Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Dorta Jagić

No One Writes to the Clerk

that silence.  
all the neighbors went to the Gogol workshop.  
(t.k. and m.ž. and r.k.)  
                    so only fishes could bark.  
actually I do not have a mirror, to look closer
at how the plastic crucifix yawns behind the knitted curtain  
(miracle of the eternally immovable, crucified figure)  
and the evening is already here. she is a whoremonger of colors.  
and at night, the city blabs nonsense outside in some
happy language.  
                    I do not understand a word.  
it is quiet in the room:  
and my lizard is hidden under the broken radio.  
he claims: that’s all for today.  
a light bubble, naked for me, waits to burst over the bed
and squeeze a drop of black ink
                    on its white.  
so then it would really be quiet.  
and I do not have another wish.

Činovniku nema tko da piše

Činovniku nema tko da piše

ona tišina.
svi su susjedi otišli na tečaj gogolja.
( i t.k. i m.ž. i r.k.)
    da laju samo ribe.
baš i nemam zrcalo, pa da pažljivo pogledam
kako plastično raspelo iza končane zavjese zijeva
(čudo vječno nepokretnog, raspetog lika)
i već pada večer. podvodačica boja.
a noću, vani grad svašta bunca na nekom
sretnom jeziku.
    ja ga ni riječ ne razumijem.
u sobi je tiho:
i moj se gušter zavuko pod pokvareni tranzistor.
tvrdi: to je sve za danas.
žarulja me gola čeka da prsnem nad krevetom
i iscijedim joj kap crnog tuša
        na bjeloočnicu.
pa da bude zbilja tiho.
i nemam druge želje.
Close

No One Writes to the Clerk

that silence.  
all the neighbors went to the Gogol workshop.  
(t.k. and m.ž. and r.k.)  
                    so only fishes could bark.  
actually I do not have a mirror, to look closer
at how the plastic crucifix yawns behind the knitted curtain  
(miracle of the eternally immovable, crucified figure)  
and the evening is already here. she is a whoremonger of colors.  
and at night, the city blabs nonsense outside in some
happy language.  
                    I do not understand a word.  
it is quiet in the room:  
and my lizard is hidden under the broken radio.  
he claims: that’s all for today.  
a light bubble, naked for me, waits to burst over the bed
and squeeze a drop of black ink
                    on its white.  
so then it would really be quiet.  
and I do not have another wish.

No One Writes to the Clerk

that silence.  
all the neighbors went to the Gogol workshop.  
(t.k. and m.ž. and r.k.)  
                    so only fishes could bark.  
actually I do not have a mirror, to look closer
at how the plastic crucifix yawns behind the knitted curtain  
(miracle of the eternally immovable, crucified figure)  
and the evening is already here. she is a whoremonger of colors.  
and at night, the city blabs nonsense outside in some
happy language.  
                    I do not understand a word.  
it is quiet in the room:  
and my lizard is hidden under the broken radio.  
he claims: that’s all for today.  
a light bubble, naked for me, waits to burst over the bed
and squeeze a drop of black ink
                    on its white.  
so then it would really be quiet.  
and I do not have another wish.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère