Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Irena Matijašević

THE SUMMER DUST

big flowers
in concrete pots. a child running.
a number, a halt, vivisection
there is no better day
for the buzz of engines.
also: smoke, lead
sometimes, flour, a ball of fire. the sun burning
the white canvas of the curtains. reflections
shining on the pavement.
everyone is ready to take a nap, reduce the movement.
so it becomes clear, with the sound of a cold voice
who manages the day. on the ground floor
a secretary diligently types. the phone rings. she answers.
her blonde hair in a tail shakes. same as today
or was it yesterday. the taste of familiarity in the summer dust
of the street. a digital camera. when i fell in love with emblematology,
an acquaintance said. can he list the thousands of dispersed names
in the white pages, sort voters by counties, swim breaststroke,
ring the bell at the front door so that the words say enumeration,
tell you what to do with yourself,
every clock mechanism is empty and the fruits ooze emptiness, and the pots.
watch out, you say to yourself, to continue that way. whitening of the dust,
big flowers, and all these concrete pots.
across the street a child is running, smoke, lead,
canvas of the curtain, the sun as it forms the reflections.

LJETNA PRAŠINA

LJETNA PRAŠINA

veliko cvijeće
u betonskim posudama. dijete trči.
broj, zastoj. vivisekcija
nema boljeg dana
za brujanje motora.
isto tako: dim, olovo
koji put, brašno, vatrena kugla. sunce udara
u bijelo platno rolete. svijetle odbljesci na pločniku.
svi se spremaju otpočinuti, smanjiti kretanje.
i tako se, uz zvuk hladnog glasa, razabire
tko upravlja ovim danom. u  prizemlju
preko puta marljiva tajnica tipka. zvoni telefon. javlja se.
plava kosa zavezana u repić se trese. isto kao i danas
je li to već bilo jučer. taj okus poznatosti u ljetnoj prašini
ulice. digitalni fotoaparat. kad sam zavolio emblematiku, kazao je jedan znanac. može li on
nabrojiti tisuće razbacanih imena u telefonskom imeniku, postrojiti glasače po okruzima.
plivati prsno, zvoniti zvonom s ulaznih vrata da riječi izriču nabrajanje, da kažu  kamo bi sa sobom, 
prazan je svaki satni mehanizam, i voće odiše prazninom, i zdjele. pazi, kažeš sama sebi,
da u tom stilu nastaviš. izbjeljivanje prašine, veliko cvijeće, i sve te betonske posude.
preko trči dijete, dim, olovo, platno rolete, sunce kako oblikuje odbljeske  
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THE SUMMER DUST

big flowers
in concrete pots. a child running.
a number, a halt, vivisection
there is no better day
for the buzz of engines.
also: smoke, lead
sometimes, flour, a ball of fire. the sun burning
the white canvas of the curtains. reflections
shining on the pavement.
everyone is ready to take a nap, reduce the movement.
so it becomes clear, with the sound of a cold voice
who manages the day. on the ground floor
a secretary diligently types. the phone rings. she answers.
her blonde hair in a tail shakes. same as today
or was it yesterday. the taste of familiarity in the summer dust
of the street. a digital camera. when i fell in love with emblematology,
an acquaintance said. can he list the thousands of dispersed names
in the white pages, sort voters by counties, swim breaststroke,
ring the bell at the front door so that the words say enumeration,
tell you what to do with yourself,
every clock mechanism is empty and the fruits ooze emptiness, and the pots.
watch out, you say to yourself, to continue that way. whitening of the dust,
big flowers, and all these concrete pots.
across the street a child is running, smoke, lead,
canvas of the curtain, the sun as it forms the reflections.

THE SUMMER DUST

big flowers
in concrete pots. a child running.
a number, a halt, vivisection
there is no better day
for the buzz of engines.
also: smoke, lead
sometimes, flour, a ball of fire. the sun burning
the white canvas of the curtains. reflections
shining on the pavement.
everyone is ready to take a nap, reduce the movement.
so it becomes clear, with the sound of a cold voice
who manages the day. on the ground floor
a secretary diligently types. the phone rings. she answers.
her blonde hair in a tail shakes. same as today
or was it yesterday. the taste of familiarity in the summer dust
of the street. a digital camera. when i fell in love with emblematology,
an acquaintance said. can he list the thousands of dispersed names
in the white pages, sort voters by counties, swim breaststroke,
ring the bell at the front door so that the words say enumeration,
tell you what to do with yourself,
every clock mechanism is empty and the fruits ooze emptiness, and the pots.
watch out, you say to yourself, to continue that way. whitening of the dust,
big flowers, and all these concrete pots.
across the street a child is running, smoke, lead,
canvas of the curtain, the sun as it forms the reflections.
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