Riverbeds can serve as faithful
substitutes
for the eye of a needle when rains thread a river
between them, like string.
The first time they did this, I would have thought
they had created an invention. A murmuring string!
But that wasn’t so, for no ordinary thread had existed yet,
unless one counts the thread of the story,
the thread of creation.
Primal landscape is a clear case of deception.
In its infancy, under a torrential downpour,
it appeared greying.
While the warm steam from the kitchen occasionally
joins the invisible vapours of nature,
the river’s evaporations thoughtfully leaving
from an unusually long eye,
my mother complains to me that she doesn’t sleep every other night.
She doesn’t know why.
While she speaks, she mentions odd and even dates,
the warm steam takes on mother’s role,
extending an invitation to dinner in her stead.
(Translated by Ana Janković)
Postcards
There are no jungles in Croatia, a biologist claims.
Blood cells are floating in it, sending its pictures
like postcards.
When they pause breathless in front of an overgrown scene,
my face changes.
Sometimes I fear too many of them would come to a stop
at the might of the image and they could form a clot.
The cells might blend with the jungle
and become an impenetrable path.
This afternoon, the clouds are gathering
above the vines in my bloodstream.
Winter settles in with them.
In Saint Roch’s Street,
the icicles have suspended themselves from the roof
and survived the hanging.
I know this because they’re still growing.
When I look at them in elation,
they too move into the jungle in me.
(Translated by Tomislav Kuzmanović)
The
Conclusion
Three days with no handyman in sight,
our toilet tank squeals like a mafia shootout,
economic crisis, and the war in Gaza.
I bet the neighbours can hear it as
this year is divorcing the present
in order to marry history.
They may hear its voice like they
hear adulterers' voices in soap operas
or voices of announcers speaking of democracy's
adulteries.
It is exactly the toilet thank that concludes the year
anticipating another adultery.
I imagine that inside it Winter hides
a reserve of fog, as part of its treasure,
thus the squeal is a protest against the tropical condition
of the fake Caribbean Sea in the bathtub.
I slice the cornbread.
On the dry knife's blade
a waterdrop sparkles, a tiny lake.
It encourages the bread to not dry,
to live over the fading year for a day or two.
But who will in the name of the year gone recall the recruits
which still believe, who will stop the refugees flow
ending exile that she is forcing upon them?
Through the passing year I go as through the Mexican kitchen.
Her independent clauses are the unbendable
taco shells.
Her dependent ones are the softer tortillas,
aptly wrapping around the events
that are filling them.
The plumber not showing up
causes the tank to increase the unease with its squeak
and instead of a sociologist, a judge
or a social worker, it divides words not wanted
from the dear ones.
Like a merchant taking the inventory.
About to give the final blow to the crumpled old year.
Because all the clocks, like the Judas,
have already betrayed her to the new boss.
(Translated by Boris Gregorić)
Author’s
Bionote:
*Lana
Derkač (1969) is a renowned Croatian poet
and writer. She has published eighteen collections of poetry, prose, drama,
essays, and one novel. Featured in many magazines, journals, and anthologies in
Croatia and abroad, her work has been translated into 24 languages. Her
recognitions include national and international literary awards, such as the
Zdravko Pucak Poetry Prize, Duhovno Hrasce Prize, Vinum et Poeta Prize, Tin
Ujević Prize, all awarded in Croatia; she has also received the Risto Ratkovic
Prize, awarded in Montenegro for the best book of poetry in the region of
Montenegro, Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina. Lana Derkač has
participated in various literary events both at home and abroad, including the
Struga Poetry Evenings, the Granada International Poetry Festival, the
Stockholm International Poetry Festival, etc
for the eye of a needle when rains thread a river
between them, like string.
The first time they did this, I would have thought
they had created an invention. A murmuring string!
But that wasn’t so, for no ordinary thread had existed yet,
unless one counts the thread of the story,
the thread of creation.
Primal landscape is a clear case of deception.
In its infancy, under a torrential downpour,
it appeared greying.
While the warm steam from the kitchen occasionally
joins the invisible vapours of nature,
the river’s evaporations thoughtfully leaving
from an unusually long eye,
my mother complains to me that she doesn’t sleep every other night.
She doesn’t know why.
While she speaks, she mentions odd and even dates,
the warm steam takes on mother’s role,
extending an invitation to dinner in her stead.
Blood cells are floating in it, sending its pictures
like postcards.
When they pause breathless in front of an overgrown scene,
my face changes.
Sometimes I fear too many of them would come to a stop
at the might of the image and they could form a clot.
The cells might blend with the jungle
and become an impenetrable path.
above the vines in my bloodstream.
Winter settles in with them.
the icicles have suspended themselves from the roof
and survived the hanging.
I know this because they’re still growing.
When I look at them in elation,
they too move into the jungle in me.
our toilet tank squeals like a mafia shootout,
economic crisis, and the war in Gaza.
I bet the neighbours can hear it as
this year is divorcing the present
in order to marry history.
They may hear its voice like they
hear adulterers' voices in soap operas
or voices of announcers speaking of democracy's
adulteries.
It is exactly the toilet thank that concludes the year
anticipating another adultery.
I imagine that inside it Winter hides
a reserve of fog, as part of its treasure,
thus the squeal is a protest against the tropical condition
of the fake Caribbean Sea in the bathtub.
On the dry knife's blade
a waterdrop sparkles, a tiny lake.
It encourages the bread to not dry,
to live over the fading year for a day or two.
But who will in the name of the year gone recall the recruits
which still believe, who will stop the refugees flow
ending exile that she is forcing upon them?
Through the passing year I go as through the Mexican kitchen.
Her independent clauses are the unbendable
taco shells.
Her dependent ones are the softer tortillas,
aptly wrapping around the events
that are filling them.
causes the tank to increase the unease with its squeak
and instead of a sociologist, a judge
or a social worker, it divides words not wanted
from the dear ones.
Like a merchant taking the inventory.
About to give the final blow to the crumpled old year.
Because all the clocks, like the Judas,
have already betrayed her to the new boss.