Poem
Zvonko Maković
Did I Ask for Something
Love was born but nobody had noticedhow terrible it was. They shower it with gifts
every day without understanding that it is ready for a program.
Love is placed on the walls like a painting.
On the houses, like flags for the Republic Day.
It is a cold bowl at first, cold since
it is made out of porcelain, fragile and displaced.
Between the bed and the phone it finds
a tiny space that favors it,
that will protect it.
I drew it and it looked like an enclosed circle.
I engraved into it all the faces
I knew, I touched
and laughed at them. I am faithful since I know what it is like
to see oneself in the eye of another.
The hollow pupils are senseless.
They are marked by victims,
by trivial deals.
Love sneaks into the belly, into the meat –
then it echoes and we recognize it as words.
I stretched myself out on the floor and stared
at the spot on the ceiling.
The nuances have evaporated from that state,
that state is cruel and unscrupulous.
It should not be expected to yield some
particular desires, or complete revelations.
Did I ever ask for something?
There is shadow on my face that feeds
on the blood vessels and leaves wrinkles around the eyes.
I know that here I can reach the ultimate
heights, transform myself into pure energy.
Now I feel that it is dawning,
although I am not yet able to see that.
But the time will come when we will
relax, get rid of the dreams.
When we will be as light as the scent.
I feel nameless and that apparently
liberates me from responsibility.
I would rather be a torrent which
floods indefinite motions,
which describes forebodings and devours fear.
I speak in the first person. Therefore I am not just
an instinct, an accidental voice.
And my sentences are keen like a heart of a flame.
I know that, I see and hear that.
I have read somewhere:
bread, silence, memory, zenith, eternity,
overwhelming unease. I knew that those are the words
that would not remain unspoken, that I would
take them up some day. That I would spill them
like a seed feeling then something more than
pleasure, more than a joy of spawning.
Now they still tremble, because I tremble.
Love trembles. Before it is spoken,
the word is only the air, the trembling air.
Jesam li išta tražio
Jesam li išta tražio
Ljubav se rodi i nitko ne primijetikoliko je strašna. Iz dana u dan darivaju je
ne sluteci pogrom što ga sprema.
Ljubav se stavlja na zidove kao slika.
Na kuce kao zastave za Dan Republike.
Ona je isprva hladna kugla, hladna jer je
od porculana, jer je lomljiva i pomaknuta.
Izmedu postelje i telefona ona pronade
sicušan prostor koji joj je naklonjen,
koji ce je zaštiti.
Nacrtao sam je i bila je zatvorena kružnica.
utiskivao sam u nju sva lica
koja sam poznavao, koja sam pomilovao
smiješeci im se. Odan sam jer znam što znaci
vidjeti se u tudem oku.
Prošupljene su zjenice besmislene.
One su obilježene žrtvama,
trivijalnim pogodbama.
Ljubav se uvuce u trbuh, u meso –
zatim odjekuje i prepoznajemo je kao rijeci.
Ispružio sam se na tlu i zurio
u mrlju na tavanici.
Iz tog su stanja isparile nijanse,
to je stanje surovo i bezobzirno.
Od njega ne treba ocekivati neke
osobite žudnje, cjelovita razotkrivanja.
Jesam li išta tražio?
Na licu mi je sjena koja se napaja
kapilarima, koja ostavlja bore oko ociju.
Znam da se ovdje mogu uspeti do krajnjih
visina, preobraziti se u cistu energiju.
Sada osjecam da svanjuje,
no to još ne mogu i vidjeti.
Ali, doci ce, doci cas kad cemo se
opustiti, osloboditi snova.
Kad cemo biti lagani poput mirisa.
Osjecam se bezimenim i to me prividno
oslobada obaveza.
Radije bih da sam bujica koja
naplavljuje neodredene pokrete,
koja opisuje zebnje i guta strah.
Govorim u prvom licu. Nisam dakle samo
instinkt, samo slucajan glas.
I recenice su mi jezgrovite kao srce plamena.
To znam, to vidim i cujem.
Negdje sam procitao:
kruh, šutnja, pamcenje, zenit, vjecnost,
razlivena tjeskoba. Znao sam kako su to rijeci
koje se ne mogu prešutjeti, kako cu ih
posvojiti bilo kad. Kako cu ih rasipati
poput sjemena osjecajuci pri tom više nego
slast, više nego radost što oplodujem.
Sada još podrhtavaju, jer ja drhtim.
Ljubav drhti. Prije nego se izgovori,
rijec je samo zrak, ali zrak koji drhti.
From: Tocka bijega
Poems
Poems of Zvonko Maković
Close
Did I Ask for Something
Love was born but nobody had noticedhow terrible it was. They shower it with gifts
every day without understanding that it is ready for a program.
Love is placed on the walls like a painting.
On the houses, like flags for the Republic Day.
It is a cold bowl at first, cold since
it is made out of porcelain, fragile and displaced.
Between the bed and the phone it finds
a tiny space that favors it,
that will protect it.
I drew it and it looked like an enclosed circle.
I engraved into it all the faces
I knew, I touched
and laughed at them. I am faithful since I know what it is like
to see oneself in the eye of another.
The hollow pupils are senseless.
They are marked by victims,
by trivial deals.
Love sneaks into the belly, into the meat –
then it echoes and we recognize it as words.
I stretched myself out on the floor and stared
at the spot on the ceiling.
The nuances have evaporated from that state,
that state is cruel and unscrupulous.
It should not be expected to yield some
particular desires, or complete revelations.
Did I ever ask for something?
There is shadow on my face that feeds
on the blood vessels and leaves wrinkles around the eyes.
I know that here I can reach the ultimate
heights, transform myself into pure energy.
Now I feel that it is dawning,
although I am not yet able to see that.
But the time will come when we will
relax, get rid of the dreams.
When we will be as light as the scent.
I feel nameless and that apparently
liberates me from responsibility.
I would rather be a torrent which
floods indefinite motions,
which describes forebodings and devours fear.
I speak in the first person. Therefore I am not just
an instinct, an accidental voice.
And my sentences are keen like a heart of a flame.
I know that, I see and hear that.
I have read somewhere:
bread, silence, memory, zenith, eternity,
overwhelming unease. I knew that those are the words
that would not remain unspoken, that I would
take them up some day. That I would spill them
like a seed feeling then something more than
pleasure, more than a joy of spawning.
Now they still tremble, because I tremble.
Love trembles. Before it is spoken,
the word is only the air, the trembling air.
From: Tocka bijega
Did I Ask for Something
Love was born but nobody had noticedhow terrible it was. They shower it with gifts
every day without understanding that it is ready for a program.
Love is placed on the walls like a painting.
On the houses, like flags for the Republic Day.
It is a cold bowl at first, cold since
it is made out of porcelain, fragile and displaced.
Between the bed and the phone it finds
a tiny space that favors it,
that will protect it.
I drew it and it looked like an enclosed circle.
I engraved into it all the faces
I knew, I touched
and laughed at them. I am faithful since I know what it is like
to see oneself in the eye of another.
The hollow pupils are senseless.
They are marked by victims,
by trivial deals.
Love sneaks into the belly, into the meat –
then it echoes and we recognize it as words.
I stretched myself out on the floor and stared
at the spot on the ceiling.
The nuances have evaporated from that state,
that state is cruel and unscrupulous.
It should not be expected to yield some
particular desires, or complete revelations.
Did I ever ask for something?
There is shadow on my face that feeds
on the blood vessels and leaves wrinkles around the eyes.
I know that here I can reach the ultimate
heights, transform myself into pure energy.
Now I feel that it is dawning,
although I am not yet able to see that.
But the time will come when we will
relax, get rid of the dreams.
When we will be as light as the scent.
I feel nameless and that apparently
liberates me from responsibility.
I would rather be a torrent which
floods indefinite motions,
which describes forebodings and devours fear.
I speak in the first person. Therefore I am not just
an instinct, an accidental voice.
And my sentences are keen like a heart of a flame.
I know that, I see and hear that.
I have read somewhere:
bread, silence, memory, zenith, eternity,
overwhelming unease. I knew that those are the words
that would not remain unspoken, that I would
take them up some day. That I would spill them
like a seed feeling then something more than
pleasure, more than a joy of spawning.
Now they still tremble, because I tremble.
Love trembles. Before it is spoken,
the word is only the air, the trembling air.
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