Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gordana Benić

Isolation

Nothing in this room is mine.
When I close my eyes the walls move apart, slant
into thin surfaces; so quickly do they change.
Ants pull the woodwork apart, the distance between
things lessens. In the garden, the tiny tract of an
imaginary country is getting smaller. Stems transport dark sounds.
At night the paths vanish behind glazed doors;
slide over unknown horizons; the balcony, the pavement
and the street. Cocoons of plucked leaves collect in heaps
beneath the shadows. An echo cracks in the marble, flows along the corridor.
The sky wheeled through separated roofs, clouds hurried.
I see: the lawn is changing; ever weightier pillars come nearer,
within reach. Between them green or blue fabric
sinks into water. Deserted places die quickly.
Marijana M. asks: Coffee or tea? Violet raisins
shine pictured on an empty saucer.
Mistletoe grows upward in her steps, dwindling the stones.
On the stairs, ceramic flowers. Portraits of ancestors
darken in their gilt while in Venetian glass
the twilight ebbs. Cupids like orchids, their wings
spread among the shelves.
As the clouds shift I feel a blueness: the space in the
birch bark is measureless.
Crystalline leaves in the grass like a grain of rice, the wind
blows away fine fragments of wet flowers that journey about the earth.
At the picture’s height cities wide open, raised benches,
glazed parks, greenery of the river.
Birds are sleeping, concealed behind the clouds.
We sit beneath what was a family tree
pictured long ago. The past rises between us with words:
Like a house, the isolation of an extinct tongue.

Osamnica

Osamnica

U ovoj sobi ništa mi ne pripada.
Kad zatvorim oči zidovi se rastvore, ukose
u tanke plohe; tako se brzo mijenjaju.
Mravi rastaču drveninu; zbližava se razmak
među predmetima. U vrtu, sve je manji komadić
zamišljene zemlje. Peteljke prenose tamne zvukove.
Noću iza ostakljenih vrata nestaju staze;
preko nepoznata obzora klize; balkon, pločnik
i ulica. Pod sjenama gomilaju se čahure istrgnutih
listova. Jeka naprsne u mramoru, prostruji hodnikom.
Kroz razmaknuti krov okrenulo se nebo, brzaju oblaci.
Vidim: mijenja se travnjak, sve teži stupovi bliže se
nadomak ruke. Među njima zelena ili modra tkanina
tonu u vodi. Ostavljena mjesta brzo sahnu.
Marijana M. pita: Kavu ili čaj? Ljubičaste grožđice
sjaje oslikane na praznom tanjuriću.
Za njenim koracima uspinje se imela, usitnjuje kamenje.
Na stubama keramički cvjetovi. Portreti predaka
tamne u pozlati dok se u venecijanskim staklima
gasi suton. Amoreti kao orhideje, među policama
razapeta im krila.
Kako promiču oblaci osjećam se plavo: neizmjerno
je prostranstvo u kori breze.
Kao zrna riže u travi kristalni listovi, vjetar otpuhne
usitnjeno vlažno cvijeće što putuje oko zemlje.
U visini slike rastvoreni gradovi, uzdignute klupe,
Ostakljeni parkovi, zelenilo rijeke.
Iznad oblaka spavaju skrivene ptice.
Sjedimo pod onim što je već davno oslikano
obiteljsko stablo. Prošlost među nama buja s riječima:
Kao kuća, osamnica mrtva jezika.
Close

Isolation

Nothing in this room is mine.
When I close my eyes the walls move apart, slant
into thin surfaces; so quickly do they change.
Ants pull the woodwork apart, the distance between
things lessens. In the garden, the tiny tract of an
imaginary country is getting smaller. Stems transport dark sounds.
At night the paths vanish behind glazed doors;
slide over unknown horizons; the balcony, the pavement
and the street. Cocoons of plucked leaves collect in heaps
beneath the shadows. An echo cracks in the marble, flows along the corridor.
The sky wheeled through separated roofs, clouds hurried.
I see: the lawn is changing; ever weightier pillars come nearer,
within reach. Between them green or blue fabric
sinks into water. Deserted places die quickly.
Marijana M. asks: Coffee or tea? Violet raisins
shine pictured on an empty saucer.
Mistletoe grows upward in her steps, dwindling the stones.
On the stairs, ceramic flowers. Portraits of ancestors
darken in their gilt while in Venetian glass
the twilight ebbs. Cupids like orchids, their wings
spread among the shelves.
As the clouds shift I feel a blueness: the space in the
birch bark is measureless.
Crystalline leaves in the grass like a grain of rice, the wind
blows away fine fragments of wet flowers that journey about the earth.
At the picture’s height cities wide open, raised benches,
glazed parks, greenery of the river.
Birds are sleeping, concealed behind the clouds.
We sit beneath what was a family tree
pictured long ago. The past rises between us with words:
Like a house, the isolation of an extinct tongue.

Isolation

Nothing in this room is mine.
When I close my eyes the walls move apart, slant
into thin surfaces; so quickly do they change.
Ants pull the woodwork apart, the distance between
things lessens. In the garden, the tiny tract of an
imaginary country is getting smaller. Stems transport dark sounds.
At night the paths vanish behind glazed doors;
slide over unknown horizons; the balcony, the pavement
and the street. Cocoons of plucked leaves collect in heaps
beneath the shadows. An echo cracks in the marble, flows along the corridor.
The sky wheeled through separated roofs, clouds hurried.
I see: the lawn is changing; ever weightier pillars come nearer,
within reach. Between them green or blue fabric
sinks into water. Deserted places die quickly.
Marijana M. asks: Coffee or tea? Violet raisins
shine pictured on an empty saucer.
Mistletoe grows upward in her steps, dwindling the stones.
On the stairs, ceramic flowers. Portraits of ancestors
darken in their gilt while in Venetian glass
the twilight ebbs. Cupids like orchids, their wings
spread among the shelves.
As the clouds shift I feel a blueness: the space in the
birch bark is measureless.
Crystalline leaves in the grass like a grain of rice, the wind
blows away fine fragments of wet flowers that journey about the earth.
At the picture’s height cities wide open, raised benches,
glazed parks, greenery of the river.
Birds are sleeping, concealed behind the clouds.
We sit beneath what was a family tree
pictured long ago. The past rises between us with words:
Like a house, the isolation of an extinct tongue.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère