Poem
Milorad Stojević
The Wreck of the Orphic Temple
There is little iron and imaginationin the windy corridors.
They have spawned a cover of rain.
They say. Such a speaker
surely lost his head, or froze before
the mysteries had run their course.
Sacrifices take refuge in woods and fog.
A voice tells me: Beware of venomous
creatures, they are clothed like men
but feed on the strength of gods in strife.
The Sibyls are sung in a country of graves
and none will speak of poetry,
of its economy of expression.
The marble and spirals will not be substances,
still less linen. You might have dined
by night, croaked the magus, tricked out as fear,
and his painful knees protested: You think
you differ from the apparitions?
I said: The serpent is on its way
to drink your shadow, not mine, but he
will have none of it, as though
I lick my balsamed tongue.
Chimaeras will kill me.
The veins are glass.
© Translation: 2006, Kim Burton
Rušenje Orfičkog hrama
Rušenje Orfičkog hrama
Malo je željeza i mašteu vjetrovitim hodnicima.
Od njih je nastao pokrivač kiše.
Kažu. Tko to govori taj sigurno nema
svoju glavu, ili se smrznuo prije nego je
sadržaj misterija bio završen.
Žrtve se sklanjaju u drveće i maglu.
Veli mi glas: Čuvaj se otrovnih
stvorova, imaju odoru ljudi ali
žive od snage posvađanih bogova.
U zemlji grobova pjevaju se sibile i
nitko neće pričati o poeziji,
nitko o njenoj ekonomiji izraza.
Mramor i spirale neće biti supstance,
rublje još manje. Mogao si blagovati
noću, reče kroz grkljan mag koji se
prerušio u strah a njegova bolesna
koljena cvile: Misliš da se
razlikuješ među priviđenjima?
Rekoh: Zmija dolazi piti tvoju
a ne moju sjenu, ali on to poreče
kao da ližem svoj jezik od balzama.
Himere će me ubiti.
Vene su staklene.
© 1996, Milorad Stojević
From: Perivoj od slova
Publisher: Hrvatska sveučilišna naklada, Zagreb
From: Perivoj od slova
Publisher: Hrvatska sveučilišna naklada, Zagreb
Poems
Poems of Milorad Stojević
Close
The Wreck of the Orphic Temple
There is little iron and imaginationin the windy corridors.
They have spawned a cover of rain.
They say. Such a speaker
surely lost his head, or froze before
the mysteries had run their course.
Sacrifices take refuge in woods and fog.
A voice tells me: Beware of venomous
creatures, they are clothed like men
but feed on the strength of gods in strife.
The Sibyls are sung in a country of graves
and none will speak of poetry,
of its economy of expression.
The marble and spirals will not be substances,
still less linen. You might have dined
by night, croaked the magus, tricked out as fear,
and his painful knees protested: You think
you differ from the apparitions?
I said: The serpent is on its way
to drink your shadow, not mine, but he
will have none of it, as though
I lick my balsamed tongue.
Chimaeras will kill me.
The veins are glass.
© 2006, Kim Burton
From: Perivoj od slova
From: Perivoj od slova
The Wreck of the Orphic Temple
There is little iron and imaginationin the windy corridors.
They have spawned a cover of rain.
They say. Such a speaker
surely lost his head, or froze before
the mysteries had run their course.
Sacrifices take refuge in woods and fog.
A voice tells me: Beware of venomous
creatures, they are clothed like men
but feed on the strength of gods in strife.
The Sibyls are sung in a country of graves
and none will speak of poetry,
of its economy of expression.
The marble and spirals will not be substances,
still less linen. You might have dined
by night, croaked the magus, tricked out as fear,
and his painful knees protested: You think
you differ from the apparitions?
I said: The serpent is on its way
to drink your shadow, not mine, but he
will have none of it, as though
I lick my balsamed tongue.
Chimaeras will kill me.
The veins are glass.
© 2006, Kim Burton
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