„Previše je intenzivan svijet oko nas da se o njemu ne bi pisalo, a čovjek je komadić u tom mozaiku, koji doduše, ima moć da poveže sve ostale“, kaže Mirko Božić, mostarski pjesnik s kojim smo razmijenili par riječi o Mostaru kakvim ga se neki od članova redakcija sjećaju iz kasnih 80-h. „Da, kasnih osamdesetih Mostar je bio dosta zanimljiv grad, a vjerujem da je i danas, samo što se ne obnavlja onako brzo kako bismo željeli,“ svjedoči Mirko kojemu će dogodine biti objavljena knjiga u SAD-u, a trenutno sprema i izdanje za potencijalnog britanskog izdavača. A ovdje vam donosimo nekoliko njegovih novih pjesama na hrvatskom i engleskom jeziku – iako autor i sam piše dvojezično, ovaj je put njegove pjesme na engleski prevela urednička ekipa našeg časopisa.
Mirko S. Božić rođen je 1982. godine. Pjesnik, prozaik, prevoditelj i direktor međunarodnog književnog festival Poligon, diplomirao je na Filozofskom fakultetu Svučilišta u Mostaru. Objavio je tri knjige pjesama, i preveden je na engleski, poljski, slovački, španjolski, slovenski, albanski i njemački. Sudjelovao je na književnim rezidencijama i festivalima u zemlji i inozemstvu. Pokretač književnih radionica i suosnivač Ujedinjene književne fronte te književnog festivala Poligon, objavljivan je u časopisima i antologijama u zemlji i inozemstvu. Sudjelovao je kazališnoj predstavi “Ljudi iz struke” u Kragujevcu te filmu Home Stories. Autor je bloga Tripkovnica te kolumnist portala Literatura. Bavi se likovnom i književnom kritikom. Dobitnik je nagrade Šimićevih susreta, nagrade časopisa Opomena, Državne nagrade za poeziju u Karlovcu i CEI-jeve stipendije. Živi i radi u Mostaru.
Mirko Božić is an award-winning poet from Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina whose first book in English will be published next year in the US. „The world around us is so intense that we cannot avoid but write about it - a human being is just a piece in that mosaic, a small but powerful piece that connects all other fragments,“ says Mirko expressing his admiration for his native town, Mostar, which suffered greatly during the war of the 1990s. „Mostar was once as it is today an interesting city, it is only that it doesn't regenerate as quickly as we all would like it,“ concludes the author whose poetic miniatures witness an intense intimate dialogue between short forms and free semantic play.
Mirko S. Bozic was born in 1982. A poet, prosaist, translator and director of the Poligon Festival, he graduated at the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Mostar. He published three books of poetry and was translated into English, Polish, Slovakian, Spanish, Slovenian, Albanian and German. He took part in literary festivals and residencies at home and abroad. A workshop teacher and co-founder of the Poligon Literary Festival and United Literary Front, he was published in magazines and anthologies at home and internationally. His work was included into the theater play Professionals in Kragujevac (Serbia). The author of the blog Tripkovnica, a columnist of the Literatura web portal and an art critic, he was awarded the Šimić prize (2000), the Opomena Magazine prize (2003.), the State Poetry Award in Karlovac (2012.) and the CEI Fellowship Award in 2014. He lives and works in Mostar.
(Photo of the author by Ivan Kelava.)
Badnjak moga oca
Konzerva tune
Spavanac na kauču
Svađa sa svima
My Father's Christmas Eve
A tuna can A nap on the couch A quarrel with everyone
Pred veliki četvrtak
__________________________(upišite svoje misli)
__________________________(prostor za iluzije)
__________________________(upišite svoje snove)
__________________________(upišite istinu,o sebi)
__________________________(prostor za iluzije)
__________________________(još prostora za misli)
__________________________(prostor za prazninu)
__________________________(prostor za skrivanje od sebe i drugih)
__________________________(prostor za misli, odnosno za istinu)
__________________________(prostor za laž)
__________________________(prostor za komentar, o piscu ove pjesme)
__________________________(prostor za prazninu)
Afore Maundy Thursday
__________________________(write here your thoughts) __________________________(a space for illusions) __________________________(write here your dreams) __________________________(write the truth about yourself) __________________________(a space for illusions) __________________________(more space for thoughts) __________________________(a space for emptiness) __________________________(a space for hiding from oneself and others) __________________________(a space for thoughts or, better yet, for truth) __________________________(a space for a lie) __________________________(a space for comments about the author of this poem) __________________________(a space for emptiness)
Proljeće
Skrivene u vunasto tkivo oblaka
Kristalično pahuljaste membrane
Nevidljivim koncima pridržavaju nebo
Da nam se ne sruši na glave i
Pokvari nam frizure
Ukroćeni za neke tuđe nevidljive sjenke
Grozdovi izmišljenog grožđa pucaju
U kavezu naoštrenih sjekutića skrivenih
Ispod hrapavo zasvođene kože nepca
Kapi naoko levitiraju umorno šušteći
Izmutilo mi je i isklepetalo u pužnicu
Spustilo se plohastodahćući iz neuvita
Mirisno zvonoliko kao nježni amarilisi
Moji receptori u pseudosnu plutaju
Kao čamci na metaforičkoj pučini noći
Nemirne ruke pulsirajući klijaju
Prema zemlji, prema nebu listajući
Prosipam prijapovski svoje sjeme
Po skorenom, suhom tlu ispod mene
Koje ga žedno guta misleći u sebi
Proljeće je konačno stiglo
16.04.2016.
Spring
Hidden in the wooly tissue of clouds Flaky crystalline membranes Hold the sky by invisible threads So it doesn’t crash on our heads and Spoil our hairdos
Tamed for some invisible alien shadows Bunches of made up grapes burst In a cage of sharpened incisors hidden Underneath a rough vault of palate skin Drops seemingly levitate and tiredly susurrate
It mixed and rattled into my cochlea It lowered down flatly gasping from something not coiled Fragrantly bell-shaped as tender amaryllises My receptors float in a pseudo-dream Like skiffs on metaphysical high seas of the night
Restless hands pulsatingly sprout Towards the soil, towards the sky they leaf out And I as a Priapus effuse my semen On the crusty dried ground beneath me The dirt swallows it thirstily thinking
Spring has finally arrived
16-04-2013
Kinoteka
Brada, klavir i kontrabas
Strangersinthenight u podne
U fade-outu klikću kašičice za kavu
Lupkaju cipele o pod, nikotin oprašuje
Nokte pušača beskrajnim spektrom žute
Kuckanje prstiju po tipkovnicama pozadi
Sise konobarice i opsceni eyeliner njenih očiju
Ulazim u lokal, sjedam za svoj stol, već je uhodana
Donosi bijelu kavu sa dvije vrećice šećera
Crnim i bijelim, i obligatorni keks od cimeta
Nelagodni randes na kauču u kutu
Wifi lozinka umjesto dobar dan i kako ste
Danas bi trebalo nešto napisati, pojesti
Oprati rublje i odnijeti smeće do kontejnera
Mačke se neće nahraniti same
Ali će se same popišati po parketu
Trebalo bi se javiti nekim ljudima
Odaslati poruke u okolni svemir
Pronaći adekvatne radiovalove
Za današnje misli i opservacije
Jučerašnje sortirati u unutarnje ormariće
Pažljivo razvrstati i analizirati
Slušati neku opuštajuću glazbu
Chet Baker uvući će se među
Kapi umjetne kiše u mojoj tuš kabini
Ali tek nakon što završim sa kavom
I vratim kući, u metakinesku kutiju
Sastavljenu od mekutave kože
Oljuštenih zidova i stropova.
11.01.2016.
Cinematheque
Beard, piano and bass Strangersinthenight at midday In fade-out coffee-spoons jingle Shoes tap on the floor, nicotine pollinates fingernails of smokers with an endless spectrum of yellow Fingers rattling on keyboards behind Waitress’ tits and the obscene eyeliner of her eyes I enter the café, sit at my table, she already knows Brings me a latte with two sugars White and brown, and an obligatory cinnamon cookie An uncomfortable date on the corner couch Wi-fi password instead of a good day and how are you I should write something today, have a bite Wash clothes and throw out garbage Cats won’t feed themselves But they will piss on the floor on their own I should get in touch with some people Send out messages into the universe Find adequate radio wavelengths For today’s thoughts and observations Those of yesterday file into inner cabinets Carefully sort and analyze Listen to relaxing music Chet Baker will slither in Between the drops of fake rain in my shower But only after I’m done with my coffee And return home, to a meta-Chinese box Made from the soft skin Of peeled walls and ceilings.
11-01-2016
Observacije I.
Toalet papir sa mirisom breskve
Značajno podiže kvalitet boravka
U mojoj kupaonici, kao da sjediš
U voćnjaku punom kahlica
Observations I.
Peach scented toilet paper Greatly contributes to the quality of stay In my bathroom, as if one is sitting In an orchard full of potties
Observacije II.
Dobar omlet sa slaninom nije ekvivalent
Ljubavnog života sa pravom osobom
Govorim si dok mutim jaja u kuhinji
Django će me opet izvući iz jutarnjeg bluesa
Observations II.
A good bacon omelet is not an equivalent Of a love life shared with the right person I tell myself while mixing eggs in the kitchen Django will once again pull me out of my morning blues
Observacije III.
Jednog dana stvari u mojoj kući
Odlučiti će da me iz protesta ubiju
Jer se pretvorila u zoološki vrt pun
Malih kaveza za nepotrebnosti
Observations III.
One day the things in my house Will decide to kill me in protest Because the place turned into a zoo full Of little cages for unnecessities
Observacije IV.
Noći su osmišljene za svađu
Sve ću ti sasuti u lice i nitko ne čuje
Osim noćnih ptica iz haustora
Koje iz straha nikad ne zovu policiju
Observations IV.
Nights are meant for quarrels I’ll shout it all right into your face and no one will hear Except for the night birds in the driveway That out of fear never call the police
Observacije V.
Mrzim trenutak kad se iz trgovine
Vratiš sa svježim paradajzom i skužiš
Da ga je još ostalo u frižideru
Isto pravilo ne vrijedi i za cigarete
Observations V.
I hate that moment when you return From the store with fresh tomatoes realizing We already had some in the fridge The same rule does not apply to cigarettes
Observacije VI.
Porculanski pastir sa korpom cvijeća
Nema oči, desnu šaku ni invalidninu
Odjeven u bijelu košulju i plave hlače
Pošao na biro, ovjeriti radnu knjižicu
Observations VI.
A porcelain shepherd with a basket full of flowers Has no eyes, right fist nor disability pension Dressed in a white shirt and blue pants He’s headed to the employment office to get his work card stamped
Translated by NG&ORwDAC.
