AWARENESS OF THE TEXT

 

This poem is the ruination of poetry.
It doesn’t understand
the melancholy of September winds
or that I’d ask
for the sound of leaves of this book
to come from it
as though neither I nor the toughest fingers in the world
could quiet them.
Today I learned
that my Former Lover stabbed
a girl I’d known
to death.
She was called Nataša.
Her head had sprouted
red curls.
She’d always worn
dresses with polka-dots.
That’s how one love ended.
Like summer stabbed through
by the cold September wind.
That’s how one former love
became endless.
Now summer is lying in a puddle of blood
on the bathroom floor
and its name is Nataša
and the September wind is sneaking everywhere
but runs away from this poem
so I have to drag it
to war
because I crave all its virtues
in each human soul.
The knife cuts the wild curls
of the girl I once knew.
We live in a world of memory.
We’ll die there.
I want to feel it.
I want to cut my finger
on the edge of this page.
This humble little book
is just missing a little real blood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SVIJEST O TEKSTU

 

Ova pjesma je propast poezije.
Ne uspijeva dokučiti
melankoliju rujanskog vjetra
a htio bih da od nje
zašume listovi ove knjige
tako da ih ne mogu smiriti
ni najsnažniji prsti na svijetu.
Danas sam saznao
da je Bivši Ljubavnik
na smrt izbo djevojku
koju sam poznavao.
Zvala se Nataša.
iz glave su joj rasle
riđe kovrče.
Uvijek je oblačila
haljine s točkastim uzorkom.
Tako je završila jedna ljubav.
Kao ljeto izbodeno
hladnim rujanskim vjetrom.
Tako je postala vječna
jedna bivša ljubav.
Ljeto sada leži u lokvi krvi
na podu kupaone
i zove se Nataša
a rujanski vjetar se zavlači svugdje
ali izbjegava ovu pjesmu
pa ga moram na silu
odvući u rat
jer žudim sva njegova svojstva
u svakoj ljudskoj duši.
Nož reže divlje kovrče
djevojčice koju sam poznavao.
Živimo u svijetu uspomena.
Tu i umiremo.
Želim da to osjetite.
Želim da posječete prst
na rub ove stranice.
Ovoj skromnoj knjizi
nedostaje malo prave krvi.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LIFE IS WHAT THE DEAD DREAM

 

Life is what the dead dream.
And I myself am someone else’s imaginings.
There’s a soul that can’t slip into a skeleton
so it imagined us
and gave us a dog
and a habit of reading the stars
and talking about nonsense
and drinking
because we don’t have the power
to lose our minds on an incandescent day.

Life is just the longing of the dead.
Because from time to time we fall in love.
Because we’re punished
with a childhood that races by
and with middle age
and the habit of going to war
and fearing death,
bursting, a return
to eyeless cavities
dark as blackberries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ŽIVOT JE ONO ŠTO SANJAJU MRTVI

 

Život je ono što sanjaju mrtvi.
I ja sam nečija mašta.
Ne može nekom duša u kostur
pa nas izmaštala
i dala nam psa
i navadu da tumačimo zvijezde
da razgovaramo o besmislicama
i pijemo
jer nemamo snage
sići s uma u sjajan dan.

Život je samo čežnja mrtvih.
Zato katkad volimo.
Zato smo kažnjeni
djetinjstvom koje prođe
i zrelim dobom
i navadom da idemo u rat
a da se plašimo smrti,
rasplinuća, povratka
u bezoke duplje
tamne kao kupina.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I WON’T HANG MYSELF, BECAUSE I LOVE YOU

 

The cities of my dreams are burning.
I’m sentimental for the scent of blood
that I can conjure watching the evening news
and that just proves
I’m starting to show my age.
The world is a boring place
and blood is not exciting
though I’ve been told that war
disappears once the rich are idle
and have had their fill.
The doves will fly off to the tops of the waves
on the Azure coast
counting corpses
but I never learned French
and I prefer bread to blood
and sex to scuffles
and so I have become a middle-aged bore
who loves the way city girls
wear their summer dresses
whose deaths have already been arranged
in meth labs
because these men that never sleep must wage war
their hearts beat
the same kind of unsettling
as midday bells
in quiet villages.
That’s the kind of asshole I am.
I drew houses and a little yellow sun over them.
In the distance were fields of lavender.
I didn’t know I do all this because of you.
I’m an asshole dreaming like a boy in love.
I don’t want to be dragged into war.
I won’t hang myself, because I love you.
I won’t hang myself, because I love my mother.
I won’t hang myself, because I love my sister.
I won’t let you live with things you can’t understand.
But I’ll knit a noose of strands from your yellow hair
that I’ll take every morning from the pillow.
I’ll bind it, a secret weapon for self-destruction,
every evening when I see
the cities of my dreams burning
the life I imagined for us burning.
Freedom in fields of lavender
I’m certain of how I once saw it
in my picture
it ran through the scent
hand in hand with the wind
and other shapes of impotence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEĆU SE OBJESITI JER TE VOLIM

 

Gradovi mojih snova gore.
Sentimentalan sam na miris krvi
koji mogu prizvati gledajući večernje vijesti
i to govori u prilog
činjenici da starim.
Svijet je dosadno mjesto
i krv nije uzbudljiva
iako mi je rečeno da ratovi
nastaju iz bogataške dokonosti
i sitosti.
Galebovi slijeću na vrh vala
na Azurnoj obali
broje leševe
a ja nikada nisam naučio francuski
i više volim kruh od krvi
i više volim seks nego tučnjavu
i takav postajem sredovječni dosadnjaković
koji voli ljetne haljine
na tijelima gradskih djevojaka
čiju smrt planiraju
u laboratorijima metamfetamina
jer rat trebaju voditi vječno budni muškarci
čija srca kucaju poput podnevnih zvona
u tihim provansalskim selima,
tako uznemirujuće.
Ja sam takva vrsta bitange.
Crtao sam kuće i mala žuta sunca iznad njih.
U daljini su bila polja lavande.
Nisam znao da sve to činim zbog tebe.
Ja sam bitanga sa snom zaljubljenog dječaka.
Ne želim biti uvučen u rat.
Neću se objesiti jer te volim.
Neću se objesiti jer volim svoju majku.
Neću se objesiti jer volim svoju sestru.
Neću dopustiti da živite s neobjašnjivim stvarima.
Ali plest ću konop od vlasi tvoje žute kose
koje ću svakog jutra sakupljati s jastuka.
Plest ću to tajno oružje samouništenja
svake večeri dok gledam
kako gradovi mojih snova gore
kako gori život koji sam zamišljao za nas.
Sloboda u poljima lavande
uvjeren sam kako sam je jednom vidio
na vlastitom crtežu
trčala je kroz miris
ruku pod ruku s vjetrom
i drugim oblicima neutješnosti.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marko Tomaš was born in Ljubljana, Slovenia, and was educated in what is present-day Bosnia and Serbia. He has published nine collections of poetry in Bosnia, Croatia, and Serbia, the most recent of which is 39th May, published in 2018. His collection of essays Letters from the South and his first novel Don’t Wake Me Up were both published in 2019. His works have been translated from Croatian into Italian, German, French, and English. Tomaš currently lives and works in Zagreb, Croatia.

Rachael Daum works as the Communications and Awards Manager of the American Literary Translators Association. She received her BA in Creative Writing from the University of Rochester and MA in Slavic Studies from Indiana University, and received Certificates in Literary Translation from both institutions. Her original work and translations have appeared or are forthcoming in Words Without Borders, The Los Angeles Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Two Lines Journal, and elsewhere. She currently lives and works in Cologne, Germany. Twitter: @rclouisedaum