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Thursday, December 24, 2015

Milan Dedinac: The Nighter Speaks


Milan Dedinac:

Photo by Denise C.



Govori Noćilo

1

Ne ležem. Svu noć se svlačim, pa oblačim.

Gde vreba smrt?
Odakle?
Iz tog skupljenog plasta po kom sam sinoć ležao
pa razgrtao samoću

Vetre! vetre! što ćeš me pod veče
zateći na putu
čekaš me da prvo senkom istočno nebo zamračim?

U tebi, tebi
hoću
– kraj u ovom kaputu!

Ja ga noćas oblačim
da ga ne svlačim nikad više
nikad više

Kaži,
je li to vetar potonji koji mi oblak šalje?

Kaži,
gde vreba smrt?
Odakle?

Iza tog skupljenog plasta na kom sam dugo ležao
i razgrtao samoću
a ona trulo miriše

Ja noćas kaput oblačim
da ga ne svlačim
nikad više

Da li pod noćnim strašilom
koje ni polje ni mene nikada neće moći
od senke da sačuva?

Ah, samo – do plasta tog u noći!

Ja neću dalje.

Kaži,
je li to vetar potonji koji mi nebo šalje
o, smrti gluva?

1925.





The Nighter Speaks


1

I am not lying down. All night I take my clothes off, and put them on.

Where Death threatens?
From whence?
From that gathered stack on which last night I laid
then spread out solitude

Wind! Wind! who in the eve
finds me on the road
do you wait for me to first darken the east sky with my shadow?

In you, and you
I want
—end in this overcoat!

Tonight I put it on
not to take it off ever again
ever again

Say,
is it the wind the latter one sending me a Cloud?

Say,
where Death threatens?
From whence?

From that gathered stack on which I lay so long
spreading out solitude
while she smells of rot

Tonight I put on the overcoat
not to take it off
ever again

Is it under the night Ogre
whom neither field nor me it will never be able
to save from the Shadow?

Oh, if only—to that stack in the night!

No farther I shall go.

Say,
is it the Wind the latter one which the Sky sends me
o, you unhearing Death?


1925.


Translated from the Serbo-Croatian
by Boris Gregoric


On Christmas eve, 2015



Milan Dedinac (1902-1966) was a Serbian and Yugoslavian surrealist poet and theater critic.

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Boris Gregoric: 1789





 1789


the bourgeois monkey
rising
against
the land-owning simian

the world
running amok
ever since

but before that
again
the feudalist beast
like the global capitalist today

and before them all
their ancestor
the slave merchant and owner

and before them all
a caveman
with his spoils

and before him—
the dream
of the kind ones




Poem by Boris Gregoric 12/2015

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Boris Gregoric, Milking The Midnight Cow and Other Micro Poems


Micro Poems...
Still from some Japanese film? 


Sitting in the Zendo
snowflakes grazing the windowpanes
that dog
will not
stop barking

*


September in the Basque Country
a train jolts then stops
few get off
one or two board the car
the clouds drift across the sky





再度 (Saido1)



not always so
neither now nor never
it shouldn't be
it had had to be
this now
nothing else
yet a touch
a speck perhaps
of tenderness
of nostalgia perhaps
for what
could have been




history of a pair of walking shoes

profound
these shoes
with their scars
scratches
scuffs
bumps
rips
burns
their history
as good as any

*


chestnut falls
on your head—
a postmodern Newton
the last pilgrim arriving
in the hostel
alas already booked




in the butcher's window
a still life of sausages
and cheeses
la nature morte
the medieval illumination

spoiled by the
quick peek from
the fat-jowled butcher
rearranging the salami





milking the midnight cow


under the milky moon
silvering
the roof of an abandoned villa —
a squatter and
a maid milking
the midnight cow


*

may you be born in May
and may all beings
achieve Liberation from
the chains of Samsara


may we walk together again
upon the fields
of clover, of queen ann's lace and hay,
soft-footed
with the chachkis and trinkets
of life well lived
clacking in our backpacks

may the spring bunnies
pop out
everywhere
these nibblers on the morning
dewed grass

even a duckling is here
protected by her fierce
daddy duck
fending off the impostors
minding the business
of the creek
keeping an eye
on the coon
that just run under the Co-op's
building




Hauling Silver


A star falls
in the orchard
dusting the crooked, twisted apple trees
at the end of the season —

we stare at the crater
the silver gathered
and hauled
filling the baskets
with starry fruits



All rights reserved by the author

1Another time (japanese)

Ivan Slamnig: Women

IVAN SLAMNIG:

 

 

Photo by Miroslav Kirin




 

 Žene


Žene su s Venere bića, što žive kod nas.Pretražujemo ih prstima, želeći ih proučiti.
Čini se, da one znaju nešto bolje od nas,
nešto, što mi ne želimo dokučiti.
Kad ih prstima izbodemo,
mi tvrdimo, da ih znamo i odemo.
One ostaju i nikad im ne možemo sve otet.
To nas ljuti i mi kušamo opet.
Ali kroza sve dane one nam ostaju strane,

I – možda će se jednom natrag na Veneru popet.
 


WOMEN



From Venus women come, these creatures living by our side.
We poke at them with our fingers, wanting to study them.
It seems, they know something better than we do,
something, what we don't wish to know.
When we poke them thoroughly,
we claim we know them and we leave.
They keep back and we never take everything from them.
That makes us mad and we try again.
But through all the days they remain aloof,
And –maybe once to Venus they'll climb back.






Translated from the Croatian

by Boris Gregoric





Ivan Slamnig: was a whimsical 20th century Croatian poet, erudite and translator.