetically gifted

a polyglot
fluently bad in all the languages of the world
he rules from the shadows within
knows exactly what you want
makes sure
you never get it

he’s seductive and charming
some say charismatic
when he dies
all the world’s dignitaries
attend his funeral
but the next day
he resurrects unseen
sips whisky
reads his own necrologies

bad father doesn’t feel a thing
it’s a point of pride
everything he cannot feel
you feel triply
bad father eats
ortolans
dips them in cognac
as he sermonises on socialism
and workers’ rights

the worse he is
the more the children love him
ape him
believing that someday
they’d entrench themselves in his place
unaware that he’s long been
entrenched in them

bad father
writes a poem about bad father
with a bone-tired daughter’s hand
in the poem
she sticks a stake in his heart
in reality
he sticks her head in the oven

bad father only wants to fuck
knows exactly
what a woman should look like
he introduces standards
of aesthetic surgery
turns them all into mannequins
with bar codes on their napes

to those who don’t want to be mannequins
he whispers that looks don’t matter
they are his brainy lovelies
he makes them work
twice as hard
shin up the mountain
on day two of their period
write a dissertation
whilst in labour
be iron ladies
single and determined
to introduce
the new old order
in his name

sons he castrates
if not directly
then through the mother
leaves them permanently latched
onto her teat
turns them into perpetual boys
little peter pans
who only want their tinker bell

bad father advocates non-violence
love and solidarity
always has
he worries about our safety
especially since 9/11
worries so much
he kills six million
people with worry
bad father always needs
a scapegoat
a projection screen
bad father
is a victim
of bad father
and when all the strategies fail
there is always
the victim card
that’s his trump
works every time

bad father tells you
that you
are bad
whispers through all your windows
assures you that there are mortal sins
for which you’ll be punished
bad father is
the supreme authority
he governs through one of the two poles
those whose poles can no longer
be hijacke
drive him insane
he hates them more than anything
ignores them systematically
abuses them
hushes them up
pretends they don’t exist

bad father is so bad
he makes the mother
look better than she is
that’s just contrast
she’s an accomplice
a passive observer
a peacekeeping mission in Srebrenica
she’s never at fault
enjoys protections under international law
doesn’t know where she was
or what she was doing
during genocide
if he is bad
she must be good
if he doesn’t cry
her tears cannot
be false

bad father gets up early
lest he misses something
he enjoys that sense of control and domination
before the world (finally) rises

bad father gives likes
to all his children
obedient ones in particular
knows what they think
and where they go
plies them with likes
so they keep coming back for more

bad father attends a protest
against bad father
invites the organisers for a cup of tea
compliments their hair styles
there are other methods
but this one without intimidation
is proven

bad father
closes the borders one day
deploys troops, unleashes dogs
welcomes you warmly the day after
helps you look for a job

bad father created the world
in his image and likeness
all things must be like him
what is not like him
he tramples down with brutality
bad father is the arbiter
of our reality

on his good days
when he isn’t so morose
it may seem to the children
he has more virtues than faults

bad father has a name
but no one calls him by it
the children refuse
to use it
saying
he is our father
such as he is

children sometimes do
the opposite of bad father
run in a different direction
till one day in the mirror
they face
that same deathless chimera

bad father likes nothing better than
when children argue and fight
the left spits on the right
the right twists the left’s wrists

bad father renounces all that is evil
and only when he’s drunk
he lets loose a cry –
the state, it is I!
Translated by Mirza Purić
loš otac voli karneval
mijenja maske kroz godinu
to ga beskrajno zabavlja
on je poliglot
s darom za fonetiku
tečno je loš na svim jezicima svijeta
vlada iz (tvoje) sjene
dobro zna što želiš
i radi na tome da to
nikada ne dobiješ

zavodljiv je i šarmantan
neki kažu karizmatičan
loš otac
kad umre
na sprovod mu dođu
svi dužnosnici svijeta
već sutra
on neopaženo uskrsne
pijucka viski
čita vlastite nekrologe

loš otac ništa ne osjeća
i ponosan je na to
za sve što on ne osjeća
ti osjećaš dvostruko

loš otac jede
ptice pjevice
umače ih u konjak
dok priča o socijalizmu
i radničkim pravima

što je gori
to ga djeca više vole
oponašaju ga
vjeruju da će jednoga dana
zasjesti na njegovo mjesto
ne vide da je on
već odavno zasjeo u njih

loš otac
napiše pjesmu o lošem ocu
rukom jedne iznurene kćeri
u pjesmi
ona mu zabije kolac u srce
u stvarnosti
on njoj zabije glavu u pećnicu

loš otac te samo želi jebati
točno zna
kako žena treba izgledati
uvodi standarde
estetske kirurgije
sve ih pretvara u lutke
s bar kodovima na vratu

onima koje ne žele biti lutke
šapuće da nije važno kako izgledaju
one su njegove pametnice
tjera ih da rade
dvostruko
da se penju na planinu
drugog dana menstruacije
da pišu doktorat
dok rađaju
da budu čelične dame
odlučne i same
da uvode stari
novi poredak
u njegovo ime

sinove kastrira
ako ne izravno
onda preko majke
ostavi ih trajno prikopčane
na njezinu sisu
pretvori ih u vječne dječake
male petre panove
koji samo žele svoju zvončicu

loš otac propagira nenasilje
ljubav i solidarnost
oduvijek
brine za našu sigurnost
pogotovo od 9/11
toliko se brine
da šest milijuna ljudi
pobije od brige
lošem ocu uvijek treba
dežurni krivac
platno za projekciju
žrtveno janje
loš otac je
žrtva
lošeg oca
i kad sve strategije propadnu
uvijek mu preostaje
karta žrtve
ona je joker zovi
uvijek dobiva

loš otac ti govori
da si ti
loš/a
šapće kroz sve tvoje prozore
uvjerava te da postoje smrtni grijesi
i da ćeš za njih biti kažnjen/a
loš otac je
vrhovni autoritet
vlada kroz jedan od dva pola
izluđuju ga oni
čije se polove više ne može zaposjesti
njih mrzi više od ičega
sustavno ih ignorira
zlostavlja
ušutkava
pravi se da ne postoje
loš otac je toliko loš
da se majka uz njega
čini boljom nego što jest
to je samo kontrast
ona je suučesnik
pasivni promatrač
mirovna misija u Srebrenici
nikad ništa nije kriva
štiti je međunarodno pravo
ne zna gdje je bila
ni što je radila
za vrijeme genocida
ako je on loš
ona mora biti dobra
ako on ne plače
njezine suze ne mogu
biti lažne

loš otac ustaje rano
da mu ništa ne promakne
uživa u osjećaju kontrole i nadmoći
prije nego li svijet ustane

loš otac lajka
svu svoju djecu
pogotovo poslušnu
zna što misle
i kud se kreću
stalno ih lajka
da mu se vraćaju po još

loš otac dođe na prosvjed
protiv lošeg oca
pozove organizatorice na čaj
pohvali im frizuru
ima i drugih metoda
ali ova bez zastrašivanja
dokazano najbolja

loš otac
jedan dan zatvara granice
postavlja vojsku, pušta pse
drugi te dan velikodušno prima
traži ti posao

loš otac je stvorio svijet
na svoju sliku
sve mora biti nalik njemu
što nije njemu nalik
to uništava i zatire
loš otac je arbitar
naše stvarnosti

loš otac
ima i dobrih dana
djeci se tada priviđa
da možda ipak
ima više vrlina nego mana

loš otac ima ime i prezime
ali tako ga nitko ne zove
djeca odbijaju
imenovati
kažu
kakav je, takav je
naš je

ponekad djeca
rade sve suprotno od lošega oca
bježe u drugom smjeru
sve dok jedan dan ne susretnu
u ogledalu
tu istu besmrtnu himeru

loš otac najviše voli kad se djeca
svađaju i tuku
ljevica pljune na desnicu
desnica ljevici izvrne ruku

loš otac se ograđuje od svakog zla
samo kad se napije
mu se omakne:
država, to sam ja!

Mirza Purić

Translated by Mirza Purić

WRATHS / BJESOVI

BONDING WITH DEATH / ZBLIŽAVANJE SA SMRĆU

BROTHER / BRAT

TRAINS / VLAKOVI

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

* * * / * * *

Virginia / Virginia

Probiosis / Probioza

The Well / Bunar

Gloamer / Sumračnjak

Flowery and Fruity / Voćan i cvjetan

My Walls Have Seen a Massacre of Mosquitoes / Moji su zidovi vidjeli masakr komaraca

north node / sjeverni čvor

only verse is free / samo je stih slobodan

oxymoron / oksimoron

chrysanthemum / krizantema

Ofelia fell off her bike / Ofelija je pala s bicikla

to let things go to hell / puštati stvari da idu k ͜vragu

sister: / sestra:

centring / centriranje

a remove / odmak

trade in sad / tužna trgovina

BAD FATHER / LOŠ OTAC