Ivan Slamnig

[blueella]

ZENE


Zene su s Venere bica, sto zive kod nas.
Pretrazujemo ih prstima, zeleci ih prouciti.
Cini se, da one znaju nesto bolje od nas,
nesto, sto mi ne zelimo dokuciti.
Kad ih prstima izbodemo,
mi tvrdimo, da ih znamo i odemo.

One ostaju i nikad im ne mozemo sve otet.
To nas ljuti i mi kusamo opet.

Ali kroza sve dane one nam ostaju strane,
I – mozda ce se jednom natrag na Veneru popet.







WOMEN


Women are creatures from Venus, except that we live together.
In order to become acquainted with them, we search them in and out.
There are some things they seem to know better,
some things that we don’t really care to think about.
After we had fingered them for no other reason than to make a test,
we run off claiming we had already got to know their best.

They stay. All efforts to take everything from them seem to be in vain.
That’s what really makes us cross, and so we try again.

Time passes but they are still alien and bizarre.
Maybe they’ll go back to that planet, very far.

[blueella]

Izrasli su moji prijatelji na jednom stablu
u zelenim bluzama i roza bluzama
u tamnomordim hlacama i svijetlomodrim hlacama:
vise neki kao jabuke, neki kao kruske,
neki kao narance ili kao grozdje.
Ja tresem stablo i moji se prijatelji ruse
i, bome, ubijaju se
ali – mora da sam bedast – to mi se sad cini
kao jedini nacin komunikacije s njima.



My friends are growing on a tree
wearing green shirts and pink shirts,
dark blue trousers and light blue trousers:
some of them are hanging like apples, or like pears,
some like oranges, all others like grapes.
I shake the tree and my friends fall down
and, by God, they kill themselves
but – I must be stupid – for the moment it seems to be
the only way to communicate with them.

[blueella]

Bijeli ljudi u bijelim bundama
u bijelim saonama s bijelim konjima.
Osam osnijezenih bregova tisine.

Nebo je postalo bijela ploca.
Golemi valovi snijeznog pejsaza
gone ga u teturanje.

Zamoren, pred vrtoglavicom,
da oslobodi oci
prolio je snijegom crveno vino.




White people in white fur-coats
in a white wagon drawn by white horses.
Eight snow-covered hills of silence.

The sky has turned into a white board.
Huge waves of snow
make the landscape stumble.

Tired, on the verge of vertigo,
in order to give rest to his strained eyes,
he spilled some red wine on the snow.

[blueella]

Bijah jednom jedan ludjak,
na dnu ulice mi kuca.
Imao sam mali ducan.
Prodavao sam zute knjige
ruzicastim djevojkama.
Ali jednog modrog dana
nesta mojega ducana,
izgori mi, rastopi se.

Mislim, pitam druge ljude
mora tako li da bude?

Drugi ljudi pametni su,
ne brinu se za te stvari.




Once upon a time I used to be a madman
with a house at the end of the street.
I used to have a little shop.
I used to sell yellow books
to pink-cheeked girls.
But then on one of those blue days
my shop disappeared,
it burned to the ground, melted away.

I think about it, I ask other people:
does it really have to be that way?

Clever, those other people are,
they don’t care for things like that.

[blueella]

JA SAM STRANAC


I am a nobody. Who are you?
E. Dickinson

Ja sam stranac! Dobar vecer
Da l’ si i ti stranac?
Dva smo, znaci? nemoj reci, jer
stavit ce nam lanac.

Tuzno li je biti domac
i prosto, poput zabe,
kreketat do u bozju ponoc
sred zadimljene grabe!





I AM A FOREIGNER


I am a nobody. Who are you?
E. Dickinson

I am a Foreigner! Good evening.
Are you a foreigner too?
It makes us a couple, isn’t it so? Don’t tell, because
they’ll chain up me and you.

It is sad to be a native
and it is boorish, like a frog,
croaking all night long
from a fuming bog!

[blueella]

UZASNI SE


Uzasni se nad ovim veceras, ljubljena;
za nama ljudi govore potiho
jedan drugome nasa imena,
ljubicaste fluorescentne lampe
osvjetljuju mjesta nasih sastanaka
a rijeci koje smo si saptali
razglasuju preko radija



BE SHOCKED


Be shocked, my love, at what’s happening this evening;
people talking behind our backs, whispering
our names to each other,
violet, phosphorescent street-lamps
throwing light on our meeting places,
and those words we used to say in a soft voice
being put on air now.

[blueella]

Zagradjena njegovim rukama
udarim celom o njegovu kraljeznicu
s glavom u njegovim rebrima:
kroz njegov tromi pucketavi zagrljaj
prolazi vjetar
i skupljajuci se u se u njegovu krilu
udaram vazda o njegove kraljeske
zuljajuci se o njegovu zdjelicu
i femur:
moj dragi znam da se smije
vjecnim celavim smijehom lubanje
i utiskuju se i ostavljaju rumene brazde
njegova rebra i ulne
o bijelo meko meso mojih ruku
njegova koljena
dubu se
na moja bedra
a ja slazem i oblikujem meso
na kosti moga dragog
mastam toplo misicje i
tople plohe
gdje se prelazi jedno u
drugo




Walled by his arms
I suddenly bump my forehead on his backbone,
I hit my head on his ribs:
the wind is passing
through his unhurried crackling hug
while, trying to pull myself together on his lap,
I keep on hitting myself against his vertebrae,
rubbing myself against his hip-bone
and his thigh bone:
and I know that my beloved is smiling,
a timeless bald grin on his skull face,
his rib-costals and two ulnar bones
printing cherry marks
on the white soft flesh of my arms,
while his knee bones
drill at
my thighs:
I heap up flesh
on my darling’s bones
and I dream about hot muscles
and warm surfaces
where two
become one

[blueella]

Kad mi svega bude dosta
evo oci, da cu poci
k onome sto dolje osta.

Ne cu cinit vise, bome
ono, sto do sada morah,
sjesti cu pod stari orah
(slican onom pokojnome!)

stol ce prostrt bit bjelinom,
za nj cu sjesti, pa cu jesti
kruh sa sirom, ribu s vinom.




Once I’m fed up, out of my mind,
I bet on my eye, I would drop by
to see the One that stayed behind

I’ll quit on what I did, okay,
I’ll stop with all that burdened me
and sit below that old walnut tree
(that looks like the One that passed away!)

To the table set in white, all fine,
I’ll come to sit, then I will eat
bread and cheese, and fish and wine.

[blueella]

NOSTALGIJA OSTANKA


Malo hodam
malo kisa pada
Malo stanem u neku vezu
kisa prestane
malo hodam
pa kisa opet pada
pa malo stanem u vezu
sa zatvorenim kisobranom
s ploha listova
klize voda
i kaplje
predje jedan kamion
pa drugi
pa tramvaj
pa treci kamion
svi su frisko vlazni
ja drzim vlazan kisobran
i stojim
i pricinja mi se
da glumim viteza lutalicu
u nekom baletu

Jos malo pa cu zamahnuti kisobranom
kao da je mac.



NOSTALGIA OF STAYING


I walk a bit
it rains a bit
I stop over in some entrance
the rain stops
I walk a bit
and then it rains again
and I stop over in some entrance
my umbrella is closed
and water trickles and
falls down in drops
from the palms of leaves
a truck passes by
then another
then a tram
then a third truck
all newly wet
and I’m holding my wet umbrella
standing
and I imagine myself
playing the role of a wandering knight
in some ballet

A little bit more and I’m going to brandish my umbrella
like a sword.