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.

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  1. Dnevna molitva oko tri sata popodne.
  2. U Apokalipsi, ime „kralja anđela bezdana”, Sotona.
  3.  Prema Bibliji, sinonim za Sotonu.