Gedicht
Robert Perišić
Big Hen of No Return
dawn comes after the egg gets broken
from the inside. Cornfields, you played your zitherin the wind. You are
my entire memory,
oil on the road, a tank truck,
Into the telegraph pole!
I plunged in Mexico.
dozing men on the street
gave me a look
and tilted their hats.
Only a man named Haar
dismounted his horse,
and entered the saloon.
He said: Whore
I never trusted her.
it was a July evening
the smell of barn in the moonlight.
Now it’s November,
they haven’t caught him yet.
Just a sigh: Haar, Haar
© Translation: 2013, Milos Djurdjevic
Velika Bespovratna Kokoš
Velika Bespovratna Kokoš
kad netko iznutra jaje razbijezora je. polje kukuruza, u vjetru
svirala si citru. Ti
si mi sva memorija,
na cesti ulje, cisterna,
U telegrafski stup!
pao sam u Mexico.
osmotrili su me nakratko
podigavši obode
i opet utonuli u ulični san.
Samo je čovjek Haar
sišao s konja,
ušao u saloon
Rekao je: Kurva
nikad joj nisam mogao vjerovati.
bila je srpanjska večer
i stajski mirisi na mjesečini.
Sad je već studeni,
još ga nisu uhvatili.
Samo uzdahnu: Haar, Haar
© 1995, Robert Perišić
From: Dvorac Amerika
Publisher: SC Press, Zagreb
From: Dvorac Amerika
Publisher: SC Press, Zagreb
Gedichten
Gedichten van Robert Perišić
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Velika Bespovratna Kokoš
kad netko iznutra jaje razbijezora je. polje kukuruza, u vjetru
svirala si citru. Ti
si mi sva memorija,
na cesti ulje, cisterna,
U telegrafski stup!
pao sam u Mexico.
osmotrili su me nakratko
podigavši obode
i opet utonuli u ulični san.
Samo je čovjek Haar
sišao s konja,
ušao u saloon
Rekao je: Kurva
nikad joj nisam mogao vjerovati.
bila je srpanjska večer
i stajski mirisi na mjesečini.
Sad je već studeni,
još ga nisu uhvatili.
Samo uzdahnu: Haar, Haar
From: Dvorac Amerika
Big Hen of No Return
dawn comes after the egg gets broken
from the inside. Cornfields, you played your zitherin the wind. You are
my entire memory,
oil on the road, a tank truck,
Into the telegraph pole!
I plunged in Mexico.
dozing men on the street
gave me a look
and tilted their hats.
Only a man named Haar
dismounted his horse,
and entered the saloon.
He said: Whore
I never trusted her.
it was a July evening
the smell of barn in the moonlight.
Now it’s November,
they haven’t caught him yet.
Just a sigh: Haar, Haar
© 2013, Milos Djurdjevic
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