Festivalul Internațional de Poezie București

Târgul Național al Cărții de Poezie

 13 - 17 mai, 2015. Video 2015

„The Origin of Birds” Ana Brnardić

Ana BrnardićAna Brnardić – 4 poeme din volumul Postanak ptica (The Origin of Birds), 2009.

Originalul este în croată, traducerea în engleză.

 

Aerodrom

 

U visini listaju se štampane stranice neba.

Dolje carinik traži otisak prsta

pečat rodnog stabalca

na papiru za turističku vizu. 

 

U licu mi sjaji žuti balkanski mjesec.

Zaboravila sam ga ugasiti iznad oceana.

 

Obitelj pored mene ima više iskustva.

Tužnu pentatoniku skrili su u rukav.

Službeniku podastiru ogromne količine

kalifornijskog osmijeha.

 

Iza barikade nasmiješeni starci

s frizurama od šećerne vune

pružaju mi ruke i vode me u raj.

 

 

Airport

 

High above pages of the sky rustle

Down below a customs officer wants your fingerprint

The stamp of your family-tree

On your tourist visa application.

 

The yellow Balkan moon shines across my face.

I forgot to turn it off as we flew over the ocean.

 

The family next to me has more experience.

They hid their sad pentatonic up their sleeve:

Showering the official at the counter

With a healthy dose of Californian smiles.

 

Behind the barricade, cheerful old people

with candy-floss haircuts

extend their arms to take me to heaven.

 

 

Terorist

 

Točno je 18 sati u Minneapolisu.

U dvorani za osumnjičene ja i punašna crnkinja.

Ona unosi „hranu, zmije i insekte“ u SAD.

A ja sam siromašna udavača.

Gospodin Kai gleda me odozdo u oči.

Otvara moju torbu punu miraza.

U njoj se bijeli sumnjivi rukopis.

Želi znati što će mi 200 papira natipkanih na čudnom jeziku.

To je fascinantna rekonstrukcija života

Našega Spasitelja, kažem u sebi.

Drhtim, znojim se.

Prihvaćam ulogu nevjeste-terorista.

Nakon sat vremena otključavaju vrata.

Posvuda miris palmina ulja.

Stopala propadaju do gležnja u aerodromski tapison.

Odbacujem željezne proteze iz domovine i

tonem u ružičastu milost.

 

 

The Terrorist

 

It is exactly 18:00 hours in Minneapolis.

In the suspects waiting room I sit next to a plump black lady.

She tried to smuggle „food, snakes and insects” into the USA.

I am, on the other hand, a poor bride hunting for a husband.

Mr Kai peers down at me.

He opens my bag brimming with dowry.

A white manuscript sticks out suspiciously.

He wants to know why I have 200 pages typed in some strange language.

That is a fascinating reconstruction of the life

of our Lord the Saviour – I say to myself.

I shiver and perspire.

I accept the role of a terrorist-bride.

An hour later someone unlocks the door.

Suddenly everything smells of palm oil.

My feet sink into the airport carpet.

I discard the iron prosthesis of my homeland

as I slide into a pink mercy.

 

 

Misli se odmaraju

 

Misli se odmaraju na predmetima –

teške legnu na hrast, lake na listove lipe –

ili kao mehanizam pisaće mašine pod korom

kucaju

 

Ljubavnicima odgovara takav način

života, gdje termiti prelaze preko neravnina

okorjelih ljubavnih formula

 

opipati željezna slova

u sljepoočici dragog bića

uhvatiti posljednji od ubrzanih zareza

koji jure poput mrava iz ustiju –

ljubav je hladna i topla

 

lijena na suncu

zapisana rutinskim rukopisom na posve

nezainteresiranom lišću

 

 

Thoughts reclining

 

Thoughts recline on objects –

the heavy ones lay on oaks, the light ones descend onto lime-tree leaves –

others clatter like a typewriter underneath

the bark

 

Lovers appreciate this way

of life where termites disregard the bumps

of notorious recipes of love

 

feeling iron letters

underneath the temples of loved ones

catching the last of the hurried commas

running like ants out of mouths –

love is both cold and warm

 

lazy in the Sun

written out in routine handwriting

across utterly disinterested leaves

 

 

Kuća u Miamisburgu

 

Cijele noći kukurikanje zrikavaca.

Nebo se savija oko zemlje.

Bog je familijaran i srdačno tapše

svoje goste.

 

Krijesnice svijetle 120 wata.

 

S Julijinog balkona promatram životinje.

Ljudi ovdje ne žive.

Ne žive ni u kućama ni u neboderima.

Spavaju u inicijalima tvrtke,

a zatim od stresa silaze u zemlju

gdje beru izvrnute plodove

s telegrafskih žica.

 

 

House in Miamisburg

 

Crickets chirp all through the night.

The sky gently envelops the earth.

God is intimate and welcomes his guests

by patting them on the shoulder.

 

Fireflies shine like 120 Watt light bulbs.

 

From Juliet’s balcony I observe the animals.

People do not live here.

Not in those houses or high-rises.

They sleep in the logos of their companies

as they descend from stress into the subterranean

picking fruits that hang from the telegraph lines

– upside down.

 

 

Translated from Croatian into English by Damir and Majda Šodan


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