SELECTED CROATIAN PROSE-POEMS
TRANSLATED BY CAROLYN OWLETT HUNTER
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Journal
of Croatian Studies, XXVIII-XXIX, 1987-88 – Annual Review of the Croatian Academy of
America, Inc. New York, N.Y., Electronic edition by Studia Croatica, by
permission. All rights reserved by the Croatian Academy of America.
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FRAN MAŽURANIĆ
1859-1928
Born in Novi Vindolski, Croatia, March 26, 1859, died in Berlin, 1928. A
man of restless and adventurous spirit, he changed professions and locations,
which caused various rumors and legends in his native country. He first studied
technology in Prague, but abandoned it to pursue a military career in which he
achieved the rank of captain (1900). After the First World War he resided
abroad until his death.
His book of prose poems is: LIŠĆE [Leaves].
ŠTO SAM MISLIO UMIRUĆI?
Čto ja budu dumat' togda, kogda mnje
pridetsja umirat' — jesli ja
toljko budu
v sostojaniji togda dumat'?
— Turgenjev, Stihotvorenija
v prozje
Bilo mi je osam godina, kad se je
novljanska luka gradila.
U toj dobi znade većina
primorske djece plivati, — ja još nisam znao.
Igrajuć se po luci, padnem u
more. Potonem. — Voda me digne. Vidim na zidu, vrh sebe, djece. - - Pružam
ruke, — Hoću da vičem, - - ne mogu! Gutam more, tonem - - Izgubljen sam!
Taj tren proletih sav svoj život.
Svi grijesi mladanog vijeka došli mi na pamet: slador sam uzimao, brata tukao,
lagao, na voću bio - - - Zadnja misao mi bijaše: "Idem u pakao!"
— te se onesvijestih - -
Izvukoše me, — a čemu?
WHAT WAS I THINKING WHILE DYING?
Čto ja budu dunat' togda, kogda mnje
pridetsja umirat' — jesli ja toljko budu
v sostojaniji togda dumat'?
— Turgenjev, Stihotvorenija
v prozje
I was eight years old when they built the port in Novi. At that age most
children know how to swim — I didn't know how yet.
While playing about the harbor I fell into the sea. I sank. The water
buoyed me up. I saw the children above me on the wall. — I extended my hands, —
tried to shout, — I couldn't! I was swallowing sea water, — I was sinking, — I
was lost! In that instant I flew through my entire life. All the sins of my
young life appeared again before me: I was stealing sugar, I was beating my
brother, I was lying, I was climbing the fruit tree — My last thought was:
"I was descending into Hell!" — and I lost consciousness. They got me
out — and for what?
MOJI SNI
Čudili se, što još hrvatski znadem, premda sam već toliko
godina od kuće. — Pa kako to, da nisi zaboravio?
— A kako bili?! Ako i ne govorim hrvatski, to ipak hrvatski snivam, — a
snivam vrlo testo ...
Bog zna, hoće li se ti moji hrvatski sni ikad obistiniti!?
MY DREAMS
They were surprised that I still know Croatian though now so many years
absent from my native land. — How is it that you didn't forget?
— How could I? Though I don't converse in Croatian, yet I dream in
Croatian, — and I dream very often ...
God knows whether these Croatian dreams will ever become reality.
"ŠTO TRAŽIŠ?"
(Dru. Zdravku)
"Sto tražiš kod nas?" zapita me
sin pustinje, kad smo napajali konje.
"Slobodu!"
odgovorim, jer je sloboda beduinu sveta.
A mogao sam mu reći:
"Tražim štap, na koji bih se
mogao upirati, i miran šator, da poćinem!
Tražim izvor vode, koja bi mogla
ugasiti žeđu moju, i komad hljeba, da utažim glad duše svoje!
Tražim pećinu, u kojoj bih se
poput Davida pred neprijateljem svojim sakriti mogao, i luku, da od oluje
utećem!
Tražim ljude, koji ne sramote
imena ljudskog, i Boga, u kojega bih mogao vjerovati!
Tražim brijeg, s kojega bih mogao
vidjeti zemlju obećanu, i grudu zemlje, da pokrije jadne kosti moje!
Tražim, tražim, a uzalud tražim! ..."
WHAT ARE YOU SEEKING?
(To Doctor Zdravko)
"What do you seek here among us?" the son of the desert asked
me as we were watering our horses.
"Liberty!" I replied, for liberty is sacred to the Bedouin.
And I also could have said to him "I look for a cane to lean upon,
and a quiet tent in which to rest!"
I look for a source of water which would quench my thirst, and for a
piece of bread which would satisfy the hunger of my soul!
I seek a cave in which I could hide, as did David, from my enemies, and
a port to escape the storm.
I look for people who don' dishonour the name of mankind, and for a God
in whom I could believe!
I seek a hill from which I could see the Promised Land, for a clod of
earth that would cover my poor bones!
I seek, seek, and I seek in vain!"
1925
"Kako ti je?" — pitam sjedoglavog onog starca na obali
morskoj.
"Nikako!" odgovori mi on. "Čekam smrt!"
"Zar te ne veseli
život?"
"Ne!"
"A želja?"
"Ne želim ništa!"
"Ništa? Zar zbilja ništa, pa
ni samog povratka mladosti svoje?" "Ne! - - Mladost mi otrovaše, a
sada mi starost truju!" "A da se još jedamput rodiš?"
"Ne dao Bog!"
"Da ti se je ipak još jednom
roditi, što bi želio biti?" "Kamen u dubini morskoj! ..."
1925
"How are you?", I asked the grey-haired old man on the
seashore. "Nohow!", he replied. "I await death!"
"Don't you enjoy life?"
"No!"
"Doesn't hope console you?"
"No!"
"And desire?"
"I desire nothing!"
"Not anything?, really anything, not even the return of your
youth?"
"No! They poisoned my youth and they are poisoning my old age
now!"
"And if you could be born again?"
"God forbid!"
"And if you would be born again, what would you like to be?"
"A stone in the depths of the sea! ... "
Born in the historical city of Senj on the Adriatic Sea, died in
Sarajevo. Kranjčević is one of the most significant poets of all time
in Croatian literature. "Like all the great poets, Kranjčević
was also the culmination of the expression and attitude of an entire tradition,
while at the same time an originator of the new poetry. Though after his death
poetry went in other directions, time proved that Kranjčević was not
the only poet of his generation, but the first Croatian lyrical who, with his
best creations has resisted time, was fresh and present half a century after
his death."
— Ivo Frangeš
His books of prose poems is: PJESNIČKA PROZA [Poetical Prose],
(Zagreb, 1912).
POGLED
Hoću da vam ispričam jednu pripoviječicu. To je zgoda iz
života neke krave. Ona je teško gazila jesenskim blatom o povodcu. Kraj nje
gazio je seljak. Pazarni je dan i on ju je vodio na prodaju. Pred njima stupalo
momče — sve troje išlo je zbijeno i složno, kao navikli na zajednički
korak. I bio bih prošao kraj preobične slike, tek nešto svijetlo i mutno,
kao što je boja u jesenskog popodneva, zapliva pred mojim očima. Bijaše to oko u one krave. I ja ga ne mogu zaboraviti.
Ona je podigla crnu gubicu uvis, koliko je samo mogla od konopa i debela
dlakava lakta seljakova. Pogledom punim želje i bola gledala je teško
gazeći ulicom u lijepo žućkasto tele, što ga je nosilo ono momče
pred njom na krkači. Upravo nije ništa drugo ni gledala. A bihaše taj
pogled nalik na pogled u djeteta, kad upire oči u svijećama obasjani
kip i na onu ukočenu staklenu bjeločicu u očajnika, kad,
bespomoćan, i ne umije drugo, već da bulji u prazno.
Ja sam udivljen gledao u tu
pazarnu povorku, koja je baš zaokretala na trg, gdje se pregleda blago po
zvanitnim organima.
Tu nad uglom bušio je radnik rupu
za izolatore. U taj tas omaknu se čekić, odbi se od zida i oštrom
vertikalom lupi o gubicu
one krave.
Ona tek što je stresla glavom. Mlaz krvi potete joj niz nosnice,
no ona ni da bi trenula okom. Seljak stao da krupno ruži, da zove redara ... A
krvava životinja gledaše sved nepomično, toplo i željno u svoje lijepo
žućkasto tele ...
Mene stegnu nešto suho u grlu. I
ja, koji sâm znam, da bih testo oskvrnuo značenje pozdrava, kad bih skinuo
šešir pred mnogim sjajnim licem, ja ostadoh manji od makova zrna, a ruka mi
instinktivno segnu za šeširom pred pogledom one ranjene krave.
Sigurno sam u taj čas odao
poštovanje jednoj iskri, što se otkinu od velikog ognjišta ljubavi,
nečemu, što izlazi iz beskrajne svemirske duše i što se bez skvrni
razlijeva tešče iz životinjskog negoli iz ljudkoga oka!
THE GLANCE
I would like to relate to you a little tale. It is an experience from
the life of a certain cow. She was struggling with difficulty through the
autumn mud, led on a halter. Along beside her walked a peasant. It was market
day and the peasant was taking his cow to sell her. In front of them strode a
young boy, all three walking closely together, already accustomed to their
common pace. And I would have disregarded this commonplace scene had something
not begun to flicker before my eyes, brightly and gloomily as an afternoon
light. At first it was large, like an aureole, then smaller and smaller.
Thereupon I noticed that this semi-light shrank and become fixed in something
determined. It was the eye of that cow. And I cannot forget it.
She raised her black snout as far as the rope and the peasant's far
hairy elbow would allow. With a look filled with desire and pain she was gazing
at the beautiful yellowish calf which the boy in front of her carried on his
shoulders. Indeed, she looked at nothing else. And this look was similar to the
look of a child at a candle-illumined statue or the eyeball of the madman, who,
helpless and unable to do else gazes into emptiness.
I was looking, astonished, at this cattle-market procession which was
just now turning into the square where the officers inspect the cattle.
There, on the corner of that square, a workman was drilling a hole to
install the isolators. Just at that moment his hammer slipped from his hand,
glanced off the wall, and with a sharp vertical stroke hit the cow's snout.
She only shook her head. A spurt of blood gushed from her nostrils, but
she didn't once blink an eye. The peasant cursed and called a policeman. The
bloody animal gazed fixedly, warmly and eagerly at her beautiful yellow calf.
I felt a lump in my throat. And I, the only one to know, that I profaned
the significance of taking off my hat before nobility, became smaller than the
poppy seed* as my hand instinctively reached for my hat, facing the look of
that injured cow.
Certainly at that moment I was expressing my respect for that one spark
of love which leapt from the great hearth of love which comes from the infinite
cosmic soul that overflows blamelessly more frequently from the animal than
from the human eye.
* An allusion to the colloquial Croatian phrase implying humility,
submission, etc.
Born in Volosko (Istria, Croatia), died in Split. During the Second
World War he was arrested as a Croatian patriot by the Italian occupying
authorities in Split and sent to an Italian concentration camp. Book of prose
poems: INJE [Hoarfrost] 1902.
LASTAVICE
Iz daleka, tamo preko mora, sa
žarkoga juga, vraćaju se vjesnice proljeća, mile lastavice. Na
čete, na buljuke dolaze natrag u rodnu domovinu, da pretraže svoja stara
gnijezda pod strehom, u pojatama, u seoskim kućaricama. Veselo
pozdravljaju svoj stari kraj, svoja stara udobna staništa, ta ćute zrak
drage rođene grude. Kad su lani polazile u svijet, nekud su veselo
ostavljale rodni dom, ko da će tamo preko mora nad silnu sreću, velju
blagodat. Pa? Bit će sigurno, da su prokuburile zimu, i da su prevarile u
svojim sancima, jer kruže upravo nekud radosno gori po zraku pod veselim pramaljetnim
suncem ... Vraćaju se lastavice ... a dolje na ogromnu parnjaču
stupaju veselo ijučući ljudi mrka obličja i patnička dela. Ostavljaju dom i rođeni kraj, svoje mile i drage,
i oni polaze preko mora, da potraže sreću. U rastrganoj domovini ne nalaze
ju, jer su slijepi. Da se ne vrate i oni razočarani poput lastavica, al
samo da im ne odnesu međutim tuđinci i stara gnijezda!
THE SWALLOWS
From far abroad, from across the sea, from the glowing south, the
messengers of spring, the beloved swallows are returning. They are returning in
flocks, in a multitude, to their native land to search for their old nests
under the eaves, in the wood sheds, in the cottages, greeting their old country
with cheer, their comfortable dwellings, whilst they bask in the air of their
beloved native soil. When they were leaving for the world they were somehow
leaving their homeland with joy expecting to find across the sea a vast
for-tune and great blessings. But what? It must have been that they endured a
hard winter and became disappointed and discouraged in their longings; for now
they are cheerfully revolving in the skies under the spring sun ... The
swallows return ... and down sullen men with suffering brow tread embark a
large steamship shouting of joy. They are leaving their home, their native
land, the dear and beloved ones, and they depart across the sea to seek their
fortune. This they cannot find in their torn country because they are blind.
Pray that they, too, will not return in disappointment like the swallows, and
that in the meanwhile the foreign strangers do not take away their old nests!
GALEBOVI
Vjetrom se pobratiše, olujom se
posestriše. Rastvorenih krila ćas lete živo nad površinom pučine i
krila im se dotiću mora, ćas opet sneno u visini lebde nad valovima,
Čudnim, neponjatnim cijukom pozdravljaju more i sunce. Draga im je sinja,
otvorena pučina daleko od kraja, jer ne ljube žala, gdje vlada bimba i
spletka, gdje mržnja zagušuje ljubav. Na hridinama izdubljenim od morske vode,
il na osamljenim žalima, tamo su im staništa. Tamo uživaju pod vedrim nebom u
čistom zraku, protkanom mirisom alga, rulja i kuša, zlatnu slobodu. Nad
ležajem gdjegod na litici pjeva im stijenjak pjesmu ljubavi i mira. Nijesu
plašljivci. Prkose i najvećoj oluji, najgordijoj vjetrini, najbjesnijim
valovima. Utjeha su mornarima — lepetom krila zanose im maštu u rodne krajeve,
u tihe kućarice, što se bjelasaju na žalu, gdje ih ćeka vjerna žena
uz dječicu. Nad srušenim jamborima, slomlenim križevljem pjevaju oni utopljenicima
zadnje opijelo. Umiru i oni, al u divskoj
borbi s velebnim morem i silnom vjetrinom pod slobodnim olujnim nebom. I kad se
more smiri, kad se vjetrina stiša, plače ih tmurno nebo nehinjenim suzama.
SEAGULIS
They became the wind's brothers; the hurricane is their sister. With
wings spread now again and again they soar over the surface of the high seas,
while again and once more their wings touch the waves as they hang suspended
over the sea. With an incomprehensible cry they salute the sea and the sun. The
blue high open seas far from the coast are dear to them, for they scorn the
shore where hypocrisy and intrigue reign, where hate suffocates love. Their
lodgings are upon the cliffs eroded by the sea or upon isolated shores. Above,
under a bright serene sky in the pure air, they enjoy golden liberty,
interwoven with the aroma of algae and sages. Over their nests there in the
crags, at times the thrush serenades them with the song of love and peace. They
are not afraid. They challenge the most violent tempest, the most furious
whirlwind, the largest roaring waves. The seagulls are a comfort to the seamen
— the fluttering of their wings carries their fantasy to the native regions and
into the quiet little huts which glisten on the shore where the faithful wife
and children await them. Over demolished masts the seagulls sing the last
requiem to the drowning. They also die, put in a gigantic struggle against the
magnificent sea and mighty whirlwind under the free tempestuous sky. And when
the sea again calms and the furious wind abates the gloomy sky sheds its tears
for the dead gulls.
Poet, essayist, and author of short stories, Antun Gustav Matoš is
perhaps the most significant name in Croatian literature at the threshold of
the 20th century, and a most influential author of modern Croatian writing.
His books of short stories, which include a number of prose poems, are:
IVERJE [Fragments] 1899, NOVO IVERJE [New fragments] 1900, and UMORNE
PRIČE [Weary Stories] 1909.
SJENA
Ja volim tužnu sjenu, uspavano svijetlo: svijetlo, što sniva o
noći. Ja volim sjenu, bliznicu toplog sunca i hladnog mjeseca. Ja volim
sjenu, vječnu moju posestrimu i pratilicu, što spava kraj mene i hoda kraj
mene, tamna moja slika i karikatura. Da, ja volim sjenu, žutu, sivu, crnu,
žalosnu i kao smrt tihu sjenu.
Sve, sve je sjena. Svijet je
sjena. I sunce je sjena mističnog sunca. I život je sjena tajnovitog
života. Sjena je kolijevka. Sjena je grob. Kad ne bijah, bijah sjena. Kada me
ne bude, bit ću sjena. Ja sam sjena od onoga, što bijah, i od onoga, što
ću biti, sjena između danas i sutra, sjena između dvije sjenaste
vjećnosti. Misao je sjena. Svijet je sjena. Sve, sve je sjena.
Sjena je veća od svijetla,
kao moja sjena što je uveče veća od oranice mog djeda. Pšenično
i zrno čovjekovo klije u sjeni i gine u sjeni. Život se diže iz sjene,
luta u sjeni, iščezava u sjeni.
Mi smo sjene.
Sjeno, dijete noći i dana!
Sjenasto jutro i purpurna većeri! Sjeno, čedo tmine i svijetla, blijeda
kćeri zagonetke, otvarajući sjetne, nijeme, snene oči, a kroz
njih život začuđeno zuri u zagonetnu smrt! Sinoć si mi drhtala
na srcu očiju vlažnih od milošte i od sreće. Ja sam te zvao
srećom, ljepotom i ženom, ali mjesto meda ostade mi na jeziku pregršt
pepela. Ljubavi, i ti si sjena!
Ja sam sjena i volim sjene tihog
čemera, što čekaju nove Titane i nova bogomračja.
Te mi sjenaste, maglovite i sive
bajke bajaše sinoć sjena, kada je rasla i rasla za starim hrastom na
dragoj mjesečini, čekajući rosu i sjenastu pjesmu slavulja u
grmu od gloga i šipka. Sve mi te sutonske tajne šaptaše i jutros sjena,
šetajući ispod vunastog oblaka preko strništa, milujući gnijezda ševa
i goluždravih prepelica i cjelujući drhtave glavice suhog poljskog
cvijeća.
Sjeno, mekano uzglavlje svijetla!
Sjeno, crna posteljo života! I kad ugasnu planeti, ti ćeš biti carica
svijeta.
Ja te volim, Sjeno, čista,
tiha boginjo! Digni svoj mekani magloviti, zlatnim tajnama protkani plašt i
pokrij mi umorne oči, da ih sklopim i da zagrlim svoju sjenu.
Umorne priče, 1909.
SHADOW
I love the mournful shadow, the dozing light: light which dreams of the
night. I love the shadow, twin sister of the warm sun and of the cold moon. I
love the shadow, my eternal adopted sister and companion which slumbers beside
me, walks near me, my dark picture and my caricature. Yes, I love the shadow,
yellow, grey, black; the shadow, sad and silent as death.
All, all is shadow. The world is a shadow. And the sun is a shadow of a
mystical sun. And life is the shadow of a mystical life. The shadow is a
cradle. The shadow is a grave. Before my existence I was but a shadow. And,
when I cease to be, I shall be a shadow. I am the shadow of that which I was
and of that which I shall be: a shadow between two eternities of haze. All is
shadow.
The shadow is larger than light, as it is greater at evening than the
fields of my grandfather. Wheat and grain spring up in the shadow and die in
shadow. Life arises from shadow, wanders in the shadow, and disappears into the
shadow.
We are shadows.
O, Shadow, child of the day and the night! Shadowy morning and purple
evening! Shadow, child of darkness and light, pale daughter of enigma, opening
melancholy silent weary eyes, and through them life peers wonderingly into
mysterious death! Last night, my love, you were trembling against my breast
with the moist eyes of affection and happiness. I named you beauty, happiness,
and woman, but there remained a handful of ashes in place of honey. Love, you
also are a shadow.
I am a shadow, and I love the quiet still shadows of the affliction
which awaits the new Titans and the new twilights of the gods.
The shade told me, the shade which grew larger and larger behind the old
oak beneath the moonlight whilst awaiting the dew and the dark song of the
nightingale under the shrubbery of the hawthorne and brier rose, such shady,
foggy and grey fables. The shade was whispering to me this morning as well, as
it walked under the fleecy cloud across the field of stubble, caressing the larks'
and the quails' nests, and kissing the quivering tops of the field flowers.
Shadow, thou soft pillow of light: Shadow, thou black bed of life! And
when once the planets extinguish, you will remain the empress of life.
I love you, Shadow, pure silent goddess: lift up your soft mantle of fog
streaked with golden secrets, and cover my weary eyes, to close them to embrace
my shadow.
ČAROBNA
KUPICA
U tajnom pretincu imam divnu
čašu. Bilicum, kada sam veseo, kalež, kada sam žalostan. Od suvoga je
zlata. Držak je u obliku neviđenih, božanskih vila i nimfa. Posuda je u
formi srca. Na njenom rubu cizelovane su vinjage tačnošću
benediktinskog zlatara, a na bokovima, kao na Ahilovom štitu, vidite hrvatski
vinograd i grozdiće, a u vinogradu vije se kolo gorskih vila, povotkinja i
bahantica, dodola, i kozonogih satira, gajdaša, lakrdijaša i pastira, što se
vesele u vinu, svirci, u lakoj ljubavi oko zamišljenog, umornog i kao
procvjetali trs čarobnog mladića: oko Bakhosa Oslobodioca.
Samo u odabranim časovima posežem
za misterijskom tom kupom, na kojoj se među krvavim rubinima, bolnim
smaragdima i biserovima kao suze blista riječ Hrvatska. U takvim
časovima se moja čaša puni demonskim vinom, u zamrznuta prsa ulazi
toplina veledušnosti, a na nenaviklo oko dolazi suza mladosti, suza samilosti,
tvoja suza, zaljubljena Psiho, i tvoja suza, Božji Sine iz Nazareta, rođen
"med oslom i volom", kako ćemo sutra pjevati.
Sutra će se i moja
čarobna čaša napuniti pićem novog života. A popit ću je u
znaku Kristove ljubavi, praštajući sve uvrede, zapjevavši kao obično:
Prvu čašu za Horvate,
Da se
slože i pobrate!
A čaša, čarobnica
čaša, rast će, rasti i rasti, dok ne naraste kao golem zlatan bassin,
pun purpura, a u crveno večernje kupanje će ući sve moje drage s
čaše figure, bogovi, boginje, vile, pastiri, satiri, svirači i
gajdaši, ćekajući u igri, svirci i dokolici, da nas čarobnik san
pokrije mekoćom crnog svog baršuna i prospe u našu čašu sreće
sjajnu magiju svojih- zvijezda: zvijezde Gašpara, Melhiora i Baltazara.
THE MAGIC CUP
I my secret drawer I have a marvelous glass. A welcome-cup when I am
merry, a chalice when I am mournful. It is crafted of pure gold. Its handle is
in the form of unseen godlike fairies and nymphs. The vessel itself is shaped
like a heart. On its rim, finely chisselled with the exactness of a Benedictine
goldsmith, are vines, while on its sides as on Achilles' shield, one can see
the Croatian vineyard and the small racemes; in the vineyard, the fairies the
bachantes, the dodolas*, the jesters and the shepherds all dance the kolo * *
and take pleasure in wine, music, in the love of good times, around the musing,
tired and magic youth who is like the grapevine in flower: Bacchus, the
Liberator.
Only in certain moments do I reach out for this mysterious cup, on
which, among the blood-red rubies, pain-filled emeralds, and pearls the word
glitters--Croatia. In such moments my soul wells up with demonly wine, while
into my chest enters a warmth of generosity, and in my eye, not accustomed to
that, appear the tear of youth, the tear of prayer, the tear of pity, your
tear, enamored Psyche, and also your tear, God's Son of Nazareth, born between
the donkey and the ox, as tomorrow we shall sing it.
Tomorrow, too my magic cup shall be filled with the potion of the new
life. And I shall drink it as a symbol of the love of Christ, forgiving all
offenses, and singing as is traditional:
The first glass for the Croatians,
For their concord and brotherhood.
And the cup--the enchantress cup--will grow, grow until it becomes a
huge basin filled with purple: — and in the evening sunset I shall bathe all of
my precious cup's figures, gods, godesses, fairies, shepherds, musicians and
pipers, awaiting in the game, music, and laughter for magic sleep to wrap us in
velvet and spill into our cup of happiness the glaring magic of his stars: the
stars of Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar.
* A gril in a rainmaking group who invokes the rain with her song
(Croatian folklore).
* A Croatian folk wheel-dance, or reel.
Considered by many the greatest Croatian poet of the 20th Century.
Essayist and translator, Ujević also distinguished himself as an author of
prose poems.
His books of prose poems are: SABRANA DJELA [Collected Works], (vol. 5
& 15, 1965, 1966), MAMURLUCI I POBJEŠNJELA KRAVA [Hangovers and Enraged
Cow], 1956, MUDRE I LUDE DJEVICE [The Wise and Foolish Virgins], 1957.
BADNJACI
DVA PUTA
JAO
Moj život! Ne govorite mi o njemu
kako je jadan, kukavan, neispavan, sav pogažen i pogružen, dostojan stida i
prezira. Kada bih još uvijek znao grčki — vidite li, i to sam zaboravio! —
naveo bih za naslovni list tragedije moga života onaj koji počinje: Io,
io, papapai, dakle: jao,jao, kuku meni. Kako bi samo lijepo bilo slobodno stupati
po poljima, trčati, plivati, veseliti se bez zapreke! Ali od svega toga
ništa. Koliko sam puta pomislio o sretnome danu kada mi poderane cipele ne
će ranjavati nogu, kada ću imati na sebi sasvim isto rublje, kada u
džepovima ne ću morati da vucarim sve nekakve otrcane knjižice i masne
bilješke. Kako bih se napokon osjetio blaženim veslajući po jezercima
zaokruženim baršunastim gajevima! Nego život me evo tako spleo, uništio, satrô,
nije mi dao nikakve slobode ni ljubavi, i sapeo me kao kliještima među dva
prokleta kukavna epigrama. Koliko sada vidim kako smo lično nemoćni
(pred Augijasovim štalama) mi mali pjesnici i sanjari, i kako smo osuđeni
da budemo igračkom vjetrova i žrtvom svih moćnih i lukavih. Sto ima
lijepa da se sačuva od moje uspomene? — Samo moje suze i moje molitve, jer
su barem one bile čiste. Ali je na tijelo i na dušu teško, po onoj
riječi, pogledati bez pečali i gadenja. Jer sve evo biva rana,
modrica, čir, stigma, gnoj i brazgotina.
Jao, jao, jao.
CHRISTMAS EVES
TWICE ALAS
My life! Do not remind me that it is miserable, wretched, drowsy,
entirely downtrodden and depressed, worth of but shame and scorn. If I still
could remember Greek — you see, that too — I forgot! — I should indicate as the
title page of the tragedy of my life a page which begins Io, Io, papapai, which
is Alas, alas, woe is me. How lovely it would be just to march about over the
fields, to run, swim, to be merry, to rejoice with no restriction. How many
times I dream of the happy days when my torn shoes will not keep injuring my
foot, when I shall wear entirely fresh-laundered underwear, when I will not
have to scuff around the small ragged books and the greasy notes. How
overjoyed, after all, I would feel paddling on the little lakes surrounded by
the velvety groves! But life has so knitted, destroyed, devastated, and drew me
tight as if with pliers between two damned trifling epigrams. How clearly I now
see that personally we are powerless (before the Augean stables) we little
poets and dreamers, and how we are condemned to be the toy of the winds and the
victim of those who are powerful and astute. What is so beautiful about my
memory to be preserved? — Only my tears and my prayers, because they have been
pure. But, according to the saying it is hard to look at the body and at the
soul without disgust and mourning, because everything becomes a wound, a boil,
a stigma, a festering sore, a scar.
Alas, alas, alas.
* For further bio-bibliographical information on Ujević, see A.
Nizeteo's essay, "Whitman in Croatia: Tin Ujević and Walt
Whitman", Journal of Croatian Studies, XI-XII (1970-1971), p.
105-161. See also Tin Ujević "Libraries" in Journal of
Croatian Studies, XIV-XV (1973-1974), p. 113-126.
SAT KASNIH SPOZNAJA
Tko ima hrabosti još danas, da kaže: morat ćete se kajati, kada
doznate, da ste se varali i druge varali, jer ste bili prevareni i radili
krivo; morat ćete žaliti svoje riječi i djela kao zazor i sramotu? Danas više
nema Savonarole ni Jana Husa. Propao je ugled propovjedničke nauke i
isposničkoga pepela. Svejedno, kajat ćete se i bit će vam žao
onda, kada doznate i spoznate, dvadeset ili trideset godina kasnije. Pobjede
spoznaje polagane su i kasne; za njih je kratak i čitav ljudski život, a u
njima je grozno, što obično ne dolaze na vrijeme.
Jer ima pozne mudrosti, krvave
osvete vremena, kada čovjek providi svoju šupljinu i svoje bivše neznanje.
Treba čekati deset i dvadeset i daleko više godina, da se uzmogne kazati:
Bili smo u zabludi. Nas su prevarili. Ta će daleka mudrost stići
jednoga dana, da nas kazni prije same smrti za čitav jedan život zabluda i
propusta.
Ima kasnih spoznaja, kada su gole
riječi moćne bez nakita, i kada se sni proziru, će se
prozrijeti. Koji poživimo, doći ćemo k njima. One će doći k nama. Ja ih ne pozivam, jer su
kasne, i zato žalosne. Ja bih želio ranijih, boljih spoznaja, otkrića o
podlozi stvari, dok još sat nije minuo, dok je na vrijeme. Ja vas
opominjem.
Ne pozivam se ni na kakvo
pokajanje, ali ura ispaštanja putem istine će doći, mora doći.
Kao pjesnik, koji je upozorio svoju draganu: "Jedne večeri, kada
ostarite, uz svijeću ..." Ura
istine i kazne će doći. Sve će biti golo, sve će biti
jasno, ali kasno.
Bit će kasno. I za mnoge utjehe i revanše, kojo ćemo dobiti
(mi rijetki, jedini, izabrani), ja se ne veselim, jer će doći kasno.
Stariji naraštaj i potomstvo moći će opet da beskorisno i sasvim u
tutanj kažu: Bio je jedan glas, jedan čovjek, koji je na vrijeme govorio
istinu, ali ga nisu slušali.
Za bivše načinjene nepravde, za ispade iz vremena nezrelosti mnoge
će vikače i istupnike prikoriti, kao glas savjesti, razboritije
sjećanje na naša prošla vremena i sat kasnih spoznaja, kada večernje
sunce neumitnih jeseni na izmaku obasja zlatni vinograd i bakarne lugove.
THE HOUR OF LATE COMPREHENSION
Who is yet courageous and today will say: you will need to repent when
you discover that you have deceived yourself and others because you were
deceived and you had done wrong; you will have to regret your words and deeds
as an abomination and shame? There no longer exists either a Savonarola or a
John Huss today. The respectability of the science of preaching and of the
ascetic ashes came to naught. Nevertheless, you shall have to repent and will
continue to regret at the time when you learn and become aware of it twenty or
thirty years hence. The victories of comprehension are slow and belated; and
entire human life is brief and, concerning them, terrible is the fact that
these realizations never come in time.
Because there exists a late wisdom, the bloody vengeance of time, when
one sees through his own hollowness and his former ignorance. One must wait
ten, twenty, and more years in order to be able to say: We were mistaken. We
were deceived. That distant wisdom will reach us one day, before our death, to
punish us for a life fraught with errors and failures.
There are the late realizations when plain words, unornamented, are
powerful, and when one can see his dreams and through them himself. Those among
us who survive will come to these comprehensions. They shall come to us. I do
not invite them, for they are belated, and therefore sad. I would like to
arrive at some earlier discoveries, comprehensions about the essence of things
before the hour passes and while there is yet time. I warn you.
I refer not to any repentance, but the hour of atonement through truth
will come; it must come. As the poet who cautioned his sweetheart: "One
evening when you will be old, sitting close to the candle ..." the hour of
truth and punishment will arrive. All will be naked, all will be obvious, but
late.
It will be late. And I will not rejoice in the many consolations and
revenges which we will get (a few of us, the only, the chosen ones) because it
will be too late. The older generation and posterity might, uselessly, and
quite in vain, say: There was a voice, a man, who at the proper time spoke the
truth, but none listened to him.
Many noisemakers and offenders responsible for past injustices, for the
excesses of times of immaturity shall be rebuked by the voice of conscience, by
a more reasonable remembrance of times past and the hour of late comprehension
— when the setting evening sun of inexorable autumns illumines the golden
vineyard and the groves of copper.
This most prolific and voluminous Croatian author tried his skill in all
literary genres with undiminished success.
His more significant volumes of poetry are: PAN (1917), TRI SIMFONIJE
[Three Symphonies] 1918, PJESME [Poems] 1918, L1RIKA (1919), KNJIGA PJESAMA [Book
of Poems] 1931, KNJIGA LIRIKE [Book of Lyric Poems] 1932, SIMFONIJE (1933),
BALADE PETRICE KEREMPUHA (1936) and PJESME U TMINI [Poems in the Darkness]
1937.
ČEŽNJA
Događa se to u jesenjoj noći, kada pada kestenje po asfaltu i
kada se čuju psi u daljini, i kada se tako neopisivo javija čežnja za
nekim, tko bi bio dobar, naš, bliz, intiman, drug, i kome bi mogli da pišemo. Ispovjedili
bismo mu sve što leži na nama. Pismo bi mu pisali, a njega nema.
LONGING
This occurs in the autumnal night when chestnuts are falling upon the
asphalt pavement and when one hears the dogs barking from afar and one feels,
irresistibly, a longing for someone who would be kind, our own most intimate
companion to whom we could write a letter. We would reveal to him all that
oppresses us. We would to write him a letter, but he does not exist.
NEMIR
Nemir je u čovjeku. Glasovi. Događaji. Boje. Dolaze pojave i prolaze
kroz čovjeka u velikom gibanju, bruje zbivanja kao zvonjava. Covjek je
uznemiren trajno. I postoji duboko negdje u nama slika, zakopana, potopljena,
kao ikona srebrom okovana, u zdencu. Ta slika tiha je kao svitanje na moru,
kada je sve sivo i kada se ne čuje ništa nego gdje-gdje klokotanje vode.
To je vrijeme šutnje, kada se čovjek pere od nemira i roni u tišinu.
ANXIETY
In Man there is disquietude. Voices. Occurrences. Colors. Through the
Human, events are coming and going in a large motion; occurrences drone like
the tolling of bells. Man is continually restless. Somewhere deep within
ourselves a picture exists, buried, sunken as a silver-plated icon in a well.
This picture is serene as the morning twilight at sea when all is grey and when
one hears nothing else but the gurgling of water to and fro. This is the time
of silence when Man wishes to rid himself of anxiety and submerges into the
stillness.
MRTVI
Veče je. Gori svjetiljka na
stolu zasjenjena, otkucava sat, parketi sjaju i porculan po vitrinama. Osjeta
se u zatvorenoj sobi gibanje među predmetima. Jedna muha zuji i u širokim
talasima razlijeva sjećanje na sunčane, podnevne proplanke, sa kojih
su pucali veliki izgledi. To je hip večernji, kada se javlja misao na
mrtve. Oni su pred nama u ovoj sobi živjeli, disali, očekivali događaje,
a danas ih nema. Za ove iste kvake su hvatali, a ovi isti parketi škriputali su
pod njinom težinom, a danas im lica gasnu po fotografijama. Ako su gdjegod
ostavili znakove olovkom na papirima, ti znaci blijede i gasnu. Sve nestaje. U
crnoj svili pokopali smo ih i ono je sve blato, a ovdje stoje sobe po kojima
gnjiju mozgovi u polutmini i tupa se težnja ishlapljuje iz mozgova, kao vonj
kiseline iz nepoklopljene zdjele. I ove te se možđane zdjele rasplinuti i
ishlapiti kao dim i kao ova žalosna misao na mrtve što se javlja i nestaje.
Nitko nema suviše razloga da se raduje.
THE DEAD
It is evening. The shaded lamp is flickering on the table, the clock
continues to tick, the parquet shines, and the sets of china glisten in the
china cabinets. In the closed room one feels the motion of the objects, a fly
buzz and in expansive waves pours forth the memory of sunny midday glades from
which great vistas were spreading. This is the evening moment when the thought
of the Dead appears. They had dwelt in this room before us, here they breathed,
anticipated daily events — and today they are no longer here. They had grasped
these same door knobs, these same parquets creaked beneath the weight of their
bodies, and today their faces are fading from their photographs. If somewhere
they marked some signs with pencil upon paper, these signs, too, are fading.
Everything vanishes. We buried them in black silk cloth, which has turned to
dirt, while here within these rooms in which the brains decay in the
semi-darkness, and from these brains a dull longing evaporate like smoke and
like this sad memory of the dead, which appears and then vanishes. No one has
too much reason to be happy.
OLINKO DELORKO*
born 1910
Poet, essayist, translator, anthologist and collector of Croatian folk
literature, Delorko is a master of the poetical form of Croatian verse.
His books of poetry are: PJESME (Poems) 1934, RASTUŽENA EUTERPA [The
Mournful Euterpe] 1937, RAZDRAGRANI VODOSKOCI [Animated Fountains] 1940,
UZNOSITE SLUTNJE [Exalted Forebodings] 1944, IZGARANJA [Burning Down] 1958,
SVIJETLI i TAMNI SATI [Light and Dark Hours] 1961, LIRSKI EDEN [Lyric Eden]
1965, and DOLAZE OBLACI [The Clouds Approach] 1978. His poetical prose was
published in 1942 under the title ZGODE POREMECENE SREĆE [Occasions of
Disturbed Happiness].
* See also Journal of Croatian Studies, vol. XX (1979) pp. 68-71.
IZ INTIMNOG DNEVNIKA
ČUDNOVATO DJELUJE, kada se prvi put vidi znameniti grad, o kome smo
mnogo čitali i za koji smo mnogo čuli. Idući kroza nj moramo
se svaki čas sukobljavati s realnošću. Palača ili trg opisan u
knjizi, ili viđen na slici, ušao je u našu dušu i izijenio se. Mi smo ga
vidjeli, kako smo htjeli: zračna, prostrana, raskošna. Ali našavši se
stvarno na tom trgu ili pred tom palačom, opažamo, da ona izgleda
drugačije, da je manje lijepa, nego nam ju je dočaravala bogata
mašta.
Mnogi putnici to ne mogu odmah
razumjeti, pa okrivljuju druge za to razočaranje, ako su grublje duševne
grade. Nježniji medu njima lutaju šutljivi, žalosna srca otkrivajući tek
kasnije tome uzrok. Gle, to je onaj grad — kažu oni i teško im je, kao da su
nešto dragocjeno izgubili.
Ali posilije, kada stvarna slika
grada snagom realnosti sve više potiskuje onu maštovitu, nestalnu, njihov duh
počinje da se vedri: oni vide, da moraju svoju sliku ukopati zauvijek u
sebi, prepuštajući ovoj novoj, pravoj, njeno mjesto.
PONEKAD ME NAGLO zapljusnu
uspomene. I ja, koji se često korim zbog svoje zaboravljivosti, ledene i
suhe, koja sve što se nekad dogodilo drži duboko u sebi zakopano, sav se
prenesem u prošlost. Vidim lica, koja je vrijeme davno u uspomenama izbrisalo,
dogadaje, koji se teško otkidaju iz mutnih sjećanja, kako najednom žive u
mome duhu. I gle, nenadano neka ruža videna bogzna u kakvom vrtu opet miriše
svojim starim mirisom.
Ali poslije tih rijetkih trenutaka
nadodu dugi dani, koji me dijele čvrstom ogradom zaborava od moje
prošlosti. Pa živim lak, otkinut od svega, 'što je bilo, pun neke djetinje
bezbrige, koju vitlaju događaji besciljno, kao proljetni vjetrovi oblake.
From INTIMATE DIARY
IT IS A STRANGE FEELING when for the first time we see a well-known city
about which we had previously read or heard a great deal. Passing through it,
we are forced to confront reality. The palace or the square, described in a
book or seen in a picture, entered our soul and therein transformed itself. We
were looking at it as we wanted to see it: airy, spacious, gorgeous. But when
we stood in the flesh before that palace or in that square, we noticed that it
appeared differently now, that it wasn't as beautiful as once depicted by our
rich imagination.
Many travellers are unable to understand all of that immediately, and,
if they are formed from a more rude spiritual structure they blame others for
their disappointment. The more gentle among them wander silently with saddened
heart discovering only later the cause of it. Look! This is that city, they
say, and they feel sorrowful, as if they had lost something precious.
Nonetheless, when later the true image of the city by virtue of its
reality pushes aside the imaginary and unfaithful one, their minds begin to
clear: they realize that they must bury forever their image within themselves,
relinquishing its place to this new, true one.
REMINISCENCES SOMETIMES SUDDENLY overcome me. And I, who blame myself
for my own forgetfulness, cool and dry, holding deep within myself everything
that once happened, start to imagine myself completely in the past. I see faces
which long ago time had erased from my memory; I see events which emerge with
difficulty from my recollection, as they now suddenly revive in my mind. And
look! a rose, seen a long time ago in some already forgotten garden is again
unexpectedly fragrant with its old perfume.
But following these rare moments there come again endless days which
separate me from my past as if by a strong fence. Then I continue to exist at
ease, detached from all that was my past, filled with some child-like
lightheartedness which events toss aimlessly, as clouds by the winds of spring.
SLAVKO MIHALIČ*
born 1928
One of the most remarkable representatives of contemporary Croatian
poetry. He published, from 1954-1977, 13 books of poems, including a collection
of prose poems, PUT U NEPOSTOJANJE [Journey into Nonexistence] 1956. Matica
Hrvatska printed in its series Pet stoljeća hrvatske književnosti
Mihalić's IZABRANE PJESME [Selected Poems] 1980; his latest publication is
TIHE LOMAČE [Quiet Pyres] 1985.
PONOĆNI ZAPISI
U POHODE VUKOVIMA
Mislim da će ipak biti
najbolje ako ogrnem svoj tamnoplavi plašt, ako odem u pohode vukovima.
Već tri noći urlaju pod
mojim prozorima ...
Već tri noći kese zube
na svijetla u mojoj sobi ...
I ogrnuh svoj tamno-plavi plašt, i
otidoh u pohode vukovima.
A kad me vidješe, kako dolazim sa
stisnutim pesnicama, pobjegoše glavom bez obzira.
From THE MIDNIGHT NOTES
Visiting the Wolves
I still think it would be best if I don my dark blue mantle and go to
pay a visit on the wolves.
For three nights now they have howled beneath my windows ...
Already for three nights they have bared their green teeth before the
lights of my window.
And I donned my dark blue mantle and went to visit the wolves.
But when they saw me coming with clenched fists they fled head over
heels in utter confusion.
NAJLJEPŠI DAN MOJE LJUBAVI
Danas je bio najlepši dan moje
ljubavi.
Šetali smo zagrljeni, a ona nije
bila uza me.
Ljubio sam joj usnice, a nisam je
ni dotakao.
Sada mi ostaje da ovu beskrajnu
sreću zasladim s malo samoće.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DAY OF MY LOVE
Today was the most beautiful day of my love.
We walked embracing, yet she wasn't beside me.
I kissed her lips, yet I didn't touch her.
There is nothing left for me but to sweeten this happiness with a bit of
solitude.
* See also the Journal of Croatian Studies, vol. XX (1979),
pp. 84-88.