Poem
Mario Suško
(FRIED NERVES:) SOUNDS
There is a sound in my brainwhen I keep my eyes closed, its pitch
getting higher and higher, so I
wake up, wishing I could get it
out like a magician that pulls
a thread out of his grinning mouth
with shining needles strung on neatly.
I used to whistle beautiful songs,
Modugno’s, Endrigo’s, but I cannot
do that any more. Only a hissing sound
comes out, the kind my grandfather
would make when he got back home
from his throat cancer operation.
Sometimes I would almost chuckle
after he tried to tell me something,
those sszzzs and eeezs becoming shriller,
turning into a manic whistling kettle.
I am back in a hotel, in bed, having
scraped six months of dirt, watched
it being sucked by a tub gullet;
I aborted myself, but I cannot
fall asleep, after eighteen hours
of crawling, running, walking, flying,
because there’s no sound of shells,
machine guns, just a distant hum
of electric wires. Silence has become
my torturous clang, my passing bell.
In another world after, where cancer
does not come from stress, fried
nerves as my mother used to say,
or the shortcircuited mind, so I
often thought when young it was
a form of madness, but from the walls,
cigarettes (grandfather never smoked),
chemicals claiming innocence
on food packages, I hear the tone color
of the sun flare, cutting my breath,
making me see my head explode
like a watermelon shot by a sniper
at the market place, its watery
pulp landing on my faded shirt,
as if a painter splashed his canvas red,
while I, my eyes blinded by screams,
tried rabidly to pluck off black pits
suddenly turned frantic shellacked ticks.
Sound waves eating my nerve fibers
in the pons, making my head bob,
that of a rag doll, as I press it against
the pillow, pulling the unending invisible
suture out of my throat, the needles
twinkling, the intermittent cell current
that blares in my grandfather eyeballs.
© Translation: 2003, Mario Suško
From: Čitanje života i smrti/Reading Life and Death
From: Čitanje života i smrti/Reading Life and Death
(FRIGANI ŽIVCI:) ZVUKOVI
(FRIGANI ŽIVCI:) ZVUKOVI
U mojem je mozgu zvukkad držim oči zatvorene, visina
njegova sve jača i jača,
budim se, hoteći ga izvući
poput čarobnjaka što poteže
nit iz svojih nacerenih usta
s uredno nanizanim sjajnim iglama.
Nekoć sam prekrasno zviždukao,
pjesme Modugna, Endriga, ali
ne više. Sad samo šištavi zvuk
izlazi, kakav je djed
proizvodio kad se vratio doma
nakon operacije raka na grlu.
Katkad bih se gotovo smijuljio
nakon sto mi je htio nešto kazati,
oni siiisss i iiiizzz sve vrištaviji,
postajući manični zviždeći kotlić.
Natrag sam u hotelu, u krevetu,
ostrugavši šest mjeseci blata, gledajući
kako ga grkljan kade usisava;
pometnuo sam samoga sebe,
ali ne mogu spavati, nakon osamnaest
sati puzanja, bježanja, hodanja, letenja,
budući nema zvuka projektila,
haubica, samo udaljeno zujanje
strujnih žica. Tišina je postala
moja mukotrpna zveka, mrtvačko zvono.
U inom svijetu poslije, gdje rak
ne dolazi od stresa, friganih živaca
običavala je majka reci, il kratkog
spoja u umu, pa sam kao dječak
često mislio kako je oblik
ludila, nego od zidova,
cigareta (djed nikad nije pušio),
kemikalija sto svojataju nevinost
na omotima, čujem kako titraj
sunčeve boje bljesne, režući mi dah,
čini da moja glava eksplodira
poput lubenice na tržnici raznesene
zrnom snajperiste, njezino vodenasto
meso pljusnuvši na moju izblijedjelu
košulju, kao da je slikar poprskao platno,
dok sam ja, moje uši zaslijepljene
vriskovima, pokušavao otkinuti
histerično crne koštice, preobražene
nenadano u mahnite smolaste krpelje.
Zvučni valovi proždiru živčano tkivo
u mojem mostu, glava mi poskakuje
kao da je krpena lutka dok ju pritišćem
na jastuk, potežući beskrajan nevidljiv
kirurški konac iz grla s treperavim
iglama, izmjeničnom staničnom
strujom što tresti u djedovim jabučicama.
© 2001, Mario Suško
From: The Life After
Publisher: Stamford, CT: Yuganta Press
From: The Life After
Publisher: Stamford, CT: Yuganta Press
Poems
Poems of Mario Suško
Close
(FRIED NERVES:) SOUNDS
There is a sound in my brainwhen I keep my eyes closed, its pitch
getting higher and higher, so I
wake up, wishing I could get it
out like a magician that pulls
a thread out of his grinning mouth
with shining needles strung on neatly.
I used to whistle beautiful songs,
Modugno’s, Endrigo’s, but I cannot
do that any more. Only a hissing sound
comes out, the kind my grandfather
would make when he got back home
from his throat cancer operation.
Sometimes I would almost chuckle
after he tried to tell me something,
those sszzzs and eeezs becoming shriller,
turning into a manic whistling kettle.
I am back in a hotel, in bed, having
scraped six months of dirt, watched
it being sucked by a tub gullet;
I aborted myself, but I cannot
fall asleep, after eighteen hours
of crawling, running, walking, flying,
because there’s no sound of shells,
machine guns, just a distant hum
of electric wires. Silence has become
my torturous clang, my passing bell.
In another world after, where cancer
does not come from stress, fried
nerves as my mother used to say,
or the shortcircuited mind, so I
often thought when young it was
a form of madness, but from the walls,
cigarettes (grandfather never smoked),
chemicals claiming innocence
on food packages, I hear the tone color
of the sun flare, cutting my breath,
making me see my head explode
like a watermelon shot by a sniper
at the market place, its watery
pulp landing on my faded shirt,
as if a painter splashed his canvas red,
while I, my eyes blinded by screams,
tried rabidly to pluck off black pits
suddenly turned frantic shellacked ticks.
Sound waves eating my nerve fibers
in the pons, making my head bob,
that of a rag doll, as I press it against
the pillow, pulling the unending invisible
suture out of my throat, the needles
twinkling, the intermittent cell current
that blares in my grandfather eyeballs.
© 2003, Mario Suško
From: Čitanje života i smrti/Reading Life and Death
From: Čitanje života i smrti/Reading Life and Death
(FRIED NERVES:) SOUNDS
There is a sound in my brainwhen I keep my eyes closed, its pitch
getting higher and higher, so I
wake up, wishing I could get it
out like a magician that pulls
a thread out of his grinning mouth
with shining needles strung on neatly.
I used to whistle beautiful songs,
Modugno’s, Endrigo’s, but I cannot
do that any more. Only a hissing sound
comes out, the kind my grandfather
would make when he got back home
from his throat cancer operation.
Sometimes I would almost chuckle
after he tried to tell me something,
those sszzzs and eeezs becoming shriller,
turning into a manic whistling kettle.
I am back in a hotel, in bed, having
scraped six months of dirt, watched
it being sucked by a tub gullet;
I aborted myself, but I cannot
fall asleep, after eighteen hours
of crawling, running, walking, flying,
because there’s no sound of shells,
machine guns, just a distant hum
of electric wires. Silence has become
my torturous clang, my passing bell.
In another world after, where cancer
does not come from stress, fried
nerves as my mother used to say,
or the shortcircuited mind, so I
often thought when young it was
a form of madness, but from the walls,
cigarettes (grandfather never smoked),
chemicals claiming innocence
on food packages, I hear the tone color
of the sun flare, cutting my breath,
making me see my head explode
like a watermelon shot by a sniper
at the market place, its watery
pulp landing on my faded shirt,
as if a painter splashed his canvas red,
while I, my eyes blinded by screams,
tried rabidly to pluck off black pits
suddenly turned frantic shellacked ticks.
Sound waves eating my nerve fibers
in the pons, making my head bob,
that of a rag doll, as I press it against
the pillow, pulling the unending invisible
suture out of my throat, the needles
twinkling, the intermittent cell current
that blares in my grandfather eyeballs.
© 2003, Mario Suško
From: Čitanje života i smrti/Reading Life and Death
From: Čitanje života i smrti/Reading Life and Death
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