Nona[1]
V. H. Odn
Ono što znamo da je nemoguće,
Iako uvek iznova predskazano
Od divljih pustinjaka, od šamana i sibile
Kad šapću u svom zanosu,
Il otkriveno detetu u nekoj slučajnoj rimi
Kao smem i ubijem, dogodi se
Pre nego ga shvatimo: mi smo iznenađeni
lakoćom i naglošću našega čina
I uznemireni: tek je tri,
Sredina popodneva, a krv
Naše žrtve već je
Sasušena u travi; mi nismo spremni
Za tišinu tako iznenadnu i preranu.
Dan je suviše vreo, suviše svetao, suviše tih.
Suviše zauvek, mrtvac ostaje suviše ništa.
Šta ćemo činiti dok ne padne noć?
Vetar je prestao i mi smo izgubili svoju publiku,
Bezlično mnoštvo koje se uvek
Skupi kad bilo koji svet je tu da propadne.
Raznesen, spaljen, razvaljen, sasečen.
Pretesterisan na dvoje, zdrobljen, iskomadan.
Do kraja rastopljen: niko
Od ovih koji sada u senci zidova i drveća
Leže izvaljeni, mirno spavajući
Bezazleni kao ovce, ne može da se seti zašto
Ili o čemu je vikao
Tako glasno na suncu, ovog jutra:
Svako bi da je ispitivan odgovorio:
„Beše to monstrum sa jednim crvenim okom.
Gomila je videla da mre, ne ja.“
Dželat je otišao da se opere, vojnici da jedu:
Mi smo ostavljeni sami sa svojim činom.
Madona sa zelenim detlićem.
Madona smokvinog drveta.
Madona kraj žutog nasipa,
Okreću svoja blaga lica od nas
I naših dela u nastajanju.
Gledaju samo u jednom smeru.
Zadržavaju pogled na našem gotovom delu:
Makare, mešalica za beton,
Kran i pijuk, čekaju da budu upotrebljeni opet,
Ali kako možemo ovo da ponovimo?
Pošto smo preživeli svoj čin, stojimo tu gde smo.
Isto tako zanemareni kao neka
Odbačena rukotvorina, naša sopstvena,
Kao prodrte rukavice, zarđali kotlovi,
Napušteni ogranci pruge, po obodu istrošena
Tocila, bačena u koprive.
Ovo unakaženo meso, naša žrtva,
Objašnjava isuviše otvoreno, isuviše dobro,
Izvesno vreme u asparagusnoj bašti,
Svrhu našeg bavljenja oko krečne jame; ni otisci,
Ni ptičja jaja nisu više isti, iza čuđenja
Na stazama uz reku i potonulim putevima lađa,
Iza ushićenja na zavojitom stepeništu,
Uvek ćemo od sada biti svesni
Čina do koga oni vode, za vreme
Lažnog lova i lažnog hvatanja.
Jurnjave i tuče i galame.
Zadihanosti i smeha,
Slušati krik i tišinu
Koja posle dolazi: svuda
Gde sunce sija, potoci teku, knjige su napisane,
Postojaće isto tako ova smrt.
Ubrzo sveži povetarac pokrenuće lišće,
Radnje će se ponovo otvoriti u četiri,
Prazan plavi autobus na praznom ružičastom trgu
Napunio se i odlazi: imamo vremena
Da lažno prikažemo: opravdamo se, poričemo,
Stvorimo mit, da iskoristimo ovaj događaj
Dok, pod hotelskim krevetom, u zatvoru,
Niz opasne okuke, njegov smisao
Čeka na naše živote: pre nego bismo da ushtemo
Hleb će iščeznuti, voda ispariti,
I veliko uništenje početi, Abadon[2]
Podiže svoja trostruka vešala
Na naših sedam kapija, debeli Belijal[3] igra
Valcer sa našim golim ženama; međutim
Bilo bi bolje otići kući, ako je imamo,
U svakom slučaju bilo bi dobro odmoriti se.
Zato naše želje iz snova čini se da beže
Iz ove mrtve tišine, lutaju
Oštricama noža, crnim i belim kvadratima,
Po mahovini, čoji, somotu, daskama.
Preko raspuklina i humki, kroz lavirinte
Nanizanih i pokajničkih ćuvika,
Niz granitne strane i vlažne prolaze,
Kroz kapije koje se ne zatvaraju
I vrata sa oznakom Privatno, progonjene od Mavara
I posmatrane od pritajenih pljačkaša,
Do neprijateljskih sela u dnu fjordova.
Do mračnih dvorova gde vetar stenje
U borovima i telefoni zvone
Zazivajući nesreću, do neke sobe
Osvetljene slabom svetiljkom gde naš Dvojnik sedi,
Piše i pogled ne diže.
Zato, dok smo tako daleko, naše vlastito grešno telo
Može da radi neuznemireno, obnavljajući
Red koji nastojimo da uništimo, ritam
Koji uprkos svemu kvarimo: srčani zalisci se zatvaraju
I otvaraju tačno, žlezde luče,
Krvni sudovi skupljaju se i šire
U pravom trenutku, životni sokovi
Pritiču da obnove iscrpljene ćelije,
Ne znajući upravo šta se dogodilo, ali zastrašeni
Od smrti kao sva bića
Gledamo sada ovo mesto, kao soko motreći dole
Netremice kočoperne kokoši
Koje prolaze u redu kljucajući,
Kao insekt čiji pogled zaklanja trava,
Ili jelen koji plašljivo izdaleka
Viri kroz prosek u šumi.
Nones
W. H. Auden
What we know to be not possible,
Though time after time foretold
By wild hermits, by shaman and sybil
Gibbering in their trances,
Or revealed to a child in some chance rhyme
Like will and kill, comes to pass
Before we realize it: we are surprised
At the ease and speed of our deed
And uneasy: It is barely three,
Mid-afternoon, yet the blood
Of our sacrifice is already
Dry on the grass; we are not prepared
For silence so sudden and so soon;
The day is too hot, too bright, too still,
Too ever, the dead remains too nothing.
What shall we do till nightfall?
The wind has dropped and we have lost our public.
The faceless many who always
Collect when any world is to be wrecked,
Blown up, burnt down, cracked open,
Felled, sawn in two, hacked through, torn apart,
Have all melted away: not one
Of these who in the shade of walls and trees
Lie sprawled now, calmly sleeping,
Harmless as sheep, can remember why
He shouted or what about
So loudly in the sunshine this morning;
All if challenged would reply
-‘It was a monster with one red eye,
A crowd that saw him die, not I.
– The hangman has gone to wash, the soldiers to eat;
We are left alone with our feat.
The Madonna with the green woodpecker,
The Madonna of the fig-tree,
The Madonna beside the yellow dam,
Turn their kind faces from us
And our projects under construction,
Look only in one direction,
Fix their gaze on our completed work:
Pile-driver, concrete-mixer,
Crane and pick-axe wait to be used again,
But how can we repeat this?
Outliving our act, we stand where we are,
As disregarded as some
Discarded artifact of our own,
Like torn gloves, rusted kettles,
Abandoned branch-lines, worn lop-sided
Grindstones buried in nettles.
This mutilated flesh, our victim,
Explains too nakedly, too well,
The spell of the asparagus garden,
The aim of our chalk-pit game; stamps,
Birds’ eggs are not the same, behind the wonder
Of tow-paths and sunken lanes,
Behind the rapture on the spiral stair,
We shall always now be aware
Of the deed into which they lead, under
The mock chase and mock capture,
The racing and tussling and splashing,
The panting and the laughter,
Be listening for the cry and stillness
To follow after: wherever
The sun shines, brooks run, books are written,
There will also be this death.
Soon cool tramontana will stir the leaves,
The shops will re-open at four,
The empty blue bus in the empty pink square
Fill up and depart: we have time
To misrepresent, excuse, deny,
Mythify, use this event
While, under a hotel bed, in prison,
Down wrong turnings, its meaning
Waits for our lives: sooner than we would choose
Bread will melt, water will burn,
And the great quell begin, Abaddon
Set up his triple gallows
At our seven gates, fat Belial make
Our wives waltz naked; meanwhile
It would be best to go home, if we have a home,
In any case good to rest.
That our dreaming wills may seem to escape
This dead calm, wander instead
On knife edges, on black and white squares,
Across moss, baize, velvet, boards,
Over cracks and hillocks, in mazes
Of string and penitent cones,
Down granite ramps and damp passages,
Through gates that will not relatch
And doors marked Private, pursued by Moors
And watched by latent robbers,
To hostile villages at the heads of fjords,
To dark chateaux where wind sobs
In the pine-trees and telephones ring,
Inviting trouble, to a room,
Lit by one weak bulb, where our Double sits
Writing and does not look up.
That, while we are thus away, our own wronged flesh
May work undisturbed, restoring
The order we try to destroy, the rhythm
We spoil out of spite: valves close
And open exactly, glands secrete,
Vessels contract and expand
At the right moment, essential fluids
Flow to renew exhausted cells,
Not knowing quite what has happened, but awed
By death like all the creatures
Now watching this spot, like the hawk looking down
Without blinking, the smug hens
Passing close by in their pecking order,
The bug whose view is balked by grass.
Or the deer who shyly from afar
Peer through chinks in the forest.
Horae canonicae, Immolatus vicerit (Prima, Tertia, Sextia, Nona, Vesperae, Completarium, Laudae), Časopis Gradina 6/12, prevod Srba Mitrović i Zoran Bundalo
Peščanik.net, 11.07.2011.
