POEZIJA
Nikolina Bulj - Kako daleko sunce sja od mog uha
Dijana Ćurković - Long Gone Battles
Ana Dalebello - Oblak pred Muzom
Emily Dickinson - Sebe iz svog ja prognati
Robert Galić - Korčula/Vis/Drvenik/Šolta/Lastovo/Mljet
Anita Harašić - End Transmission
Hugh MacPherson - Not Yet or No Longer
Igor Martić - Onwards Through the Night
Lujo Medvidović - Životna priča gastarbajtera i zvonara crkve Sv. Ivana Krstitelja
Stipan Medvidović - Zagrljaj Davni
Jelena Novaković - In Spite of Fire
Sanja Pilić - Znate li što može jedna samohrana majka?
Majda Rožić - In the Dragons Den
Wallace Stevens - Anegdota o vrču
Irena Škarica - Caught off Guard
Martina Vrljičak - Hrvatska žena
Give me some CHANGE
CHANGE IS what I NEED
It is my FOOD and DRINK
The AIR I NEED TO BREATHE
CLOUDS COVERING THE SKY AND PASSING SLOWLY BY
Mums and dads to work off they go
To school then fail stuff my bra with another set of handkerchiefs
BOREDOM
THE BOY ON THE STREET KICKING THE BALL FURIOUSLY
What if the sky was red and no stars on it what if WHAT IF
I see a lady wearing red shoes and a wooden face
A kid holding broken toy its broken he says lets send it to asia he looks angrily at me
Walks away holding it tightly
I'm pissed off sometimes so bored indifferent to myself and everything
I pray pray for something to happen even disastrous i don't mind
Just to make me feel alive
Sometimes boredom makes me cry my eyes out oftern better say
WELL AINT LIFE A BITCH
Tv newspapers makeup smudged throwing up again in a stinky old hotel he holds me
I look up but he's so far away rush out cant breathe he comes after me
Kiss?goodbye?no you've left your bra he wipes my tears with one that fell out
Smiling like a man who got what he wanted
Out on the street I hide the light breaking through fake eyelashes
SOME OTHER KID KICKING THE BALL
WOMEN PASSING BY
I bite my nails choking
150000 OF VICTIMS OR MORE IN ASIA
AAAAHHH nothing ever changes in this goddamn world
…………….
I have homework to do
Ana Boban
KAKO DALEKO SUNCE SJA OD MOG UHA
Kako daleko sunce sja od mog uha
I kako mi se vjeđe sklapaju od straha
I neznam više tko u meni stanuje
I piše ove lažne riječi koje mirišu slatko
Ne želim biti vječna utopija svoje obmane
Ni realnost razočaranja sivog traga ove olovke
Ne želim sanjati sebe koja bi rado smijeh uživala
Ni slagati slagalice, želim samo živjeti
Nikolina Bulj
She submitted herself
she surrendered
Once a lionesse with claws of iron
now just a slave
Peaceful and content
with little things
she lays in her bed
With wide open eyes
And fears
that the freedom
will call upon her
again
Josipa Ćaran
I dream of long gone battles.
Combats
between You and Me
which flash before my eyes.
Don't you miss the blood of shielded warriors?
Can't you remember the naughty morning
bathing the poppy battlefield?
Can't you see the fragile rose;
holding to her thorns like thunders of Thor,
finally protected in our ravings?
How could you forget the miracles?
You were my Kubla Khan.
You were a tsunami which flooded my soul
in repentant agony.
Ignorant, I walked unbound.
The world was my stage and my state
of mind. You died.
And left me to live:
to deny the thoughts you denied
to love the heart of your love
to fight off the pain of your fight.
I know I promised I will try
but I forgot how to be alone.
So I dream.
Of long gone battles between you and me
(November 2004.)
Dijana Ćurković
Zamisli tvoje sada premješteno na oblak. Mekani, radosni oblak. A ti si nečija sreća, ti si muza morskog dna. Zvat ću te Periska i nećeš se bojati umanjenih gradova i auto-cesta koje ćeš promatrati s oblaka. Bit će to još jedna ptičja perspektiva. Noću se mijenjaju tijela nebeska i zemaljska, sve uz pratnju drevnih zvijezda. Ti izaberi svoju, ili će ona izabrati tebe, privlači ih miris kiše i neona i mlijeka u prahu. Boravak na oblaku znači odolijevanje vremenu, onom u brojkama, koje tu na visini ne postoji. Sve je čestica, prah, poneki bljesak.
Zatražiš li račun za plovidbu na oblaku, znaj da je to uvreda cijelom Svemiru. Taj šuplji izum nas ljudi ovdje gore se ne računa, rekoh brojke ne postoje. Rukom prođi preko neba i pogledaj svoj dlan. Što imaš na njemu? Vlati sunčevih traka ili grudicu mjeseca, ili neprijteljicu groma – koprivu – ili kapljice nečijeg mora, ili odbjeglu pticu selicu, ili vjetrom nošenu kabanicu male učenice.
Zanimljiva si ti, o muzo Perisko, muzo koja bi odgojena uz tri morske medvjedice i dva morska ježa. Tražila si odmak. Dobila si ga: oblak samo za sebe. I stalak za (to je tajna, Periskina tajna) periku od algi.
Cijela priča traži pogled nas ljudi, traži da s prijelazom jednog godišnjeg doba na drugo, pogledamo prema nebu, prema oblaku pred muzom, pažljivo, ustrajno, tvrdoglavo. I vidjet ćemo neke trave, morske, morske alge. E, pa to je Periskina kosa. Muza Periska će vam pokazati kako je nostalgija svugdje prisutna, ali se vješto prekriva, nekad maglom s oblaka, a nekad samim algama – njenom kosom.
Ana Dalbello
Da znam umijeće –
Neprobojna mi tvrđava
Za cijelo srce –
Al svojim ja – se napadam –
Pa kako imam mir
Ako ne svladavanjem
Svijesti?
I jer smo uzajamni
Vladar
Kako to bude
Ako ne abdikacijom
Sebe – od sebe – ?
Emily Dickinson
(prijevod: Mirjana Bonačić)
these days, the only thing I reach for
is color.
silvery gray scarf, glittering pink lipstick,
flesh-colored sweater…
I try to touch the color and I fail,
feeling my own misery as a deep shade of colorlessness
I spent an afternoon trying to
make a silver scarf-lining for my face.
I wasted a morning trying to draw starlight
with a lipstick.
when I failed again,
I cried over my flesh-colored, Fall-colored self for hours
if I ever manage to touch color,
maybe touching people will become much more simple.
the most complicated part is to reach out:
I fear I might learn to love
the scarf-like softness of their flesh-colored beauty.
I might be trapped like a snake-charmer
in a snake pit-
no matter the skill when you are outnumbered,
one against a thousand
wrapped around you like a rope around a gibbet
Marija Dukić
tamo daleko na jugu,
na pučini,
gdje more dodiruje dugu
tamo daleko na pješčanom žalu,
kupa se Lumbarda
u korčulanskom valu.
još uvijek grčko vino toči,
jer iz stare je loze rasla
još ide stopama trubadura, u kamenu…
jer je sama u samoći
i sluša tihu svirku igle bora…
jer najlipša su južna mora.
VIS
na pučini pustoj se morem nižu
otoci sami,
ko djeca neptuna što hvataju nebo
i ko jedan
iz modrih dubina u VIS se dižu.
a sve to je daleko, daleko…
gdje ne vidi oko,
gdje ne lete ni galeb ni, ni soko
na visove te…
još samo moja sjećanja stižu.
ŠOLTA
masline, masline i rogači…
magarci, smokve i kolači!
nečujam i nečujen ko dozivje,
jer nikog ni.
niti ribe, niti mriže
nima koga da je diže,
…pust je škoj.
kao školjka u živom pijesku
sad se pita – svud po svijetu:
gdje je moj dom,
gdje je moj dom?
DRVENIK
čekala mater sina,
da joj se vrati sa navigavanja…
– pa se ODRVENILA!
LASTOVO
povedi me u zlatni kraj
ja ti tamo moram doći
gdje more i nebo čine raj
…pa ću kap LASTA živjet moći…
povedi me u pasodoro
da prošetam ispod mosta
tamo su škoji moji
srcu mome nikad dosta!
MELITA –MLJET–
kosa tvoja – zelenbor
tvoj je pogled – more plavo
dvije su suze – velika i mala
obje su u jezero pale
tvoje srce – modri kamen
masline ga nebu dižu,
rimskim putem gdje se zvijezde nižu
i jedna drugoj šapću:
…dođi bliže…
…i ti, melita…
…i ti si sama ispod zvijezda.
ljubio te – odisej,
svetom petru pružila si ruku
i te pčele nešto znače…
MELITA!
…dodirni nebo jače…
MELITA!
…dodirni nebo jače…
Robert Galić
the ticking of the clock makes it all sound easy
and the pendulams swing out of life
as the drops fall down on the floor
he closes his eyes
writings on the wall take a bloody shape
the will to incinerate will take her to the grave
as time passes
people change their faces
his fault lines started to fade
the bells cover up the screaming
and she swings in ecstasy
screaming "I HATE YOU"
sha proves her love
the blame hides the bruises
and tears heal the cuts
the first traces enter the home
and uncover the bloody hands
it crawls inside her skin
deep inside is her sin
her words lost their sense
he fell in love with her dark side
and she fell in love with a perfect crime
the knife gets too heavy
and she bleeds with her last breath in
no one ever needs to know...
Anita Harašić
In Memoriam
Hugh MacPherson (1953 - 2001) Škotski pjesnik i diplomat, koji je zadužio naš fakultet velikodušnom darovnicom svoje anglističke zbirke knjiga.
Morning: I hear the business-talk
around me but I watch the old ladies
and children file pass these windows,
not yet or no longer needing to create
some version of themselves to convince
the world that what they do is important.
Waiting for the traffic, they stand
natural as leaves that shimmer
in this grand square: light falls on them
in the same way as it mixes
with the bright foliage of the beech
setting up a glow that matches
grey bark elegant as glowes.
They carry books and toys and parcels
not in any demonstrative fashion
of showing what they've acquired
but because gravity requires that
we bear up the things we treasure here,
hold them tight and support their place
in the scheme of things. How I admire
this unselfconsciousness that comes
so seldom and so short a time to us,
a moment when we can live like
sparrows in the trees
coming to the end of day with
knowledge simple but essential
that we've lived it as we need,
no empires made, no fortunes won
– what would we do with them? –
but responsive always to the rain
and sun, and ready for the next dawn
when it comes to touch us.
To see the early sun be born
Illusion is his dream
A place he seeks, not far from here
Same quest goes on once more
Why do I ride ever onwards through the night?
Why do fools make roads?
Why bother asking questions?
Answers are a place, so far from here
Ride on, never stop
Ever onwards through the night
Nevermind the muddy boots
Dreams must sometimes come alive
Cos' I'm stuborn, and believe
Cos' stupidity is divine, and everyone wants to be God
Cos' It's lonely out here
I will find that place
Igor Martić
ŽIVOTNA PRIČA GASTRABAJTERA I ZVONARA
CRKVE SV. IVANA KRSTITELJA
K'o teškim topom ispucano tane
Dospjeh u tabor, mrak mu lice krije,
Oštar me jezik po ušima brije
Čak mi ni pseto ne pogleda rane.
Hodim bosonog, suha mjesta prosim,
Noge su mokre, promrzle od zime,
Bez posla, ne znam kako mi je ime,
Trošne cipele u rukama nosim.
Njih ću, nadam se, tako sačuvati
Za one dane kad dođe to bolje,
Kad žitom rodi minirano polje,
Kad uljude se bijesni i sakati.
Gradim svoj kamen, svoj kut sigurnosti,
Hrid svoga "jesam" usred nemilosti.
II.
Hrid svoga "jesam" usred nemilosti
Pritišću grijesi mučanja. Svu muku
Predaju zvonu - zvoniku i zvuku,
Nek nosi usud tašte nevinosti,
Nek' bude Ivan - brana od mučnine,
Nek' vabi vode kiše, rijeka, mora,
Nek' kuša vjetar pasika i gora
I zlatna krila svete domovine.
Grlenim klikom kralja izričaja
Neka uplete snove zavičaja
U od sto glasa ustabljene grane.
Iz rasjedina srca i pameti
Riječ iznjedrena nek' u svijet poleti
K'o teškim topom ispucano tane.
Lujo Medvidović
Sjedim na pragu,
mirišući jutro,
u toplini sjene kuće moga Oca...
Iz starog badnja čuje se dah mladog vina.
Kao da sam to čuo, ili je to sjeta?
Prozor mali, gdje smo ključ ostavljali,
pokrio je bršljan.
Na putu iz daleka gledam,
napio se čovjek pa tetura i pjeva.
Kraj sela brdo,
vatre neka gore.
Sutra je sveti Ante.
Tada se krijesnice pale.
odnekle vjetar uleti u selo
i otvori prognjila i stara vrata,
a iza njih oči i raširene ruke.
Kao da me zovu u zagrljaj davni.
Stipan Medvidović
all colors ring with the heavy
bells
of our evening church. i saw the fire body
hanging on the front pages of the Liberated
Dalmatia, six men surrounding him and the black and
white print lying of the true color of his muscle and blood.
i only heard him talk among the rocks of his land, every color
came out as true as water, some yellow, like oranges,
purple fires flaming red, breath of a pale peach, late summer's
brush and thorn layers, with sweet sweet fruits,
plowed fields of blue, drawn out, armed with winds
on their left side, there are colours streaming on the
Edges written in the heart in carved out lines
and they chase me at night when i'm dreaming
they spin on the victory's spiral, one by one
in whispers crowd around my eyes: my, dear, dear one..
these are made of words and carried in torches, singing
the boy is a living blood
the boy is a dark red pause in the ground.
Jelena Novaković
Viennese square in wintertime. The snow fluttered down once more, then settled on the ground.
And so he came. To wet people’s fur-coats with Slavic tears
To steal a harmony from Christmas. The old busker and his guitar
In front of him a fat lady was passing by. The ice splintered beneath her steps. A bag upon her shoulder.
A bread end was jutting out. Carefully she turned around and hollowed the bread with her fingers
Crammed it voraciously into her mouth
The pigeons scattered around her feet to peck the crumbs. Quietly, unperceivably,
With each step the woman and pigeons were all eyes
The busker’s fingers coalesced with guitar strings, with the color of its wood
The wail of the guitar began. Notes flew around. The passers-by with their heads averted put the notes stealthily
In their pockets, in their bags, but failed to hush them
The old man sang a prayer for his house and wife to rise again from the ashes
For his children’s feet and hands to be stuck back in place
For him the war was still enduring through the fumes of onion and reek of expensive perfumes
Invisible, bloodthirsty armies marched in his shoe holes
They found him one morning
He was lying by the bench.
Peaceful and still
With his palms turned to Heaven.
The pigeons around him were pecking
His left over dinner
Ivana Peričić
ZNATE LI ŠTO MOŽE JEDNA SAMOHRANA MAJKA?
Znate li što može jedna samohrana majka?
Može pomaknut brdo, rastvorit more urednim
šavom ili razdjeljkom,
zatim izvući mač iz kamena, pobijediti Golijata
kao i hrpu razbojnika što su se spustili s planine
srediti Don Juana nokautom,
a onda zamijesiti pitu, skuhati govedsku juhu
koja okrepljuje bolesnika
i namazati usne drečavo crvenim ružom.
Znate li što može jedna samohrana majka?
Izbaciti drskog mamlaza iz jurećeg automobila,
sagraditi kuću, razlikovati bitno od nebitnog,
lažljivce prepoznavati od prve, otići kući kad je najljepše,
biti sama kad je najteže, plakati gdje se ne čuje,
tugovati gdje se ne vidi,
a onda kupiti luckastu haljinicu u bojama koje
nisu najsretnije složene i hodati svijetom
sasvim, sasvim slobodna.
Znate li što može jedna samohrana majka?
Paaa, može sve!
Sanja Pilić
Osjećam struje ovog grada,
Njegovo prokletstvo zaodjenuto u nevinost ljetne noći.
Sumrakom, kao bijesne životinje što gmižu iz svojih jazbina,
Zombiji željni zabave prodaju svoju čovječnost za isprazne užitke.
Života! Života! Želimo zablistati
Želimo da nas vide!
Umrijeti u našoj veličini!
Svježe kupljene krpice njišu se u ritmu neodoljivog bubnja
Kako li smo samo lijepe…
Poželjne!
Gledajte nas, svijet pod našim nogama!
Želimo vas,
I sve ostalo što nam poklanjate uz ljubav
Svi mi,
Jaki, prihvaćeni, sigurni
Utopljenici u rutini
Obred parenja,
Iznova, iznova…
Lažna katarza
Osmijeh na licu
Izgubljeni
Dan
Po
Dan;
S v a k i d a n…
Nea Rogulj
You offer me your tired love,
scheduled and safe.
In your eyes, kind but lifeless,
the void gapes open, and
my laugh dies out
as I fail to find
a solid ground
to hold on to.
Falling in the abyss,
I reach for a straw,
but my hand touches only
cold walls of your shallowness,
with the screeching sound
of my fingernails against
the crumbling rock,
filling the darkness
and vanishing in the dust.
I wrap my screams
around these aching bones,
to protect me when I hit the bottom
with the deafening roar
of self-pity,
left to wait for a medicine man
to revive with his chanting
the fiery breath of a dragon in me.
(November 2004.)
Majda Rožić
Postavih vrč u Tennesseeju,
Okrúgao, na jedan brijeg.
On prisili nerednu divljinu
Da okruži taj brijeg.
Divljina k njemu uzvila se,
Svud uokrug, ne više divlja.
Okrúgao je na tlu vrč
I stao čvrst je u visinu.
Nadvladao je pokrajinu.
I vrč je siv i pust.
Stasao nije plod ni pticu,
Ko ništa drugo u Tennesseeju.
Wallace Stevens
(prijevod: Mirjana Bonačić)
Slomljena zraka tone u zeleno
i onaj grad što na dalekoj obali traje,
tvrd i nestvaran, topi vezivo pamćenja
i pada to dublje u tamne podrume.
Brišu se brojevi sretnih godina,
a bol i nježnost - sve stane u šaku,
s par imena, kojim trgom i smradom luke.
Fantomska tamnožuta Kapetanija
umorna lebdi u spaciju vjekova.
Kao da nikada ne bjeh tamo, sićušan,
izgubljen među starim palmama,
sluteći sve moguće propasti i delikatne
smrti, leđima okrenut zamračenoj palači
A sprijeda, avaj, bje li to more?
Drago Štambuk
You return to me when least expected,
like a summer storm,
suddenly you flash out of the darkness of my recollection;
You are brought to me by silvery-golden rays
piercing through swarming, dense clouds,
or the murmur of the receding sea
leaving you stranded on the shores of my conscience:
I can hear your voice beckoning me from afar
and I follow your call as if enchanted by the mermaids' song.
You always catch me off my guard,
unwatchful, drowsy and incapable of resisting you,
unprepared for the powerful whirlwind of sounds, scents and images
- each one of them reminiscent of you.
You appear unexpectedly out of a raindrop
and waft past me with an unfamiliar wind,
barely brushing me with your soft fingers.
(Or is it merely a breeze playing with my hair?)
I can feel your gaze searing the nape of my neck,
(Who was it that confined an endless ocean within your eyes?)
yet you disappear among the shadows as soon as I turn around:
This game I have already absorbed,
and now I submit myself semiconsciously to your touchless caress,
my skin flourishes in the dance of your palms.
And after only a few moments of feigned and futile resistance,
I am all yours again.
- A surrender without a struggle, a defeat without humiliation:
you seized this fortress a long time ago anyway!
Ruthless ruler,
you always leave nothing but desolation and ache behind.
You bring me to the verge of endurance
and the moment before I fall into an abyss of helplessness
you outstretch a salutary hand:
Nothing heals me like your incorporeal presence
while you stream through my inner rivers with every drop of blood.
(...)
Sometimes I try to discern you in the soft shades of twilight;
I rummage through my memories in search for your figure,
trying to lure you out of the tenebrous caves of my heart,
but you can see through my every deception:
You are blind to pathways illuminated by reason,
you always surface through the obscure passages of my thoughts.
I suppose I am not up to you after all.
You are born anew whenever I need you the least,
whenever I am weary you always appear –
- Why do you always find me unprepared...?
Irena Škarica
Leži budna i ovce broji,
dlanovi joj hladni, čelo joj se znoji,
majka petoro djece,
najmlađe još doji,
otac grli bocu ko´ svi ratni heroji.
Caritasa nema, a ni doplatka za dijete,
piju mlijeko u prahu i jedu salvete.
Moderna je majka
u demokratskoj zemlji,
život nije bajka,
na vlasti su kreteni.
Jednog dana reče: "Dosta je meni!",
uzme pištolj i u torbu ga spremi.
Puna je bijesa, oko usta joj se pjeni,
crno je pred očima
ovoj hrvatskoj ženi.
U Uredu za pomoć svi ko´ uvijek, glupi i lijeni,
svakom po metak u čelo i zauvijek su nijemi.
Hrvatska žena u odijelu na pruge,
morala u zatvor, nije bilo druge.
Leži budna i dane broji,
kroz rešetke gleda,
al´ više se ne boji.
Skrenula je s uma, o tome se radi,
muž umro od ciroze, a djeca od gladi.
Martina Vrljičak
što je pjeva vilinski puk nad Diramuidom i Granijom koji
snivaju svoj svadbeni san pod kromlehom
Nama koji smo stari, stari i vedri,
O tako stari!
Tisuće bi trebale, tisuće godina
kad pričat sve bismo stali.
Dajte toj djeci, čistoj od svijeta
Ljubavi i tišine,
I duge rosom posute sate noći
I zvijezde s visine.
Dajte toj djeci, čistoj od svijeta
Odmor daleko od ljudskog roda.
Zar je išta bolje, išta bolje?
Kažite nam onda.
Nama koji smo stari, stari i vedri,
O tako stari!
Tisuće bi trebale, tisuće godina
kad pričat sve bismo stali.
W.B. Yeats
(prijevod: Mia Pervan)