PROLOG

PROLOGUE

Ja videh Troju, i videh sve.

More, i obale gde lotos zre,
i vratih se, bled, i sam.
Na Itaki i ja bih da ubijam,
al kad se ne sme,
bar da zapevam
malo nove pesme.

I saw Troy, Ive seen it all,

The sea, river banks where the lotus grows,
I returned home pale and alone.
I too would have killed in Ithaka
But since it is forbidden,
Let me sing at least
Some new poems.

U kui mi je pijanka, i blud,

a tuan je ivot na svetu, svud izuzev optimiste!
Ja nisam peva prodanih prava,
ni laskalo otmenih krava.
Ja pevam tunima:
da tuga od svega oslobodjava.

In my home orgies and debauchery reign,

Everywhere in the world life is miserable
Except where the optimist prevails!
I will not sing of peddled rights,
Or indulge in flattering refined cows.
My song is for those burdened by sorrow:
The burden bringing ultimate freedom.

Nisam patriotska tribina.

Nit marim za slavu Poetika.
Neu da preskoim Krleu, ni urina,
niti da budem narodna dika,
Sudbina mi je stara,
a stihovi malo novi.

I am no patriotic mouthpiece.
Nor do I care for the glory of Poetics.
I will not pass over Krlea and urin,
Or be the darling of the people.
My fate is old,
My verses somewhat new.

Ali: ili nam ivot neto novo nosi,

a dua nam znai jedan stepen vie,
nebu, to visoko, zvezdano mirie,
il nek i nas, i pesme, i Itaku, i sve,
djavo nosi.

So: life will bring us something new

And the soul will rise a step higher
Towards the sky, star-studded, soaring and
fragrant,
Or we and our poems, Ithaka, all
Can go to hell.

1919.

(Translated by Krinka Vidakovi-Petrov)

Sumatra

NowSumatra

Sad smo bezbrini, laki i neni.

Pomislimo: kako su tihi, sneni
vrhovi Urala.

Now we are carefree, light and tender.

We just think: how quiet are the snowy
peaks of the Urals.

Rastui li nas kakav bledi lik,

to ga izgubismo jedno vee,
znamo da, negde, neki potok
mesto njega tee!

If a pale figure makes us sad,

the one we lost to an evening,
we also know that somewhere, instead of it a
rivulet
flows and is all red.

Po jedna ljubav, jutro, u tuini,

duu nam uvija, sve tenje,
beskrajnim mirom plavih mora,
iz kojih crvene zrna korala,
kao, iz zaviaja, trenje.
Probudimo se nou i smeimo, drago,
na Mesec sa zapetim lukom.
I milujemo daleka brda
i ledene gore, blago, rukom.
Beograd, 1920.

Sumatra

Each love, each morning in a foreign land

envelops our soul closer by its hand
in an endless tranquility of blue seas,
in which red corals glitter
like the cherries of my homeland.
We wake at night and sweetly smile
at the Moon with its bent bow
and we caress those distant hills
and the icy mountains with our tender hand.
(Translated by Nina Zivancevic)

Explanation of Sumatra
by Milos Crnjanski
I felt, one day, all the helplessness of our life, and the intricacy of our destiny. I saw that no one
goes where they want, and I noticed connections unobserved before. That day, some people from
Senegal, some Annamites, walked past me; I met an old friend of mine, coming back from the
war. When I asked him where he was coming from, he replied: from Bukhara!
His mother had died and the neighbors buried her. Someone had stolen all his furniture, from his
house. Not even a bed, he said, do I have now!
And when I asked him how he had traveled here, he told me: Over Japan and England, where I
got arrested.
What will you do now? I asked him. I dont know. Im all alone. You know I was engaged.
Shes gone somewhere. Maybe she wasnt receiving my letters. Who knows where life will throw
her? I dont know what to do, maybe get a job in a bank.
All this happened at the station in Zagreb. Later I got on a train and traveled further. The train
was crowded, mostly with soldiers, ragged women, and many confused people. There wasn't any
light and shadows were all that I could see. Little kids were lying down, on the floor, around our
feet. Exhausted, I couldnt sleep at all. People all around me were talking, and I noticed that even
the voices were somehow heavy and that human talk never sounded like that. Staring at the dark
windows, I reminisced the friend of mine describing some snowy peaks of the Ural Mountains,
where he had spent a year in a prison camp. He talked, lengthily, in tender voice, about that part
of the Urals.
And I felt all that white, infinite silence, there in the distance. I smiled. Many are the places
where that man has been! I remembered him telling me about a woman. From his description I
only remembered her pale face. He repeated, a couple of times, how pale she was when he last
saw her.
In my memory, anxiously, some womens faces, that I had said farewell to, started whirling, some
faces I had encountered on ships and trains. That made me gasp, so I went out, into the corridor.
The train had just reached the summits of Frushka Gora. Some branches were knocking on the
window pane, that was broken.
Through it, the humid, wet, cold scent of trees started entering the train, and I could hear the
murmur of a creek. We stopped before a crumbled tunnel.
I wanted to see that creek, that kept gurgling in the darkness, and I had the impression that it was
red, and cheerful. My eyes were weary from the lack of sleep, and some weakness, from the long
journey, came over me. I thought: look, how there arent any connections in this world. My friend
loved that woman, and she was left alone, in some snow-covered house, in Tobolsk. Nothing can
be kept. Even me, so many are the places Ive been to.
And yet, here, how cheerfully does this creek flow. It is red and it murmurs. I leaned my head
onto the broken window pane. Some soldiers were walking, on the roof, from carriage to carriage.
And all those pale faces, and all my sorrow disappeared in the gurgling of that creek in the dark.
The train couldnt move on. We had to climb the tunnel at Chortanovci and walk to the other side.

It was cold. I walked, among the crowd of unknown passengers. The grass was damp, so we were
sliding slowly, and some were falling. When we finally climbed the hill, underneath we saw the
Danube, gray, hazy. All the mist, behind which there was an inkling of a sky, was infinite,
endless. Green hills, like islands above ground, were vanishing in the dawn. I was lagging behind.
And my thoughts, still, followed my friend on that journey of which he was telling me with some
bitter humor. Blue seas, distant islands, unknown to me, scarlet plants and corals, which I
remembered, probably, from geography, kept hurling into my thoughts.
Finally, the peace, the calmness of the dawn, slowly started filling my being. Everything my
friend was telling me, and he himself, in his torn, army overcoat, remained inside my brain,
forever. All of a sudden I remembered the cities, and the people, that Id seen coming back from
the war. For the first time, I felt some immense change in the world.
On the other side of the tunnel, another train was waiting for us. Even though it was dawning in
the distance, in the train it was still completely dark. Weary, I sat in a gloomy corner, all alone. A
couple of times I repeated to myself: S u m a t r a, S u m a t r a!
Everything is entangled. They have changed us. I remembered what life was like, before. And I
bowed my head.
The train started off with a roar. I was lulled to sleep by the fact that everything was so strange,
life, and the great distances within it. Think of all the places our anguish has reached, all the faces
we caressed, tired, in foreign lands! Not only me, or him, but so many others as well! Thousands,
millions!
I thought: how will my homeland greet me? The cherries must be ripe already, and the villages
are full of joy. Look, how even the colours, all the way to the stars, are the same, on the cherries,
and on the corals! How everything is connected, in the world. Sumatra I said, again,
mockingly, to myself.
Suddenly I trembled. Some unrest in me, that hadnt even reached the consciousness, woke me
up. I went out to the corridor. It was cold there. The train stood still in a forest. In one carriage,
people were singing. Somewhere, a child was crying. But all those sounds were coming to me as
if from a great distance. The morning chill came over my skin.
I also saw the Moon, glistening, and I smiled inadvertently. He is the same everywhere, because
he is dead.
I felt all the helplessness of ours, all my sorrow. Sumatra, I whispered, with a strange air.
But, in my soul, deep inside, despite all the reluctance, I felt infinite love for those faraway hills,
snowy mountains, all the way up to the frozen seas. For those distant islands where, maybe, all
that we've ever done is now happening. I lost the fear of death. Connections with the world
around me. Like in some insane hallucination, I was floating up into those endless, morning
mists, to stretch my hand and caress the distant Ural, the seas of India, where all the blush from
my face had gone. To caress the islands, the loves, the enamored, pale figures. All the intricacy
turned into immense peace and endless consolation.
*
Later, in a hotel room, in Novi Sad, I put it all into a poem.
Belgrade, 1920.

(Translated by Lazar Paanovi)

Trag
Trace
elim:
da posle snova
ne ostane trag moj na tvom telu.
Da ponese od mene samo
tugu i svilu belu
i miris blag...
puteva zasutih liem svelim
sa jablanova.
Trace
IT wish:

I wish
that after the dreams
I leave no trace on your body.
That you take with you only
the sadness and the white silk
and the soft smell...
of the roads covered with dry leaves shaken
from the poplar trees.
(Translated by Tijana Spasi) trees.

Mizera

Misery

Kao oko mrtvaca jednog

sjaje oko naeg vrta bednog,
fenjeri.
Da l no na tebe svile prospe?
Jesi li se digla meu gospe?
Gde si sad Ti?

Like around a corpse unknown,

the lanterns shine around
our miserable lawn.
Does night cover you with silky spreads?
Have you risen to the ladies?
Where are you these days?

Voli li jo nou ulice,

kad bludnice i fenjeri stoje
pokisli?
A rage mokre parove vuku,
u kolima, ko u mrtvakom sanduku,
to kripi.

Do you still like the streets at night,

when whores and lanterns stand wet in rain?
And the nags drag couples in a cart,
like in a creaking coffin?

Da nisi sad negde nasmejana,

bogata i rasejana,
gde smeh vri?
O, nemoj da si topla, cvetna,
O, ne budi, ne budi sretna,
bar ti mi, ti.

Arent you now somewhere radiant,

absentminded and affluent,
where laughter bursts?
Oh, dont be warm, blossomy,
oh, dont be, dont be happy,
you, at least you!

O, ne voli, ne voli nita,

ni knjige, ni pozorita,
ko ueni.
Kae li nekad, iznenada,
u dobrom drutvu, jo i sada,
na ijoj strani si?

Oh, dont love, dont love anything,

books or theatres, like educated.
Do you say sometimes, suddenly,
still being in a good company,
who do you side with?

O, da l se sea kako smo ili,

sve ulice nou obili
po kii?
Sea li se, none su nam tice
i lopovi, i bludnice,
bili nevini.
Stid nas bee domova cvetnih,
zarekli smo se ostat nesretni,
bar ja i Ti.
U srcu ujem griu mia,
a pada hladna, sitna kia.
Gde si sad Ti?
Be. U revoluciji. 1918.
Za studentesu, Idu Lotringer

Oh, do you remember how we walked,

and all the streets at rainy nights rounded?
Do you remember, the night birds
prostitutes and thieves,
innocent to us seemed?
Of the blooming eaves
being ashamed,
we pledged to remain unhappy,
at least you and me!
I hear in my heart a mouse worry,
and rain falls down, cold, drizzling.
Where are you currently?
(ranslated by Boica Cvjetkovi)

Lament nad Beogradom

JAN MAJEN i moj Srem,
Paris, moji mrtvi drugovi, trenje u Kini,
priviaju mi se jo, dok ovde utim, bdim, i mrem
i leim, hladan, kao na pepelu klada.
Samo, to vie i nismo mi, ivot, a ni zvezde,
nego neka udovita, polipi, delfini,
to se tumbaju preko nas, i plove, i jezde,
i urliu: Prah, pepeo, smrt je to.
A viu i rusko nievo
i pansko nada.
Ti, meutim, raste, uz zornjau jasnu,
sa Avalom plavom, u daljini, kao breg.
Ti treperi, i kad ovde zvezde gasnu,
i topi, ko Sunce, i led suza, i lanjski sneg.
U Tebi nema besmisla, ni smrti.
Ti sjaji kao iskopan stari ma.
U Tebi sve vaskrsne, i zaigra, pa se vrti,
i ponavlja, kao dan i detinji pla.
A kad mi se glas, i oi, i dah, upokoje,
Ti e me, znam, uzeti na krilo svoje.
ESPANJA i na Hvar,
Dobrovi mrtvi, eik to se u Sahari beli,
priviaju mi se jo, kao utvare, vatre, var.
Moj Sibe poludeli, zinuo kao pe.
Samo, to vie nismo mi, u mladosti i moi,
ve neki papagaji, impanzi; neveseli,
to mi se smeju i vrite u mojoj samoi.
Jedan se Leiche! Leiche! Leiche! dere.
Drugi mi ape: Cadavere!"
Trei: Le, le, le.
Ti, meutim, iri, kao labud krila,
zaborav, na Dunav i Savu, dok spavaju.
Ti budi veselost, to je nekad bila,
kikot, tu, i u mom kriku, vrisku, i vapaju.
U Tebi nema crva, ni sa groba.
Ti blista, kao kroz suze ljudski smeh.
U Tebi jedan ora peva, i u zimsko doba,
prelivi krv, kao vino, u novi meh.
A kad mi klone glava i budu stali sati,
Ti e me, znam, poljubiti kao mati.
TI, PROLOST, i moj svet,
mladost, ljubavi, gondole, i, na nebu, Mljeci,
priviate mi se jo, kao san, talas, lepi cvet,

u drutvu maski, koje je po mene dolo.

Samo, to nisam ja, ni Venecija to se plavi,
nego neke ruevine, aveti, i steci,
to ostaju za nama na zemlji, i u travi.
Pa kau: Tu lei paa! Prosjak! Pas!
A viu i francusko tout passe".
I nae prolo".
Ti, medutim, stoji nad irokom rekom,
nad ravnicom plodnom, tvrd, uzdignut kao tit.
Ti peva vedro, sa grmljavom dalekom,
i tka u stolea, sa munjama, i svoju nit.
U Tebi nema moje ljudske tuge.
Ti ima streljaa pogled prav i nem.
Ti i pla pretvara, kao dad, u arene duge,
a hladi, ko dalek bor, kad te udahnem.
A kad doe as, da mi se srce staro stia,
Tvoj e bagem pasti na me kao kia.
LIBUA i moj put,
u svet, kule u vazduhu i na morskoj peni,
priviaju mi se jo, dok mi iak drhe ko prut
i prenosi mi zemlju, u sne, u sne, u sne.
Samo, to vie nisu, ni ene, ni ljudi ivi,
nego neke nemone, slabe, i setne, seni,
to mi kau, da nisu zveri, da nisu krivi,
da im ivot ba nita nije dao,
pa apu ao, ao, ao
i nae ne, ne.
Ti, meutim, die, u nonoj tiini,
do zvezda, to kazuju put Suncu u tvoj san.
Ti slua svog srca lupu, u dubini,
to udara, ko stenom, u mrani Kalemegdan.
Tebi su nai boli sitni mravi.
Ti biser suza naih baca u prah.
Ali se nad njima, posle, Tvoja zora zaplavi,
u koju se mlad i veseo zagledah.
A kad umorno srce moje uuti, da spi,
uzglavlje meko e mi, u snu, biti, Ti.
FINISTRE i njen stas,
brak, poljupci, bura to je tako silna bila,
priviaju mi se jo, po neki leptir, bulke, klas,
dok, iz prolosti, sluam, njen korak, tako lak.
Samo, to vie nije ona, ni njen glas nasmejan,
nego neki kormoran, divljih i crnih krila,
to vie: zrak svake sree tone u Okean.
Pa mi mrmlja rei tombe i sombre.
Pa kreti njino ombre, ombre.
i na grob i mrak.

Ti, meutim, kree, ko na labud veni,

iz smrti, i krvi, prema Suncu, na svoj put.
Dok meni dan tone u tvoj ponor reni,
Ti se die, iz jutra, sav zracima obasut.
Ja u negde, sam, u Sahari, stati,
u onoj gde su karavani seni,
ali, ko to uz mrtvog Tuarega ui mati,
Ti e, do smrti, biti uteha meni.
A kad mi slome duu, koplje i ruku i nogu,
Tebe, Tebe, znam da ne mogu, ne mogu.
IVOT ljudski, i hrt,
sveo list, galeb, srna, i Mesec na puini,
priviaju mi se, na kraju, ko san, kao i smrt
jednog po jednog glumca naeg pozorita.
Samo, sve to, i ja, nismo nikad ni bili vie,
nego neka pena, trenutci, apat u Kini,
to sape, kao i srce, sve hladnije i tie:
da ne ostaju, ni Ming, ni yang, ni yin,
ni Tao, trenje, ni mandarin.
Niko i nita.
Ti, meutim, sja, i sad, kroz san moj tavni,
kroz bezbroj suza naih, vean, u mrak, i prah.
Krv tvoja ko rosa pala je na ravni,
ko nekad, da hladi tolikih samrtniki dah.
Grlim jo jednom, na Tvoj kamen strmi,
i Tebe, i Savu, i Tvoj Dunav trom.
Sunce se raa u mom snu. Sini! Sevni! Zagrmi!
Ime Tvoje, kao iz vedrog neba grom.
A kad i meni odbije as stari sahat Tvoj,
to ime e biti poslednji apat moj.
Cooden Beach, 1956

LAMENT over BELGRADE

LAMENT over BELGRADE
YAN MAYEN and my Srem
Paris, my dead friends, cherries in China,
visit me as apparitions, while here I am silent, sleepless and dying.
Only, we are not these, anymore, life, or the stars either,
but some monsters, polyps, and dolphins,
tumbling over us, floating and riding,
screaming: Dust, ashes, and death it is
while shouting Russian nyitchevo
and Spanish nada.
Meanwhile, you grow, with the bright morning star,
and the blue Avala, in the distance, like a hill.
You sparkle, even as the stars are fading here,
melting like the Sun ice of tears and last-winters snow.
There is no absurdity in you, no death.
You shine like an old unearthed sword.
In you all resurrects, dances, and keeps swirling,
repeating like the day and a childs cry.
And when my voice, my eyes, and my breath lose lifes sap
you will, I know, hold me in your lap.
ESPANA and our Hvar
Dobrovic deceased, a white sheik in the Sahara Desert,
still visit me as ghosts, phantoms and flames.
My Sibe gone mad, agape like a dead fish.
Only, that is not us, anymore, neither in youth or in power,
but some parrots, melancholic chimpanzees
laughing at me and screaming in my solitude.
One Leiche! Leiche! Leiche! hollers
another cadavere mutters
the third Corpse, corpse, corpse.
Meanwhile, you spread oblivion, like a swan its wings,
over the rivers Danube and Sava, in their dream.
You awaken glee, that once was mine,
a giggle, here, in my cry, wail, and scream.
No worm is in you, even from a grave
You glimmer, as human laughter, through the tears.
In you a plowman sings, even in winter, brave,
pouring the blood, into a new vat, like the wine, .
And when my head drops marking my years end,
you will, I know, kiss and touch me with the mothers hand.
THE PAST and my world,
youth, loves, gondolas, and Venice in the skies,
a vivid vision, like a wave, or a beautiful bloom,

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in the company of masks that came to claim me.

But it is not I, or Venice azure,
but ruins, ghosts, and tombstones that stay
behind us on the ground or in grass.
They say: Here lies a pasha! A beggar! A dog!
and shout in French Tout pass,
And our gone.
Meanwhile, you stand above the wide river,
over a fertile plains, like a shield, raised and hard.
Blissfully resonating with a distant thunder,
weaving through ages, with lightning, your own line.
There is no, in you, my human sadness.
Like an archers, your look is mute and straight.
Like rain, you turn tears to colorful rainbows
and, inhaled, cool me, like a distant pine.
And when the hour comes to still my old heart,
your acacias will fall on me like the rain.
LISBOA, and my voyage
into the world, castles in the air, and the ocean-foam
appear to me still, while my candlewick shakes like a twig
and I move the land and all into the dream, the dream, the dream.
Only, these are neither women nor men alive,
just shadows, helpless, weak and sad,
telling me they are no beasts nor at fault
that life has given them naught
They murmur now nao, nao, nao
and our no. no.
Meanwhile, in the still of the night
breathing to the height of the stars, leading the Sun to your dream,
You hark to the hum of your heart, hitting the depths
like a rock against the dark Kalemegdan.
To you, our pain is tiny like the ants.
The pearls of our tears you throw to the dust.
But above them your blue dawn arises,
which, as young and happy, I enjoyed..
and when my tired heart stops to beep
a soft pillow you will be in my sleep.
FINISTRE and her form,
Marriage, kisses, a storm that was so violent,
Appear to me as visions still, like butterflies, poppies, ears of corn,
While, out of the past, I hear her footstep light.
Only, it is no longer she; it is not her smiling voice
But that of a cormorant, with wild black wings,
That cries out that all happiness must drown beneath the sea,
And murmurs to me their words tombe and sombre,
And shrieks their words ombre, ombre!
And our words grave and darkness.

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Meanwhile, you launch as our swan eternal

from death and blood, toward the Sun, on your way.
While my day sinks into your river bottom
you rise from the morn vibrant as sunray.
I will stop alone somewhere in the Sahara
where a caravan is but a phantom and apparition
And as by the dead Tuareg his mother is crouching,
you will, until the end, stay my comfort and consolation.
And while they break my arm, leg, soul, and spear
they cannot break you, and cannot tear.
LIFE of a human and a greyhound,
a dry leaf, seagull, doe, and the Moon upon the sea,
appear to me, in the end, like delusion, and death
of one by one actor from our theatre.
Only, all of it, and I, have never been anything more
than foam, moments, whispers in China,
murmuring like the heart, now growing cooler and softer
that nothing stays, no Ming, or Yang, nor Yin,
Tao, cherries, or mandarin!
No one and nothing!
Meanwhile, you are shining, even now, through my dismal dream,
through our countless tears, forever, into dark, and dust.
Your blood, like dew, has sprinkled over the plains
like before, to cool so many dying breaths.
I embrace, once more, upon the precipitous stone,
you, the Sava and your Danube, slow.
The Sun arises in my dream. Shine! Light up! Roar!
Your name is like a thunder from clear skies!
And when from your old clock beats the hour
that name will be in my final breath.
Cooden Beach, 1956
( Translated by Dr. Mira N. Mataric, 2010).

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