Poem
Milorad Stojević
To Die in Šotovento
(Sottovento, on the zig-zag route: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-Žgaljić-Bajačić-St. Chrysogonus’- the cyclamen field and prosciutto at Klisko’s)
Bitching at my tools I made good
Ones nonetheless. Walking shoes. With solid heels.
Scented like glue and women’s brushes.
Leather for shoe-tip made in one piece.
The heart unfeeling returns it as an image
In the second part of the pair, too.
I passed through deaths in them –
Exchanging them for slippers
Of fake felt, damp, from the cold karst.
(Like darling copperplates by M. C. Crnčić
Of those telling moments we imagine –
The one, maybe, when Vladimir Lunaček put
Left hand to forehead for him. In his accustomed, writerly way).
In engravings we are of dust. Sometimes
They are ours after break-ins to
Abandoned out-of-town apartments.
From the next-door poems footsteps clatter
Around the memories and short-cuts more
Deceptive and deceiving than
Our soles. Which we displayed like gifts
Willed to us in an early Romanesque church
Sheep have moved into. Grazing day-long
On cyclamens around the humble groves with the scent
Of parting ways. I said already, long before,
In unfinished market squares, it is hard
To die in Šotovento. Even in the jeep
Inflaming our flanks.
That’s so. They’re echoing.
© Translation: 2006, Kim Burton
Umrijeti u Šotoventu
Umrijeti u Šotoventu
(Sottovento na cik-cak relaciji: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići--Žgaljić-Bajačić-Sv. Krševan-polje ciklama i pršut kod Kliska)
Lajući na alat izradih ipak dobre.
Cipele za šetnju. I pete su čvrste.
Mirišu po ženskim kičicama i ljepilu.
Koža za kapicu iz jednoga komada.
Okrutno ga srce ponavlja kao sliku
I na drugom dijelu para.
Prolazio sam u njima kroz smrti –
Zamjenjujući ih papučama od lažnog,
I mokrog, filca iz hladna krasa.
(Tako su slatki bakrorezi M-a Cl-a Crnčića
O tim snažnim situacijama našega uma –
Kao ona kada mu Vladimir Lunaček stavi lijevu
Ruku na čelo. Kako je i manirski uobičajeno.)
U bakropisima smo iz praha. Koji nam
Gdjekad pripadaju poslije provala
U napuštene provincijske stanove.
Iz susjednih pjesama koraci klepeću
Po sjećanju i prečicama što nas varaju
Na način perfidniji od naših tabana. Koje
Izložismo kao zavjetne darove u
Ranoromaničkoj crkvi u koju smjestiše
Ovce. Cjelodnevno hranjene ciklamama
Okolo niskih gajeva s mirisom
Razlučenih smjerova. Teško je, kako već
Davno rekoh, na nedovršenim trgovima,
Umrijeti u Šotoventu. Čak i u jeepu
Koji nam pali slabine.
Jest. One ječe.
© 2001, Milorad Stojević
From: Prostrijelne rane & other poems
Publisher: Naklada MD, Zagreb
From: Prostrijelne rane & other poems
Publisher: Naklada MD, Zagreb
Poems
Poems of Milorad Stojević
Close
To Die in Šotovento
(Sottovento, on the zig-zag route: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-Žgaljić-Bajačić-St. Chrysogonus’- the cyclamen field and prosciutto at Klisko’s)
Bitching at my tools I made good
Ones nonetheless. Walking shoes. With solid heels.
Scented like glue and women’s brushes.
Leather for shoe-tip made in one piece.
The heart unfeeling returns it as an image
In the second part of the pair, too.
I passed through deaths in them –
Exchanging them for slippers
Of fake felt, damp, from the cold karst.
(Like darling copperplates by M. C. Crnčić
Of those telling moments we imagine –
The one, maybe, when Vladimir Lunaček put
Left hand to forehead for him. In his accustomed, writerly way).
In engravings we are of dust. Sometimes
They are ours after break-ins to
Abandoned out-of-town apartments.
From the next-door poems footsteps clatter
Around the memories and short-cuts more
Deceptive and deceiving than
Our soles. Which we displayed like gifts
Willed to us in an early Romanesque church
Sheep have moved into. Grazing day-long
On cyclamens around the humble groves with the scent
Of parting ways. I said already, long before,
In unfinished market squares, it is hard
To die in Šotovento. Even in the jeep
Inflaming our flanks.
That’s so. They’re echoing.
© 2006, Kim Burton
From: Prostrijelne rane & other poems
From: Prostrijelne rane & other poems
To Die in Šotovento
(Sottovento, on the zig-zag route: Glavotok-Milohnići-Linardići-Žgaljić-Bajačić-St. Chrysogonus’- the cyclamen field and prosciutto at Klisko’s)
Bitching at my tools I made good
Ones nonetheless. Walking shoes. With solid heels.
Scented like glue and women’s brushes.
Leather for shoe-tip made in one piece.
The heart unfeeling returns it as an image
In the second part of the pair, too.
I passed through deaths in them –
Exchanging them for slippers
Of fake felt, damp, from the cold karst.
(Like darling copperplates by M. C. Crnčić
Of those telling moments we imagine –
The one, maybe, when Vladimir Lunaček put
Left hand to forehead for him. In his accustomed, writerly way).
In engravings we are of dust. Sometimes
They are ours after break-ins to
Abandoned out-of-town apartments.
From the next-door poems footsteps clatter
Around the memories and short-cuts more
Deceptive and deceiving than
Our soles. Which we displayed like gifts
Willed to us in an early Romanesque church
Sheep have moved into. Grazing day-long
On cyclamens around the humble groves with the scent
Of parting ways. I said already, long before,
In unfinished market squares, it is hard
To die in Šotovento. Even in the jeep
Inflaming our flanks.
That’s so. They’re echoing.
© 2006, Kim Burton
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