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Gedicht

Robert Perišić

UNFOCUSED

we start to talk about
primary school essays
for the eighth of March
I always wrote about my mother
and her calloused hands
it was the wrong description
but, I thought you have to write in that style
 
in my class, she said
there was a motherless boy
so he could write
about whomever he wanted
his aunt, his granny, his . . .
 
the teacher told him so
she was tactful
even so: he was uncomfortable
he was looking around
unfocused
 
did he ever write about his mother, I ask
no, she said
 
I can see him
sitting in his class
and thinking that others are really writing about their mothers
 
like a lover, daydreaming about those words
 
and once I thought a poem must be just like that    

nefokusirano

nefokusirano

nekako dolazimo na temu
školskih sastava
uvijek sam za osmi mart
pisao o tome kako moja majka
ima žuljevite ruke
što je bio potpuno kriv opis
no, činilo se da se ne može drukčije
 
u njenom razredu, kaže
jedan dečko nije imao mamu
pa je mogao pisati
o kome god želi
o teti, o baki, o . . .
 
nastavnica mu je tako rekla
bila je pažljiva
ali svejedno: bilo mu je neugodno
gledao je okolo
nefokusirano
 
je li ikad pisao o mami, pitam
ne, reče
 
zamišljam ga
sjedi u klupi
i misli da drugi stvarno pišu o svojim mamama
 
kao netko zaljubljen, sanjari o tim riječima
 
tako sam nekad zamišljao pjesmu
Robert Perišić

Robert Perišić

(Kroatië, 1969)

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nefokusirano

nekako dolazimo na temu
školskih sastava
uvijek sam za osmi mart
pisao o tome kako moja majka
ima žuljevite ruke
što je bio potpuno kriv opis
no, činilo se da se ne može drukčije
 
u njenom razredu, kaže
jedan dečko nije imao mamu
pa je mogao pisati
o kome god želi
o teti, o baki, o . . .
 
nastavnica mu je tako rekla
bila je pažljiva
ali svejedno: bilo mu je neugodno
gledao je okolo
nefokusirano
 
je li ikad pisao o mami, pitam
ne, reče
 
zamišljam ga
sjedi u klupi
i misli da drugi stvarno pišu o svojim mamama
 
kao netko zaljubljen, sanjari o tim riječima
 
tako sam nekad zamišljao pjesmu

UNFOCUSED

we start to talk about
primary school essays
for the eighth of March
I always wrote about my mother
and her calloused hands
it was the wrong description
but, I thought you have to write in that style
 
in my class, she said
there was a motherless boy
so he could write
about whomever he wanted
his aunt, his granny, his . . .
 
the teacher told him so
she was tactful
even so: he was uncomfortable
he was looking around
unfocused
 
did he ever write about his mother, I ask
no, she said
 
I can see him
sitting in his class
and thinking that others are really writing about their mothers
 
like a lover, daydreaming about those words
 
and once I thought a poem must be just like that    
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