Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gordana Benić

Eldorado

    Vulcan’s black lizard of Jabuka Island, volcanic Avalon, shapeshifts into a malignant reptile’s mobile body, a long-legged bird, membrane of a butterfly and snail. Carved in a dark hour from crooked craters overgrown with greyed grass. As the worm bores into the apple.
    Perhaps it alone, eroded from a long seed, knows the answer. The river is wide, formed by bewilderment, a symbol of history suspended. How do you continue a story you do not know? There are no woods here to make new land by rooting down, that is sure. The scars are mirrors, black masses of stone and fire, fingers of flame and tireless legs voyaging.
    Deep into the rock we enter, into great eyes, full of memory yet more of images. Around us and within us there multiply mute groups of creeping things, lizards, sable reptiles. They seem so close that we might touch them. Like everlasting sand sifted along the boats, withdrawn into shells, chased into fishing nets.
    I think: I know them well, they wander along the same path. And yet I don’t know how true the memories are, and what it is that I remember.

Eldorado

Eldorado

    Crni vulkanski gušter iz otoka Jabuke pretvara se u pomično tijelo opaka reptila, u krakatu pticu, opnu leptira i puža. U mračni sat izrezan iz uglastih kratera obraslih mrkom travom. Kao crv u Jabuku uvire.
    Možda samo on, brušen iz duge klice zna odgovor. Stvoren zabunom široka je rijeka, simbol prekinute povijesti. Kako nastaviti priču koju ne poznaješ? Ovdje, izvjesno je, nema šume koja korijenjem stvara novu zemlju. Brazgotine su ogledala, crne mase kamena i vatre, prsteni plamena i nogu otpornih u plovidbi.
    Duboko u kamen, u krupne oči ulazimo, puni sjećanja i s nešto više slika. Množe se oko nas i u nama nijeme grupe gmazova, guštera, crnih reptila. Izgledaju tako blizu da ih mogu dodirnuti. Kao vječni pijesak porinut niz brodove, uvučen u školjke, otisnut u ribarskim mrežama.
    Mislim; dobro ih poznajem, skitaju istim tragom. Ipak; ne znam što je točno u pamćenju i čega se sjećam.
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Eldorado

    Vulcan’s black lizard of Jabuka Island, volcanic Avalon, shapeshifts into a malignant reptile’s mobile body, a long-legged bird, membrane of a butterfly and snail. Carved in a dark hour from crooked craters overgrown with greyed grass. As the worm bores into the apple.
    Perhaps it alone, eroded from a long seed, knows the answer. The river is wide, formed by bewilderment, a symbol of history suspended. How do you continue a story you do not know? There are no woods here to make new land by rooting down, that is sure. The scars are mirrors, black masses of stone and fire, fingers of flame and tireless legs voyaging.
    Deep into the rock we enter, into great eyes, full of memory yet more of images. Around us and within us there multiply mute groups of creeping things, lizards, sable reptiles. They seem so close that we might touch them. Like everlasting sand sifted along the boats, withdrawn into shells, chased into fishing nets.
    I think: I know them well, they wander along the same path. And yet I don’t know how true the memories are, and what it is that I remember.

Eldorado

    Vulcan’s black lizard of Jabuka Island, volcanic Avalon, shapeshifts into a malignant reptile’s mobile body, a long-legged bird, membrane of a butterfly and snail. Carved in a dark hour from crooked craters overgrown with greyed grass. As the worm bores into the apple.
    Perhaps it alone, eroded from a long seed, knows the answer. The river is wide, formed by bewilderment, a symbol of history suspended. How do you continue a story you do not know? There are no woods here to make new land by rooting down, that is sure. The scars are mirrors, black masses of stone and fire, fingers of flame and tireless legs voyaging.
    Deep into the rock we enter, into great eyes, full of memory yet more of images. Around us and within us there multiply mute groups of creeping things, lizards, sable reptiles. They seem so close that we might touch them. Like everlasting sand sifted along the boats, withdrawn into shells, chased into fishing nets.
    I think: I know them well, they wander along the same path. And yet I don’t know how true the memories are, and what it is that I remember.
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Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
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