Jelena Gagić

Translated by Jelena Gagić

1. MOTHER TAKING A SHOWER / KAKO SE MAJKA KUPA

   

   

   ENGSRB

   mother takes a long and slow shower, having made all 

   necessary preparations. layer by layer she peels off 

   identities,  stacks them on the washing machine, handles them 

   with great care. mother is the last to shower, with the remaining 

   warmth, the same way she eats. she removes earrings out 

   of her ears, and the noose from her neck. she washes worried expression 

   off her face and tests the depth of water with her feet; will she drown 

   again? mother gives birth in the shower, comes out of herself, 

   bites off the umbilical cord like a beast, 

   frees herself of the newborn, down the drain she surrenders herself 

   to the vortex. mother, and her mother with other mothers 

   live together in the dark collector drain, eternal 

   as water. when mother showers, she washes away me 

   and father, father and brother, she washes herself naked and forsaken 

   until she turns pale. mother showers in tears and wine, as in consecration, 

   afterwards she shines even more brightly, like a cheerless moon 

   following us through the night for far too long

   Translated by Jelena Gagić

   majka se kupa dugo i sporo, obavljajući prethodno

   sve neophodne pripreme. sa sebe skida slojeve 

   identiteta, slaže ih na veš mašinu, pazi ih kao 

   dragocenosti. majka se kupa poslednja, ostacima 

   toplote, onako kako se i hrani. sa ušiju sklanja 

   minđuše, sa vrata omču. umiva izraz brige i 

   stopalima proverava dubinu vode; da li će se i 

   ovog puta utopiti? majka se pod tušem porađa, 

   izlazi iz same sebe, pregriza pupčanu vrpcu kao zver,

   oslobađa se poroda, niz slivnik se prepušta 

   vrtlogu. majka, i njena majka, zajedno s drugim 

   majkama stanuju u mračnom kolektoru, večne 

   kao i voda. majka se kupa zbacujući sa sebe mene i 

   oca, oca i brata, pere se gola i pusta dok ne izbledi. 

   majka se kupa suzama i vinom, kao posvećena, 

   nakon toga još jače prosvetli, kao neveseli mesec 

   što nas predugo prati kroz noć.

2. A FAREWELL / ISPRAĆAJ

   

   

   ENGSRB

   in the palm of her hand she had a curled-up kitten 

   no bigger than a teardrop. 

   she said: I need to feed someone when you're all gone. 

   maybe you'll die, bleed, burn – I won't have

   anyone else. 

    

   damp air encircled her warm body with invisible boundaries. we knew it by the swirling steam rising from her like from manured fields. 

    

   she didn't wave with the other hand either: 

   her fingers were blossoming and it would be too sad 

   to tear such flowers, to shorten their life on mother's  hand. 

   she seemed cold, distant, as if in possession of higher knowledge 

   about our death, death in the earth, the earth that gives birth in us, 

   our mouth, nostrils, ears.

   Translated by Jelena Gagić

   na dlanu je držala sklupčano mače ne veće od suze. 

   rekla je: nekoga treba hraniti kad svi vi odete tamo. 

   možda ćete i umreti, krvariti, goreti – ja neću imati 

   nikog osim njega. 

    

   vazduh je vlažnošću pravio granice, nevidljive, 

   oko njenog toplog tela. znali smo to po pari koja se 

   oko nje svijala kao iznad pođubrenih oranica. 

    

   ni drugom rukom nije mahnula: 

   prsti su joj se granali u bokore i bilo bi suviše tužno 

   kidati takvo cveće, kratiti mu život na majčinoj ruci. 

   učinila se hladna, daleka, kao u višem znanju 

   o našoj smrti, smrti u zemlji, zemlji što rađa u nama, 

   ustima, nozdrvama, ušima.

3. THE WORD / REČ

   

   

   ENGSRB

   this morning I wake up and see: all I own is the word, 

   neither the title deed nor the guarantee to show. it holds all 

   the memories I need, to my eyelids it promises a dream, 

   a favorable ending and a safe beginning. 

   It is the word I use to write down my morning messages 

   and my shopping list, my very own word, the one I put 

   in the purpose of payment, the password for my account, 

   my ID number; I answer when I hear it, 

   I use it instead of hello to anyone I meet in the street, 

   be it a man or a dog. I send it to my mother 

   by express mail, as a present, I search for it between the covers 

   of a book I was given, with that word I hold the world, careful 

   not to shatter it with the firmness of my embrace. 

   it is the word that I give, the one they take away from me, 

   the word I could not explain, not even in my own words.

   Translated by Jelena Gagić

   jutros se budim i vidim: u vlasništvu imam samo reč, 

   za nju ni vlasnički list ni garanciju. ona čuva sve 

   što mi je nužno od sećanja, mojim kapcima 

   obećava san, povoljan kraj i siguran početak. 

   to je reč kojom ispisujem jutarnje poruke 

   i spisak za kupovinu, moja reč, koju upisujem 

   u svrhu uplate, lozinka za korisnički nalog, 

   moj identifikacioni broj; na nju se odazivam, 

   njome na ulici pozdravim prvog kojeg sretnem, 

   bio to čovek ili pas. nju šaljem majci 

   brzom poštom, kao dar, tražim je između korica 

   poklonjene knjige; tom rečju obgrlim svet i pazim 

   da se od čvrstine zagrljaja ne rasprsne. 

   reč koju dajem, koju mi oduzimaju, 

   reč koju ne bih mogao čak ni svojim rečima objasniti. 

4. RECYCLING / RECIKLAŽA

   

   

   ENGSRB

   airports, flights cancelled or not, 

   are the points where the city dissolves into confetti, 

   people coming or going - you never know. 

   coffee, a premium blend, from farmers' and fruit pickers' hands, 

   over the refined tongue of the barista, to your mouth, 

   expensive, airport-style bland, 

   the last, grudgingly made coffee, from Kenya or Ethiopia, 

   the exotic bitterness of migration. 

    

   in the morning: scrolling, words and sounds reaching you 

   unintentionally, but conveniently, 

   well-suited to the needs that take shape quietly - 

   they announce delays and fake discounts, open up 

   an abundance of shameless possibilities. 

    

   in the evening: workers, polishing floors, 

   cleaning coffee and vending machines 

   massive hosepipes in the hands of cheap labour are a presage 

   of what follows. 

    

   in the pleasant dream of the economy class, 

   a flight that lasts longer than the deep sleep, 

   the night takes you through another climate zone 

   into a more organized form of exploitation. 

    

   as you are landing, you are writing a postcard in your mind, 

   choosing  the well-known motif of flowers and plants, 

   with letters that spell happiness, 

   on recycled paper of decent thickness, 

   whose edges will never give you a cut

   Translated by Jelena Gagić

   aerodromi, sa letovima otkazanim ili ne, 

   tačke su sa kojih se grad razlaže u konfete, 

   ljude što dolaze ili odlaze – nikad ne znaš. 

   kafa, vrhunski blend, od ruku farmera i berača plodova, 

   preko istančanog jezika bariste, u tvoja usta 

   stiže skupocena, aerodromski bljutava, 

   poslednja kafa-sikteruša, iz kenije ili etiopije, 

   egzotična gorčina migracije. 

    

   ujutru: skrolovanje, reči i zvuci koji do tebe dopiru 

   bez namere, a prigodno, 

   prilagođeno potrebama koje se oblikuju tiho – 

   najavljuju kašnjenja, fingiraju sniženja, otvaraju 

   obilje besramnih mogućnosti. 

    

   uveče: radnici i radnice, čišćenje kafemata, 

   glancanje podova i vending aparata 

   debeli šmrkovi u rukama najamnika nagoveštaj su 

   onog što sledi. 

    

   u udobnom snu ekonomske klase, 

   let koji traje duže od faze dubokog sna, 

   noć te vodi kroz drugu klimatsku zonu 

   u nešto uređeniji oblik eksploatacije. 

    

   dok slećeš, u mislima pišeš razglednicu, biraš 

   poznati motiv cveća i rastinja, 

   sa slovima koja govore o sreći, 

   na recikliranom papiru pristojne debljine, 

   sa ivicama o koje se ni slučajno nećeš poseći. 

5. BREAD / HLEB

   

   

   ENGSRB

   these days that which we feared 

   happened too: 

   with sterile hands I tore apart 

   bread's golden membrane, fingers 

   worthy of greater crimes transformed 

   into pliers, ripped out its soft entrails, 

   arranged it on the board, molded them 

   into bullets for friends. 

    

   my finger in the heart of the spongy insides, 

   like the bend of a hoe in land's death rattle, 

   only there is no land, 

   was reaching for the elusive bottom. 

   we were swaying to the rhythm of peasant picks 

   from the mournful song of wheat and yeast, 

   the sound of a hungry poor man's throat. 

    

   I was ashamed of mother: 

   her pots with painted plants and polka dots, 

   made things more palatable, 

   in there the dead bodies were swimming 

   free of care, fragrant with rosemary, 

   cumin and sage, broken legs and shoulders 

   rolled over with the lightness of a dolphin.

    

   I flinched from father 

   as he precisely and carefully 

   cut into the hearts of unsprayed fruits, 

   making them come alive in the juice 

   that was leaving them, 

   as a delicious tribute to the sunday lunch, 

   he worked a miracle without leaving home. 

    

   the crumbs on my table were still dead. 

   thousands of hungry workers' eyes 

   were left somewhere outside, 

   without a seat at the table. 

   around me as followers, 

   gluttonous and lustful friends, 

   used to food that does not resist. 

   no dedication or a eulogy: 

   inside the crust, in a not at all heroic fight, 

   we destroy our daily enemy, 

   pinch him to the point of exhaustion. 

    

   this too shall pass

   reporters without borders report from the front lines

   but in my mind's eye,

   as the guests cheered for victory

   something rolled down the table cloth

   and was finally and irretrievably lost

   in the deep twilight of the kitchen.

   Translated by Jelena Gagić

   ovih dana desilo se i ono 

   od čega smo strahovali: 

   sterilnim rukama razdrljio sam 

   zlatastu opnu hleba, prste 

   dostojne većih zločina preobrazio 

   u klešta, vadio mu meke iznutrice, 

   slagao po ploči, od njih pravio 

   metke za prijatelje. 

    

   moj kažiprst u srcu spužvaste utrobe, 

   kao prevoj motike u samrtnom ropcu 

   zemlje, samo što zemlje nema, 

   tražio je nevidljivo dno. 

   iz žalosne pesme pšenice i kvasca 

   njihao nas je ritam seljačkih pijuka, 

   zvuk gladnog najamničkog grla. 

    

   bio me je stid pred majkom: 

   njene šerpe sa rastinjem i tufnama, 

   činile su stvari ugodnijim, 

   mrtvačka tela u njima plivala su 

   bezbrižno, opojno mirisala na ruzmarin, 

   kumin i žalfiju, s lakoćom delfina 

   prevrtale su se skršene noge i pleća. 

    

   zazirao sam od oca 

   dok je precizno i s pažnjom 

   zasecao srca neprskanih plodova, 

   čineći ih skoro živim u soku 

   koji ih je napuštao, 

   u slast nedeljnog ručka, 

   pravio čudo ne napuštajući dom. 

    

   mrve na mom stolu bile su ipak mrtve. 

   hiljade gladnih radničkih očiju 

   ostale su negde izvan, 

   bez mesta za trpezom. 

   oko mene kao sledbenici, 

   proždrljivi i požudni prijatelji, 

   navikli na hranu koja se ne opire. 

   nikakva posveta niti prigodno slovo: 

   unutar kore, u borbi nimalo herojskoj, 

   uništavamo nasušnog neprijatelja, 

   štipamo ga do iznemoglosti. 

    

   sve će ovo jednom proći, 

   javljaju sa fronta reporteri bez granica, 

   no učinilo mi se, 

   dok su gosti klicali pobedi, 

   da se nešto skotrljalo niz stolnjak, 

   konačno i nepovratno izgubilo 

   u dubokom sumraku kuhinje.