Marko Pogačar

Marko Pogačar rođen je 1984, godine u Splitu. Objavio je četiri knjige pjesama, dvije knjige eseja te knjigu kratkih priča. Urednik je u književnom časopisu Quorum i dvotjedniku za kulturna i društvena zbivanja Zarez. Bio je stipendist fondacija Civitella Ranieri, Passa Porta, Milo Dor, Brandenburger Tor, Internationales Haus der Autoren Graz, Récollets-Paris, itd. Tekstovi su mu prevođeni na dvadeset pet jezika.

Marko Pogačar was born in 1984, in Split, Yugoslavia. He is an editor of Quorum, a literary magazine, and Zarez, a bi-weekly for cultural and social issues. His publications include four poetry collections, two books of essays and a short story collection. He has been awarded fellowships from Civitella Ranieri, Passa Porta, Milo Dor, Brandenburger Tor, Internationales Haus der Autoren Graz and Récollets-Paris. His work has been translated into twenty-five languages.

Markov Trg 

Nešto se dešava, no ne znam što.

neki se grudni koš širi i napinje,

sužavaju se stjenke žila, ti žljebovi, žlijezde

luče golemu žuč nad Zagrebom.

takvo je nebo tih dana: košmar

bez trunke svetosti. blok na kojem je štošta

nacrtano i nije nacrtano, šum

milijuna nogu koje se pokreću. 

košmar, ponavljaju glasovi, košmar

ponavljaš ti. oštre linije kojima

kiša silazi u svoje utore; nokti, sigurno nokti.

oko zapešća vezano lišće, jer je jesen i takvo

što bezbolno prolazi. vode kipe

u loncima. psi crno procvjetaju. tko mi prilazi

prilazi tupom zlu: košmar, ponavljam,

košmar, ponavljaju oni. cijelo se nebo

sabilo u ključnu kost, i nitko od puste buke

nikoga ne čuje. a sve je novo, i sve je mučno

i sve u Zagrebu. oči, tanjuri, stvari

preko kojih se gledamo. sve sveto, sve oštro

sve psi, sve naši gusti glasovi. govor

grada koji bi grizao, borovi, jato, nešto

u zraku, pod zemljom, u zidovima; nešto

nad nama i negdje drugdje. nešto se dešava,

ne znam što.

St Marko's Square

Something is happening, but I don’t know what.

a chest expanding and tightening,

the vein walls constricting, those grooves, glands,

releasing immense bitterness over Zagreb.

that’s what the sky is like these days: a nightmare

without a bit of holiness. a sketchbook in which many things

have and have not been drawn, the rustle

of millions of legs on the move.

nightmare, voices repeat, nightmare

you repeat. the sharp stripes down which

rain descends into its ruts; fingernails, surely fingernails.

leaves tied around wrists, because it’s autumn and these things

painlessly pass. water is boiling

in pots. dogs blossom black. those who approach me

approach the blunt evil: nightmare, I repeat,

nightmare, they repeat. the entire sky has

huddled into the clavicle, and in the sheer noise

no one can hear each other. everything’s new, and everything’s foul,

everything in Zagreb. eyes, plates, things

across which we look at each other. all holy, all sharp

all dogs, all our dense voices. the speech

of a city eager to bite, pine trees, a flock, something

in the air, under the ground, in the walls; something

above us and somewhere else. something is happening,

I don’t know what. 

Translated by Dunja Bahtijarević and Kim Addonizio

 

Svjetlo, Nešto Što Dolazi

 

          

Kao polovica breskve

u svojoj južnoj slatkoći.

kao maline, kao grašak.

govedo koje muče

iz bijelog saveza kostiju.

pečeni grah, bubrezi zemlje,

meso za kućne životinje.

nešto iz čega postane mlijeko

kada su putovi predugi

a zima pravedna i žestoka. 

kao riba, ragu, nekako tako.

živimo tiho u tami konzerve

a zatim netko podigne poklopac

i pusti unutra zvuk i svjetlo;

eto, sumnjivo bijelo svjetlo.

Light, Something Forthcoming

Like half of a peach

in its southern sweetness.

like raspberries, like peas.

a cow mooing

out of the white alliance of bones.

baked beans, earth’s kidneys,

meat for domestic animals.

something that breeds milk

when the roads are distant

and winter righteous and severe.

like fish, ragout, something like that.

we live quietly in the darkness of a tin can

then someone lifts the lid

and lets in sound and light;

there, suspicious white light.

Translated by Dunja Bahtijarević and Kim Addonizio

***

Proljeće nam je preplelo prste, zmije lude od svjetla

ispreplele su se sa nama. nije to nikakvo proljeće.

samo se cvijeće izvija tupo iz svojih čašica

i pčele pjevaju linoleum i tepih vjetra. zrak,

dubok i težak, uvlači se pod trave i podiže

trbuhe miševa: ne prođe dan a oni 

razgrnu tijelo kao zavjesu i raznesu

kosti i iznutrice. nije to nikakvo proljeće. 

samo vode u rijekama rastu i smočnice

čekaju da ih ispuni pusta novost. gdjegdje bogovi

guču iz grobova, kao golubovi. i njihov narod  

drugom narodu kopa oči, no noću, to se dešava

noću. po danu pupa i u grad se vraćaju ptice: žice

teške od pjesme i zemlja plodna od govana zatežu grlo.

živice pužu u nebo. konobari iznose stolove

i muhe upadaju u čaše. zeleno brzo uči svoj jezik–

pouzdan rječnik čempresa, slova bukvi i breza;

čak i zemlja pod noktima spremna je cvasti. ipak nije

to proljeće. nije to ništa. nema proljeća bez tebe, dosta je

dosta je bilo laži.

***

Spring has entwined our fingers, snakes mad with light

entwined with us. this is no Spring. 

just flowers bluntly sprouting from the sepals

and bees singing the linoleum and carpet of the wind. air,

heavy and deep, creeps under the grass and lifts up

the bellies of mice: its barely a day before they

draw back the body like curtains and spread out  

bones and guts. this is no Spring.

just water in the rivers rising and pantries

waiting to fill up with bleak news. here and there gods are

cooing from graves, like pigeons. then one people 

plucks out another people's eyes, but at night, it happens

at night. during the day the world buds and birds return to town:

wires heavy with song and soil fertile with shit clog throats.

hedges crawl to the sky. waiters take out tables

and flies drop in glasses. greenery is quick to learn its own language –

the reliable dictionary of cypress, letters of beeches and birches;

even the dirt under fingernails is ready to bloom. yet this is no

Spring. this is nothing. there is no spring without you, enough

enough with the lies.

Translated by Miloš Đurđević

Vrtlaru 

Šipak pupa u lijehama, nitko ne iznosi mišljenje,

smokve, suhe i svježe,

jedne i druge šuplje od kljunova, nad glavom izostanak zemlje,

što je nebo. strašilo više ne radi što bi trebalo.

krivulje produžuju vrijeme, ali ga ne čine ispunjenim. precizne,

kao telefonske žice koje nas prisiljavaju na bliskost, povezuju

s drugim bićima. strašilo funkcionira na sasvim suprotan

način od telefona. jutros je pas ispio srž iz njegovih nogu

i ono je palo, karbonizirani križ pred crnačku kuću, odjeća

koju ne možeš skinuti. takav je mehanizam prirode:

sve što smo zasijali nikne, bez obzira na sitne zapreke, duga

popodneva, i unutarnju ravnotežu, svi uvijek kažu: naravno

i ništa ne znači svo trenje uloženo u pretvorbu ljubavi u beskonačno

male pakete života: šipak osušen, vrijeme produženo i čisto,

zemljina otvorena ponuda da me voli trune u mojim prsima, svugdje okolo 

slobodni samoglasnici, dlanovi, korov i mnogo više.

To the Gardener

Rosehips in garden beds, no-one expresses opinions,

figs, dried and fresh,

both hollowed out with beaks, overhead an absence of earth,

which is the sky. the scarecrow has ceased to do what it's supposed to.

curves elongate time, but they don't make it filled. precise,

like telephone wires that pressure us into closeness, connect us

with other beings. the scarecrow works in a completely opposite

way than the telephone. this morning a dog drank the marrow from its legs

and it fell, a carbonized cross before a black man’s house, clothes

that you can’t take off. such is the mechanism of nature:

everything we have sown sprouts, regardless of little obstacles, long

afternoons, and inner balance, everyone always says: sure,

and all the friction invested in the transformation of love into the endlessly

small packages of life means nothing now: rosehips dried, time elongated and clean,

the earth’s full offer to love me rotting in my chest, everywhere around

unbound vowels, open hands, weeds and much more.

Translated by Dunja Bahtijarević and Anthony Mccann

Permanentna Revolucija Jezika Ljubavne Poezije 
Umornim Trockistima 


Kako, godine 2007., pisati ljubavnu poeziju?
ovo je vrijeme gusto od ljubavi.

svi nas, naime, umjereno vole.
teorija govori o potpunom izostanku kretanja.

tržište kaže: ako govoriš o ljubavi,
govoriš o bogu, ili obrnuto.

Pogačar misli: sve je bog = bog je ništa. 

bombarder prepun opasnog značenja.

ali negdje u kutku te ljubavi, kada je pritisneš uz zid,

izrasta nešto bezrezervno.

rezervat uzimanja i davanja.

i u njemu baobab čijom se krošnjom uspinješ k nebu.

na kraju znaš: jedina strašnija stvar od fašizma

je umjereni fašizam.

Permanent Revolution of Love Poetry's Language

To the Tired Trockists

How, in the year 2007, to write love poetry?

the time is dense with love.

everyone, namely, loves us moderately.

the theory speaks of complete lack of movement.

the market says: if you talk about love,

you talk about god, or vice versa.

Pogačar thinks: everything is god = god is nothing.

a bomber loaded with dangerous meaning.

but somewhere in the corner of that love, when you press it against the wall,

something unconditional grows.

a nature reserve of give and take.

and in it a baobab through whose branches you climb up to the sky.

in the end you know: one thing more horrible than fascism

is moderate fascism.

Translated by Tomislav Kuzmanović