Tema: Ivan Goran Kovacic - Poezija

Vjetrovita noć

Očajno ječi vjetar, trublja viteza Rolanda,
i zvone zlatni taliri u zelenoj posudi neba
kao u džepu palih španjolskih granda.
Daske na krovu cvile ko prosjak što moli hljeba.
Vjetar se luđački smije, vjetar očajno plače
i jednoliko svira.
Vjetar lamata žlijebom i bregove preskače,
kroz tamu seosku nosi bijele krpe papira.
Vjetar je kao nož oštar i reže komade mesa
i grize zubima mrzlim kosti sve u do srži.
On je zloban starac. Sve jači je i sve brži,
sada negdje daleko crepovlje s krovova stresa.
Šume kočije vjetra, daleko more klokoće,
čuje se kroz noć zvonak smijeh mlade žene.
Crne se njišu grane i toče,
a oblaci laki jure, u jurnjavi se pjene.
Vjetar se luđački smije, vjetar očajno plače,
jednu pjesmu navija i nikad je ne mijenja.
Vjetar lomata žlijebom i bregove preskače
- u daljini crnoj malakše tiho i jenja…

Žrtva

Povorka se tužna šumskim putem kreće
nujna lica ljudi na nosiljci nose
nekog, teško iduć – ko da im se neće,
raskopčanih grudi, raskuštrane kose.
Kršni svi su oni i opora lica,
ta gorski su ljudi i sinovi gore,
kućice su njine vrh strmih litica,
a sjekirom sijeku već od rane zore.
Nemoćno se čovjek na tralji pomako,
krvava mu glava grubo zamotana,
tiho rek’o ljud’ma: “Nosite polako,
braćo, peče grdno krvava mi rana.
Ne znam ja za ranu što mi bukva dade,
već mi srce jače krvari i peče.
Svatko od vas, braćo, svatko dobro znade,
da mi srce ovo dugo tući neće…”
Tihi jecaj ljudi govor mu prekine,
potekoše svima niza lice suze -
“Jao, djeco tužna, jao, mili sine,
ženo – Bog vam, eto, oca vašeg uze!
Braćo, recite im neka sudbu snose,
neka Boga štuju, neka ga ne kunu,
a šuma što mene ubi im – napose
srećom će im vratit žuči čašu punu;
Jer sinovi mladi” – s uzdahom izreče -
“… u šumu će poći i rušiti jele,
a drva iz ove vijek zelene sječe
vozit će dok rane za mnom ne zacijele.
Neka štuju Hrista, nek se za me mole!
Zbogom, braćo… sretan umirem u gaju,
vrh litice naše – vidim krasne dole.
Zbogom, plave gore – zbogom, mili kraju.”
To izreče teško – i glava mu klone.
zagrljeni kleknu ocevi i sini,
za bratom si dragim gorke suze rone
na plavom vrhuncu, gorskoj u visini.
Krvavo je sunce u jazbinu palo.
Još se čuje ljudî uzdah i plač boni,
i bukove grane jecati su stale.
A iz sela malog Majci božjoj zvoni.

The Pit

I
Blood is my daylight, and darkness too.
Blessing of night has been gouged from my cheeks
Bearing with it my more lucky sight.
Within those holes, for tears, fierce fire inflamed
The bleeding socket as if for brain a balm –
While my bright eyes died on my own palm.

While played, I never doubt, God’s feathered creatures,
Reflected still in them, and clouds’ procession;
But all I felt were my blood–spattered features,
Bruised gulfs in that once brillant profusion.
Haw radiant lay my eyeballs in my hand,
Yet from those eyes no tear could more descend!

Then ever other fingers ran the warm
Coagulating blood my slaughterer found
By the profounder agony of holes he formed
For better grip, more sensuously to wound;
But me the softness of my blood enthralled,
And I rejoiced as blood were red tears falling.

The final light before the frightful night
The lightning swooping of the polished knife,
The cry too white still in my blinded sight,
The bleach-white bodies of the murderers,
Who stripped their torsos for their sweaty task –
Was dazzling even to my blinded mask.

O painful daylight, never so hard yet
Or penetrating did you break the East
With fiery arrow; I might have thought I shed
Teardrops with leaping flames that seared my cheeks
Through all that hell so many lightnings brent,
So many cries of other victims rent.

What time that furious conflagration fanned,
All that I knew of time were callouses for eyes,
Hard-grown and aching; and could hardly stand.
And only then my slippery eyeballs fingered
And knew – and cried: My sight, O Mother mine, is gone.
How shall I wepp when your life too is done?

Then dazzling daylight like a myriad carillons
From endless gleaming bell-towers in my crazy
Brain illumined like the lights of Zion,
A lovely light – a light which sanctified –
Bright birds, bright river, trees and, brilliant
Boon pure as mother’s milk, still brighter moon.

Now came a torture I had never guessed –
My murderer commanded “Break your own eyes!”
I nearly prayed for mercy to the beast,
But slimy-fingered spasmic hands obeyed –
And then no more I heard, no more could tell,
To empty nothyng faltered, and I feel.


Jama, prvo pjevanje, Ivan Goran Kovačić