Radmila Lazić

POVRATAK 1

Zar smo bili ovde?

Ovi otisci čiji su
Na našem pragu?
Ovaj pejzaž
Ko je gledao
Kroz naš prozor?
Ova lampa
Kome je svetlela
Iz noći u noć?
Kroz ova vrata
Ko je kročio u san?

Zar smo bili ovde,
Kada smo mogli otići.

Rückkehr 1

Waren wir wirklich hier?

Diese Spuren –
Wer hat sie hinterlassen
Auf unserer Türschwelle?
Diese Landschaft –
Wer hat sie betrachtet
Aus unserem Fenster?
Diese Lampe –
Wem hat sie geleuchtet
Nacht für Nacht?
Und diese Tür –
Wer ist durch sie in unseren Traum getreten?

Waren wir wirklich hier,
Wenn wir weggehen konnten.

LIČNE ZAPOVESTI

1. Ne uzdiši i ne plači nad sveskama poezije.
2. Ne očekuj ni loše vesti ni obećane slasti.
3. Gledaj iz sebe kao da gledaš kroz mnoge prozore.
4. Ne tumači, opisuj.
5. Uredno slaži iskustva, uspomene, mrtvace.
6. Sa predmeta, reči i sa živih stvorova skini i zaštitne maske i zavoje.
7. Ne zaključavaj svoju škrinjicu-srce.
8. Izađi iz kade, pokaži telo-jezik.
9. Unutrašnjost svoju položi na hiruški sto.
10. Danonoćno zalivaj biljčicu–sebe.

Persönliche Gebote

1. Seufze und weine nicht beim Lesen von Gedichten.
2. Warte nicht auf schlechte Nachrichten noch auf versprochene Freuden.
3. Schaue aus dir hinaus wie aus vielen Fenstern.
4. Deute nicht, beschreibe.
5. Verwahre ordentlich Erfahrungen, Erinnerungen, Verstorbene.
6. Entferne Schutzmasken und auch Verbände von Dingen, Worten und Lebewesen.
7. Verschließe nicht dein Kästchen – das Herz.
8. Steig aus der Badewanne, zeig deinen Körper – die Sprache.
9. Lege dein Inneres auf den OP-Tisch.
10. Gieße Tag und Nacht die zarte Pflanze – dich.

PSALAM

Blagoslovena mašina za pranje veša, posuđa...
I ostali kućni aparati u ispravnom stanju.
Vodovod i kanalizacija. Uredna stolica.

Gradski saobraćaj i G-đa čistoća,
Blagosloveni kiša i vetar,
Zanatlije, taksisti, trgovci. Novac.
Javna kupatila i Narodne kuhinje.
Vrtlari i vidari mojih draži. Grobari.

Sve što je na usluzi – blagosloveno
Ustima, nozi, ruci. Zemlji.

Blagosloveni pokvareni telefoni,
Izgubljene adrese, pronađeni kišobrani.
Blagosloveni bivši prijatelji i ovdašnji
Neprijatelji. Dužni i sužnji. I ti,
Moj dragane, moja Euridiko.

Blagosloveni oni sportovi
Koji mi ne pođoše za rukom,
I društvene igre koje ne naučih.
Blagoslovene nepripitomljene životinje,
Ptice izletele iz kaveza, prazni kavezi,
I ti srce moje – ispražnjeni dućanu.
Sve oskudice i nestašice blagoslovene
Što mi podariste svoje minute i sate,

Da zamišljam i gatam
Kao Ciganka na sred druma,
Za svaku reč zalažući svih 56 kg.
Mesa na kostima.

Psalm

Gesegnet sei die Waschmaschine, der Geschirrspüler ...
Und andere Haushaltsgeräte, sofern sie funktionieren.
Die Wasserleitung und die Kanalisation. Der regelmäßige Stuhlgang.

Gesegnet seien der Regen und der Wind,
Die städtischen Verkehrsmittel und die Frau Sauberkeit,
Die Handwerker, die Taxifahrer, die Kaufleute. Das Geld.
Die öffentlichen Badeanstalten und die Volksküchen.
Die Gärtner und die Heiler meiner Reize. Die Totengräber.

Gesegnet sei alles, was dient
Dem Mund, dem Fuß, der Hand. Der Erde.

Kaputte Telefone seien gesegnet,
Verlegte Adressen, wiedergefundene Regenschirme.
Die einstigen Freunde und die heutigen
Feinde. Die Schuldner und die Schächer. Und auch du,
Mein Geliebter, meine Eurydike.

Gesegnet seien die Sportarten,
Für die ich ohne Talent,
Die Gesellschaftsspiele, für die ich zu dumm.
Gesegnet die ungezähmten Tiere,
Die entflohenen Vögel, die verwaisten Käfige
Und auch du, mein Herz, du ausverkaufter Laden.
Gesegnet die Armut und die Entbehrung,
Die ihr mir eure Minuten und Stunden geschenkt,

Dank denen ich träumen kann und wahrsagen
Wie eine Zigeunerin auf der Landstraße,
Mich für jedes Wort verbürgend mit meinen ganzen 56 Kilo
Fleisch und Knochen.

aus: Das Herz zwischen den Zähnen. Gedichte, zweisprachig. LLV 2011

 

Two poems:

A Woman’s Letter

I don’t want to be obedient and tame.
Coddled like a cat. Faithful like a dog.
With a belly to my teeth, hands in the dough,
Face covered with flour, my heart a cinder
And his hand on my ass.

I don’t want to be a welcome flag at his door,
Nor the guardian snake under his threshold,
Neither the snake nor Eve from Genesis.

I don’t want to pace between the door and the window,
To listen hard and be able to distinguish
Footsteps from night-sounds.
I don’t want to follow the leaden movement of the watch-hands,
Nor see falling stars
For him to gore me drunkenly like an elephant.

I don’t want to be sewn with needlepoint
To the family portrait
Next to the fireplace with balled up children,
In the garden with puppy children,
And I the shade tree,
And I the winter landscape,
A statue under the snow.
In a pleated wedding dress
I’ll fly to heaven.

Alleluia! Alleluia!
I don’t want a bridegroom.

I want gray hair, a hump and a basket
To go roaming in the woods,
Picking strawberries and dry twigs.

With my whole life behind me,
The smile of that boy,
So dear and irreplaceable.

Translated from the Serbian by Charles Simic

Twilight Metaphysics

It’s too late to teach my heart anything.
The alphabet of suffering
I already know by heart. I test it live.
Life knows more than the Sybil.

Time has stopped. What bliss is there in flowing?
Reality resembles a moth-eaten sweater —
This is poetry.
Life limps like a crippled girl
Who hopes to marry well
Even though her heart is scarred with memories.
Biography of fire and water.
These are the worthless and painful reserves
With which one starts on a long, uncertain journey
Over one’s own private homeland
On which every foot steps on in boots.

Older than Cain is every suffering,
Even this one which like a cousin from far away
Has come for a three-day visit
And stayed, made herself comfortable,
Took up all the room —
And says nothing about leaving!

The time of miracles is behind us.
Time of tower-building,
Heavenly and earthly gardens
From schoolbooks and poems.
The so-called Greek luck awaits us
Where we will never arrive.
Therefore, if you can,
Water the flowers and the heart
From the same pitcher.
Time doesn’t dry up,
Nor make steps quicker, as they say.
Time swallows its own images
As if they were its children.

Get it through your head, throwing a blanket
Over your face won’t help you.
Even if underneath it a dear body waits for you.
No use stuffing wax in your ears either.
The siren’s song will be a part of your scream.

Those born happy and less happy
Die before their own body dies.
They wear their faces like other people’s clothes
As in paintings of Hieronimus Bosch.

The one who wrote the sky, the earth and the sea,
And above all, snow and dreams,
The phases of the moon, the color of leaves, our faces,
Seems distant and cold like the North Pole.

Don’t call that nihilism or blasphemy.
With wrong syntax and bad diction
Was how the world was created —
So many apples of divisiveness
Have been tossed between us,
One of them will roll even at your feet,
Perhaps, just as you’ve brought in the harvest,
Added up the accounts,
Thrown your hands over your head
Chasing rings of smoke and reveries.

Dead-born will be your wishes.
Your every hope will be a widow.
And as for love, not enough
To spread on a slice of bread.

Translated from the Serbian by Charles Simic