foto Mišo Mirković





Selected Poems of Darko Cvijetić


preveo: MARIO FRANZ






Tuck Yourself In


A local funeral custom in the village of Bjelajci, my father’s ancestral village: when a casket gets lowered into the ground – they first cover it with a large, white, embroidered tablecloth; then, with a thick, winter, homemade comforter. A white, freshly-planed plank follows, atop the entire length of the casket.
Only then comes the dirt. Roughly halfway of the filling of the grave, when the casket is no longer visible, the grave digger climbs down into the grave, and keeps packing the dirt with his feet, mashing it down as if he were mashing grapes with his bare feet – huffing and puffing, shedding the sweat.
And then the second layer of dirt. Aunt Gospava has a simple answer to my question why they need a thick, winter comforter; so she says: “To eliminate the sound of dirt hitting and pounding on the lid of the casket; and the bones will need the comforter, the real winter will come later, this is nothing right now.”
“Hey aunt, what about the embroidered tablecloth?”
“Well, that’s for the dining table,” says she, tiny and tearful, alike a snowflake unhurt by anyone’s eyes. “And the wine mourns the mashed grapes as soon as it is swallowed,” adds my aunt Gospava, even before I manage to utter anything.
To utter an identical name, tattooed on two different arms. 





POKRIJ SE


Lokalni običaji pri pokopu u selu porijekla moga oca, Bjelajci: kada se položi sanduk s tijelom u zemlju – prekriju ga prvo veliki bijelim vezenim stolnjakom, a potom debelim zimskim kućnim ćebetom. Nakon toga postavljaju bijelu svježe izblanjanu dasku, preko cijele dužine sanduka.
Tek tada ide zemlja. Negdje pri polovici posla zatrpavanja, kad se više od zemlje i ne vidi kovčeg s tijelom, grobar siđe u raku doslovce ugazi zemlju, izgazi je kao da gnječi bosim nogama grožđe, isto i zadihan, isto i znojan.
Pa drugi sloj zemlje. Strina Gospava ima jednostavan odgovor na moje pitanje zašto se stavlja debelo, zimsko ćebe i mirno veli – da se ne čuje kako zemlja udara i dobuje o sanduk i da poslije kostima treba ćebe, kasnije, kad pravo zazimi, ovo je ništa.
A zašto vezen stolnjak, strina? Pa za trpezu veli, onako sićušna i uplakana, poput pahulje neozljeđene ičijim očima. A vino otplače ugnječeno grožđe čim ga tko guta, dodade strina Gospava prije nego sam uopće stigao išta da zaustim. Da zaustim, tetovažu istog imena na različitim rukama.





The Bathing of Cain


Right after the gunshot, he entered the bathroom.
In the trapped rainwater, he saw his Vo-Tech buddy,
In his boots and uniform,
His head blown away. His hand held the Magnum, hanging down.
A chrome wheeler, a trophy.
His eyes were open, his neck pulsing, the war pouring out.
I met the witness the other day at the flea market.
He’s laughing, saluting, selling children’s plastic
Water Magnums.
He even sprayed me, tucking the two water guns into my pockets.
At home I filled one of them with boiling water.
I entered the bathtub wearing my boots,
And let dark blood from the wall fill it up.








KUPANJE KAINA



Odmah nakon pucnja, on je ušao u kupatilo.
U vodi, dugonahvatavanoj kao kišnica, vidio je frenda iz građevinske,
Uniformiranog i u čizmama,
Raznesene glave.Ruka je držala Magnum, viseći.
Kromirani kolutaš, trofejni.
Oči su bile otvorene, vrat još pulzirao, rat se točio.
Srećem ga nekidan na buvljaku.
Smije se, pozdravlja, prodaje dječije plastične
Magnume na vodu.
Čak me isprskao, gurnuo mi dva u džepove.
Kod kuće sam jedan napunio vrelom vodom.
Ušao sam u kadu u čizmama,
I pustio iz zida tamnu krv da je prepuni.





A Biography


The lieutenant snaps an order to a solder to kill an old man.
The soldier says he can’t do it; his honor is in the way.
“Then kill yourself, pussy, “says the officer . . .
He pulls out the gun and shatters his own skull.
It rains afterwards. They carry him away.
The mad lads slit the old man’s throat.
This time out of revenge.






BIOGRAFIJA




Poručnik mu je kratko naredio da starog ubije.
Kazao je da to ne može učiniti i da mu to brani čast.
Ubij se pičko, rekao je časnik…
Izvukao je pištolj i raznio si lubanju.
Padala je potom kiša.Odnijeli su ga.
Bijesni momci starca su zaklali.
Ovaj puta iz osvete.












A Down Syndrome Boy’s Story


He left to get the sparrows from my red embroidery
That was Grandma’s explanation of
Grandpa’s death
You no longer look back
But the collar of your shirt turns
Black, anyways
Like a stitch upon the milk
Before it gushes forth into the breasts
Do you know that
Roses, internally
Think with their petals black
And that you, with the clay,
Move away from your conversations
If you keep silent only for a couple of days






PRIČA MI DJEČAK SA DOWN SINDROMOM UJUTRO NA BUS STANICI


Otišao je po vrapce u moj crveni goblen
Tako mi je baka objasnila
Djedovu smrt
Više se ne osvrćeš
Ali svejedno ti pocrnjuje
Košuljski okovratnik
Kao šav na mlijeku
Prije naviranja u dojke
Znaš li ti da
Ruže u sebi
Misle crnih latica
I da se glinom
Odvojiš od govorenja
Ako šutiš samo par dana





Do You Know that They Were Banished?


The fat, young Roma
Briefly entering the City Military Cemetery
Takes a seat on the closest bench
Raises her shirt and nurses a naked child

Enormous breasts pour down her body
Like hot intestines of butchered venison
On the grave of A., the boy whose forehead the sniper stamped
Just a few days before the armistice

Much of her milk drips out and the child can’t suck it all in
So it trickles down his cheek into his ear

Virgins in Paradise, who
Collect the flesh of suicide bombers at the green markets
Garden every spring
Plenty of herbs







ZNAŠ DA SU IH OTJERALI, DA SU UZALUD TUGOVANE


Debelu mladu Romkinju
Što je za tren ušla u Gradsko vojničko groblje
Sjela na najbližu klupu
Podigla majicu i dojila golo dijete

Ogromne dojke odlijevale se niz nju
Kao vruća crijeva rasporene divljači
Na grobu dječaka A. kojeg je posljednjih dana
Rata u čelo ovjerio snajper

I mlijeka joj puno curi i dijete ne stiže gutati
Pa mu preko obraza kaplje u uho



Djevice u raju koje
Sakupljaju meso samoraznesenih po tržnicama
Izvrtlare svakog proljeća
Dovoljno bilja





Urinating


To my brother in America
Kidney stones keep coming back

He passes them in a bloody stream
But they through the water through the sand through the desert return again
Tallow in his kidneys

For the first time his kidney stones sprouted
In a front line ditch in the winter near Han Pijesak
Since then they regenerate and repeat:

“And this stone of the country of Serbia”
‘Which in the bloody fragments I piss out again’

Han made of sand, hardened in a sickly kidney
Hurts and hurts until
It clings against an American commode
Made of our soil, border-like, lonely, and black.









MOKRENJE


Bratu se u Americi
Stalno obnavlja kamen u bubregu

On ga krvavo izmokri
Ali ovaj se kroz vodu kroz pijesak kroz pustinju opet vrati
U bubregu se oloji

Prvi put kamen mu je u bubregu niknuo
U rovu na zimu kod Han Pijeska
I otad se obnavlja i ponavlja:

I ovaj kamen zemlje Srbije
Kojeg krvavog u komadima iznova ispišavam

Han od pijeska stvrdnut u prehlađen bubreg
I boli i boli dok ne
Odzvoni u američku šolju
Od grude naše, graničan, usamljen i crn





The Gun that Shot Nino


He dried and stuffed the birds he had caught
Hollowing them out, scooping their disemboweled entrails,
Dipping them in slaked lime
Usually his cuckoo-birds, the tiny ones: grains

But I’ve also seen a couple of wall clocks
Caught, shrink-wrapped
Inside them only callow, wingless cuckoos, without
Any tick-tocks or eggs

What he did with all of his taxidermist time
I have no idea
Calibre .355, holstered

A Red Flag brand, Uncle had left it to Nino
For the weddings,
For an old dog,
For shooting the skies in front of the church,
For the flies around someone else’s hole.





A NJIME NINO UPUCAN


Sušio je i punio ptice koje bi uhvatio
Dubio bi ih, izdubljivao, razutrobljene ih umakao u mlijeko krečno

Mahom kukavice, kukavičice: zrna

Ali sam vidio i par satova zidnih
Uhvaćenih, u najlonima
Unutra samo goluždrave, beskrilne kukavice, bez ikakvog tiktakanja ili jaja

Što je radio s tolikim prepariranim vremenom ne znam
Bio devetkalibarski, futroliran

Crvena zastava, čiča ga Nini ostavio
za ženidbe,
za ostarjelog psa
za predcrkveno gađanje neba
za muhe oko tuđe rupe






Are You Tired?


There goes Mother
Caries me in her arms puffing persistent
But I am an old man much older than she
Shivering dry with an open mouth
Toothless voiceless I see
Mother does not recognize me 


Neither can I tell her
Nothing I just gape
Birch neck reddens an ax
Next to the plate with strawberries
She carries me by
In front of the skyscraper
A folk song of forsaken love, at the dawn
No one to tell Mother
To put me down
To rest
Anyhow I have no place to go to




DA LI SI UMORAN?


Ide moja majka
Nosi me na rukama dahće uporna
Ali sam starac puno stariji i od nje
Drhtav suh otvorenih usta
Bezub bez glasa vidim
Mater me ne prepoznaje 

Niti joj mogu reći
Ništa samo zinem
Brezov vrat crveni se u sjekiri
Pored tanjura s jagodama
Pronosi me
Ispred solitera
Pjevaju da zna zora da zna zora
Nema nikoga da mojoj majci kaže
Da me spusti
Da odmori
Da ja i tako nemam kud





The Song of Saul 

                                                                  
He says –                                                                    
All things, when you place them                                
perpendicular
one over the other
form a cross.

Only a man
when you place him perpendicular
over another man
does not become a cross
but rather two crosses.

If you add the third one
here comes a pileup
here comes a swastika
here come broken arms.





SAVLOVA


Kaže
Sve stvari kada ih staviš
Okomito
Jednu preko druge
Tvore križ

Jedino čovjek
Kada ga staviš okomito
Preko drugog čovjeka
Ne bude križ
Nego dva križa

Ako trećeg dodaš
Eto gomile
Eto svastike
Eto polomljenih ruku

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