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               Bosnia and Herzegovina                

MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI...
WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES

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Richard Berengarten, Cambridge, England 

Richard Berengarten (previously known as Richard Burns) was born in London in 1943 into a family of musicians. He studied English at the University of Cambridge (1961–1964) and Linguistics at University College London (1977–78). In 1975, he founded the international Cambridge Poetry Festival, which ran until 1985. He has lived in Italy, Greece, Serbia, Croatia and the USA, and has also worked extensively in the Czech Republic, Latvia, Poland and Russia. He first visited Yugoslavia as a lecturer for the British Council in the early 1980s, and that trip led to a lifelong involvement. Richard Berengarten lived in Yugoslavia between 1987 and 1991, first in Split then in Belgrade, where he taught at the Centre for Foreign Languages and later at the Philological Faculty. This experience coincided with a time of turmoil in former Yugoslavia which marked him profoundly. In response, he wrote his Balkan Trilogy, consisting of: In a Time of Drought (2006, 2008 & 2011); The Blue Butterfly (2006, 2008 & 2011); and Under Balkan Light (2008 & 2011).The Blue Butterfly provided the Veliki školski čas memorial-oratorio for Nazi massacre-victims in Kragujevac (Serbia, 2007).

Berengartens poetry is multifaceted in scope and international in reach: his poetry integrates English, European, Slavic, Jewish, Mediterranean, Chinese, Japanese and American traditions. His books include: Avebury  (1972); Learning to Talk (1980); Roots/Routes (1982); Black Light: Poems in Memory of George Seferis (1983, 1986 & 1995); Against Perfection (1999); The Manager (2001 & 2008); Book With No Back Cover (2003); For the Living: Selected Longer Poems 1965–2000 (2003 & 2008); and the ongoing Manual chapbooks (2005–2009). Richard Berengarten’s prose works include Keys to Transformation: Ceri Richards and Dylan Thomas (1981) and a variety of uncollected essays. He is currently working on a series of theoretical statements entitled Imagems: Towards a Universalist Poetics, and a series of poems based on Yi Jing (I Ching) entitled Two to the Power of Six. The Critical Companion to Richard Berengarten, edited by Norman Jope, Paul Scott Derrick and Catherine E. Byfield, has recently appeared (Salt Publishing, Cambridge, 2011), containing thirty-four essays from contributors in eleven countries, including four essays by Serbian writers, Svetozar Ignjačević, Aleksandar Petrov, Slobodan Rakitić and Andrija Matić.

Berengarten has translated poetry, fiction and criticism from Croatian, French, Greek, Italian, Macedonian and Serbian. He is recipient of the Eric Gregory Award (1972), the Keats Memorial Prize (1974), the Duncan Lawrie Prize (1982), the Yeats Club Prize (1989), the Jewish Quarterly-Wingate Award for Poetry (1992), and the international Morava Charter Prize (2005). A former Arts Council of Great Britain Writer-in-Residence at the Victoria Adult Education Centre, Gravesend (1979–1981), Visiting Professor at the University of Notre Dame (1982), British Council Lector, Belgrade (1987–1990), Royal Literary Fund Fellow at Newnham College, Cambridge (2003–2005) and Project Fellow (2005–2006), he is currently a Praeceptor at Corpus Christi College and Bye-Fellow at Downing College. He also teaches at Christ’s College, Pembroke College, Peterhouse and Wolfson College, Cambridge. He has three children and two grandchildren. He lives in Cambridge with his partner Melanie Rein, a Jungian psychotherapist.

PREVOD:
Richard Berengarten (ranije poznat kao Ričard Bernz) je rođen u Londonu 1943. godine u porodici muzičara. Studirao je engleski jezik na University of Cambridge (1961-1964) i lingvistiku na University College London (1977-78). Godine 1975. osnovao je medjunarodni  Festival poezije u Kembridžu, koji je održavan do 1985. Živeo je u Italiji, Grčkoj, Srbiji, Hrvatskoj i SAD-u a takodje je duže vremena radio u Republici Češkoj, Latviji, Poljskoj i Rusiji. Prvi put je došao u Jugoslaviju kao predavač pri Britanskom savetu početkom l980-ih godina a posledica tog boravka je njegova životna povezanost. Ričard Berengarten je živeo u Jugoslaviji od 1987 – 1991, prvo u Splitu pa u Beogradu, gde je predavao u Centru za učenje stranih jezika a kasnije na Filološkom fakultetu. Ovaj boravak i podudarna vremena nemira u prethodnoj Jugoslaviji, ostavili su na njega dubok utisak. Kao reakciju na to, napisao je svoju Balkansku trilogiju, koju sačinjavaju: U vreme suše (2006 & 2008 & 2011); Plavi leptir (2006, 2008 & 2011); i Pod balkanskim svetlom (2008 & 2011). Plavi leptir je poslužio kao podloga za memorijalni oratorijum na Velikom školskom času posvećenom žrtvama nacističkog maskra u Kragujevcu (Srbija, 2007).    

Berengartenova poezija je višestruka kako u opsegu, tako i po međunarodnom dostignuću: njegova poezija objedinjava engleske, evropske, slovenske, jevrejske, mediteranske, kineske, japanske i američke tradicije. Njegove knjige uključuju: Avebury (1972); Learning to Talk [Naučiti govoriti] (1980): Roots/Routes [Koreni/Kretanja] (1982): Black Light: Poems in Memory of George Seferis [Crna svetlost: Pesme u znak sećanja na Georgija Seferisa] (1983, 1986 & 1995): Against Perfection [Spram savršenstva] (1999): Manager (2001 & 2008): Book With No Back Cover [Knjiga bez zadnje korice] (2003): For the Living: Selected Longer Poems 1965-2000 [Živima: odabrane duže pesme 1965-2000] (2003 & 2008); kao povremene  knjižice Manual chapbooks [Uputstva za korišćenje] (2005-2009). Prozni radovi Ričarda Berengartena obuhvataju: Keys to Transformation: Ceri Richards and Dylan Thomas  [Ključevi transformacije: Seri Ričards i Dilan Tomas] (1981) kao i raznovrsne nesabrane eseje. Sada je zauzet radom na seriji teoretskih tvrdnji pod nazivom Imagems:Towards a Universalist Poetics [Izmaštani dragulji:  ka univerzalističkim poetikama], i na seriji pesama osnovanim na Yi Jing (I Čing) pod naslovom Two to the Power of Six [Dva do siline Šest].  Nedavno se pojavila knjiga Critical Companion to Richard Berengarten [Kritički saputnik Ričarda Bererengartena] koju su priredili Norman Jope, Paul Scott Derrick i Catherine E. Byfield (u izdanju Salt Publishing, Kembridž, 2011), koja obuhvata tridesetčetiri eseja saradnika iz jedanaest zemalja, uključujući četiri eseja srpskih pisaca, Svetozara Ignjačevića, Aleksandra Petrova , Slobodana Rakitića i Andrije Matića. 

Berengarten je prevodio poeziju, beletristiku i kritike sa hrvatskog, francuskog, grčkog, italijanskog, makedonskog i srpskog jezika. Dobitnik je nagrade Eric Gregory Award (1972), Keats Memorial Prize (1974), Duncan Lawrie Prize (1982), Yeats Club Prize (1974), Jewish Quarterly-Wingate Award za poeziju (1992) i međunarodnu Povelju Morave (2005).  Ranije je bio Pisac-rezident pri Umetničkom savetu Velike Britanije  Viktorija centra za obrazovanje odraslih, Gravesend (1979-1981), Vanredni profesor na Univerzitetu Notre Dame (1982), Lektor pri Birtanskom savetu u Beogradu (1987-1990), Član Kraljevskog književnog fonda pri Newnham College, Kembridž (2003-2005) a potom i njihov Project Fellow (2005-2006); trenutno je Preceptor na koledžu Corpus Christi i Pridruženi član pri Downing koledžu. Takodje predaje na koledžima Christ’s, Pembroke i Peterhouse and Wolfson u Kembridžu. Ima troje dece i dva unučeta. Živi u Kembridžu sa svojim životnim saputnikom Melanie Rein, koja je jungovski psihoterapeut.

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VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33, 
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              OSJETITI DRUGOG I DRUGAČIJEG

Snaga pojedinačnih odsjaja unutar traženja mogućnosti da pronađe odgovor na pitanje opstanka, ostanka, ali i postanka. Ljudskoga. U nama. 

I pored činjenice da zlo vlada prostorima kojim hodimo, bez obzira u kojem kutku ove jadne planete živimo, Richard Berengarten u svakoj svojoj riječi, pjesmi, dobro traži.
 
Razotkrivajući sopstvenu osionost dok malen hodi pod zvijezdama moći. Pokušavajući, ali i uspijevajući, biti jači od sjećanja, patnje, ali i boli. Stremeći kreiranju budućih nada, uspjeha i sreće. 

Ipak, naivno je očekivati da se nešto može preko noći promijeniti. Ali, kada bi svi za trenutak zastali i razmislili o tome da li su (i koliko) nečega dobrog danas uradili, ove pjesme pred vama (ali i proza) ostale bi kao spomenik za ljudonostalgičare. Ovako, dok se to ne desi, noć će i dalje pokrivati Evropu. Ali ne i samo Evropu,

Poetika Richardova je kao i njegovo srce. Iskrena, ljudska, ali i upravo zbog toga upozoravajuća. 

Stari Latini napisaše: "Fiat iustitia et pereat mundus."  

I u poeziji.



Riječ urednika

Sabahudin Hadžialić

28.1.2012.

             ОСЈЕТИТИ ДРУГОГ И ДРУГАЧИЈЕГ

Снага појединачних одсјаја унутар тражења могућности да пронађе одговор на питање опстанка, останка, али и постанка. Људскога. У нама. 

И поред чињенице да зло влада просторима којим ходимо, без обзира у којем кутку ове јадне планете живимо, Рицхард Беренгартен у свакој својој ријечи, пјесми, добро тражи.
 
Разоткривајући сопствену осионост док мален ходи под звијездама моћи. Покушавајући, али и успијевајући, бити јачи од сјећања, патње, али и боли. Стремећи креирању будућих нада, успјеха и среће. 

Ипак, наивно је очекивати да се нешто може преко ноћи промијенити. Али, када би сви за тренутак застали и размислили о томе да ли су (и колико) нечега доброг данас урадили, ове пјесме пред вама (али и проза) остале би као споменик за људоносталгичаре. Овако, док се то не деси, ноћ ће и даље покривати Европу. Али не и само Европу,

Поетика Рицхардова је као и његово срце. Искрена, људска, али и управо због тога упозоравајућа. 

Стари Латини написаше: "Фиат иуститиа ет переат мундус."  

И у поезији.


Ријеч уредника

Sabahudin Hadžialić

28.1.2012. 

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Ten poems from

THE BLUE BUTTERFLY  
and an accompanying prose piece

with translations by

Vera V. Radojević, Danilo Kiš and Ivan V. Lalić

(published by Shearsman Books, Exeter, 2011,

and by Kragujevački oktobar, Kragujevac, 2007.

***

Two Photographs

“Look. Look, Quick. Take a photograph. Now!” I said. It was 25 May, ‘Youth Day’, a national holiday in former Yugoslavia. Lara, aged seventeen, was standing on my right, cradling camera and guidebook, her attention elsewhere. Two rapid looks swept across her face when I nudged her, First, a cocking of the head and raising of the left eyebrow, that long-suffering daughterly look that says, “What's he on about now?” Then, as she turned and saw the butterfly preening itself on my finger, blue wings folded upright, completely unperturbed by the crowd milling, pressing around us, waiting to get into the jam-packed museum, her eyes widened and her jaw dropped, in a mirror of my own amazement. “But it’s too close,” she protested. “It won’t come out.” “Never mind,” I urged. “Try. Hurry. Before it flies away.” Then she moved fast. She unzipped her camera’s soft leather case, stepped back, focused, and clicked.

I moved my hand slowly towards my chest to examine the creature as carefully as possible without disturbing it. Dazzling patterned wings, black-speckled, leaf-veined. Scales’ iridescent blue tipped with filigree bandings of red and green. Firm-etched, sunlight-catching colours, changing at the slightest tremor. Then, a childhood association, from way back in my head. Ladybird, Ladybird, Fly away home . . . And I blew softly on the insect. But immediately, more thoughts crowded out this fantasy, coming so thick and fast they interrupted and cancelled one another, before any had time to settle. Not so much a short-circuiting of connections as an overloading of available lines.

One was laughter. No common or garden ladybird, fool, but a butterfly. A miraculous butterfly. Of a kind I've never seen before. And, more serious: The butterfly symbolises the soul. Whose? And more serious still: The men and boys massacred here by the Nazis had their homes burned too. Parents lost children. Children lost parents. And, with a kind of detached, musing curiosity, in an acute awareness of pain that, oddly, had no pain in it, but an unusual, calm, alert acceptance, almost an aloofness, it was so impersonal: Is this some message from the souls of these dead? A request? A blessing? A command? A duty and an honour being conferred? And, more mundanely, What kind of butterfly? Male or female? Can it be fully grown, and still so small? And butterfly words, appearing out of memory's nowhere, wafted around my head: chrysalis, shard, larva, pupa, lepidoptera, fritillary, imago. And then a sense of space, transparency, combined with a quiet, rooted, conscious joy.

I blew on the small creature again, and waved my hand gently up and down. This time it responded, flittered away, performed a few, quick, seemingly random aerial twirls just in front of my face - and then resettled, as if quite purposefully, on the same finger it had just relinquished. Another fantasy, mingled with the others, still hovering: my mind flashed back to England, last winter, to my friend David, who had killed himself one icy February evening outside his snow-surrounded bungalow in the Cambridgeshire fens, by feeding the exhaust fumes from his stationary car back through its heating system, while he sat asphyxiating, strapped in the driver’s seat, radio blaring, a half bottle of scotch on his lap and an open packet of Marlborough on the passenger seat beside him. I’d been his last close friend to see him alive, that morning, in London. Can this be HIS soul, coming back here? In this place where death and life meet? To greet me on neutral ground? To connect with me again? To explain? To atone, perhaps, for that devouring need he’d had, for perfection?
“Wind the spool on,” I said to Lara. “Quick, And give me the camera.” I stretched my left arm straight in front of me, and with my other hand clumsily focused the lens. (I’m left-handed.) My butterfly seemed just as unconcerned as before, almost as if it was posing - wanting, waiting to have its portrait taken. Perhaps it trusts me, I thought, almost flattered by its attentiveness. Or maybe it just likes my smell. I clicked. It rested another few seconds on my finger, then took off, hovered, flittered away. I felt a sudden momentary panic, as at an irretrievable loss. The keeper re-opened her glass doors and we trooped into the museum. 

***

The blue butterfly

On my Jew’s hand, born out of ghettos and shtetls,
raised from unmarked graves of my obliterated people
in Germany, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Russia,

on my hand mothered by a refugee’s daughter,
first opened in blitzed London, grown big
through post-war years safe in suburban England,

on my pink, educated, ironical left hand
of a parvenu not quite British pseudo gentleman
which first learned to scrawl its untutored messages

among Latin-reading rugby-playing militarists
in an élite boarding school on Sussex’s green downs
and against the cloister walls of puritan Cambridge,

on my hand weakened by anomie, on my
writing hand, now of a sudden willingly
stretched before me in Serbian spring sunlight,

on my unique living hand, trembling and troubled
by this May visitation, like a virginal
leaf new sprung on the oldest oak in Europe,

on my proud firm hand, miraculously blessed
by the two thousand eight hundred martyred
men, women and children fallen at Kragujevac,

a blue butterfly simply fell out of the sky
and settled on the forefinger
of my international bloody human hand.

***

Nada : hope or nothing

Like a windblown seed, not yet rooted
or petal from an impossible moonflower, shimmering,
unplucked, perfect, in a clear night sky,

like a rainbow without rain, like the invisible
hand of a god stretching out of nowhere
to shower joy brimful from Plenty’s horn,

like a greeting from a child, unborn, unconceived,
like an angel, bearing a gift, a ring, a promise,
like a visitation from a twice redeemed soul,

like a silent song sung by the ghost of nobody
to an unknown, sweet and melodious instrument
buried ages in the deepest cave of being,

like a word only half heard, half remembered,
not yet fully learned, from a stranger’s language,
the sad heart longs for, to unlock its deepest cells,

a blue butterfly takes my hand and writes
in invisible ink across its page of air
Nada, Elpidha, Nadezhda, Esperanza, Hoffnung.

***

The death of children

It is the death of children most offends
nature and justice. No use asking why.
What justice is, nobody comprehends.

What punishment can ever make amends?
There’s no pretext, excuse or alibi.
It is the death of children most offends.

Whoever offers arguments pretends
to read fate’s lines. Although we must swear by
what justice is, nobody comprehends

how destiny or chance weaves. Who defends
their motives with fair reasons tells a lie.
It is the death of children most offends.

Death can’t deserve to reap such dividends
from these, who scarcely lived, their parents cry.
What justice is, nobody comprehends.

Bring comfort then, and courage. Strangers, friends,
are we not all parents when children die?
What justice is, nobody comprehends.
It is the death of children most offends.

***

When night covered Europe 

Second Song of the Dead 

You who pass this way
in European day
know who walked among
these hills and valleys
a man and a boy
with nothing to say
but half-remembered poems
carrying a machine gun
when night covered Europe

In a mountain village
a woman gave them porridge
and space by her fire
cornmeal and milk
crumbs rich as knowledge
kindness to mend courage
of a man and a boy
carrying a machine gun
when night covered Europe

From a hovel hidden
among rocks and boulders
a girl with smouldering eyes
ran after, calling
take me with you, soldiers
I can man a machine gun
I have two dead brothers
Now I have three others
when night covered Europe

Sleepless in bombed barns
they starved in the gloaming
but kicked over their embers
and left with no traces
to clamber higher spaces
where no armies trundle
and no dead comrades’ faces
moan through broken dreaming
when night covered Europe

***

The shadow well

First song of the dead  

Stand up, Soldier, ring the bell,
ring it for yourself as well.
Sentry, shut your telescope,
surrender your horizon’s hope.

Climb up, Deacon, to the tower,
pull the rope and ring the bell.
The butterfly burns on its flower.
Gunner, you will die as well.

Ask the bloody Brigadier
why I shat myself in fear
but never emptied out the bucket
and just told him to go fuck it.

And ask the ribboned Generals
talking in luxurious halls
if they tremble where they sit
while I rot in a common pit.

Survivor, go ask Presidents
Does this sacrifice makes sense?
And will the international liars
negotiate to quench these fires?

Around this blaze, fierce shadows grope
inward to quench any hope.
Pull the rope, ring the bell
What else is there left to tell?

Pull the rope, ring the bell,
wind blows in an empty shell.
Like a flickering from hell
light flecks in the shadow well.

***

Unmarked voices from a mass grave

Seventh song of the dead 

You have come to a place, not a place, where time and space halt,
where the trees’ topmost branches stop, and the last waves stop,
and roots can grow no longer, and rivers no longer flow,
and the last heard note grips silence and never reaches further,
like a photograph of an arrow that freezes it forever
suspended in its flight, trapped quivering on air
and the moth or fly is caught in a honeyball of amber.

You have come to a place, not a place, where no-one can remember
any words they may have heard, or ways out of the maze,
or steps once learned in dancing, or their subtle variations,
and time is a catacomb, a grove of bones, a permanence,
a station and a destiny, but not a destination,
where all contours of yesterdays are stratified in a fault
and tomorrow is an abyss, and the trains of space-time halt.

***

This country weighs so heavy

First statement of a survivor 

This country weighs so heavy
sometimes I can’t breathe
Under each rock, a skull
Under the plough, teeth
in every village graveyard
names of slaughtered brothers
who fell against each other
till fish in lakes and sea
grew fat on their corpses
and in every river, blood

How many more centuries
to ease the wails of mothers
scratched in walls of farms
and hanging from barn rafters
How long before revenge
dies in its own bath
before the clansmen forget
their enemies’ grandchildren
and sharpening of knives
in long awaited ambush

And yet, hard, rugged land
merciless, wild, ravaged
you have showered beauty on me
to bandage my nightmares
nourished me, filled my palms
with your bread and salt
into my mouth poured
your wine and kisses
and, gazing through open eyes
taught me to fear nothing

***

The untouchables

Second statement of a survivor 

Most never returned. Of those who did
few talk. There are no words. No words.
What can they say to us, whose imaginations
belong only to this world, who have never been
pushed beyond the borders of the possible?

They seem, or wish to seem, unheroic,
ordinary, unmasterly, like us. And we,
who believe in words and slip on surfaces,
may never recognise behind their reticence
lie sentences so deep they are unsayable.

Noticing, we want to salute them as heroes,
but they won’t have it. Rejecting eyes
behind their eyes say, No. Honours and praises
from us can never fit them. Our attention
like a uniform, makes them uncomfortable.

We are not fools. We are not especially evil.
We understand what they suffered, we think,
we care. So tell us, we begin . . . What stops us?
A silence behind the silence behind their silence
assuring us they know we are corruptible?

They are apart from us. It’s not our fault
or theirs, we cannot reach them, that their vision
refuses more than a corner in our tomorrows,
that eyes behind their retinas make clear
questions that lie deepest are unanswerable.

 It’s clarity that veils them, though, not hope.
Chosen among the chosen, blessed or cursed
because they have survived the unimaginable,
as if twice born, among the living dead,
they move among us, quietly. Untouchable.

***

In silence: the mourner

Third statement of a survivor
                  
On the outskirts of the city of permanent possibility,
near the fork of two rivers, where Islam and Europe cross,
a woman sits by her father’s grave. She does not believe
in God, yet to the dead human, god-huge in her head,
she ferries wordless questions. On the grave, May flowers,
she has arranged carefully, a variegated bouquet
bought from the corner kiosk near her two roomed apartment
on the eighth floor of a block on the Street of National Heroes
where she lives with her daughter from a broken marriage
and a lover who does not love her. This woman has any age
but her time is just past beauty. Among graves and flowers
she sits to escape and find herself. And the dead man
she addresses, although she knows he is nowhere,
will send her clearer answers on sudden flights of images
than any plied by the living on versatile word currents
strung sparkling, multi-faceted along well-worn thought-strings,
till a thousand and one particulars, of injustices and joys,
unjumble their tangled threads, recover weight and balance,
lightborne, freed from desire, untrammeled from memory,
onto air, like dust. And even though nothing changes
everything is changed. She knows who she is, and to be,
and, silent, takes her tram home, a woman just past beauty,
gifted with the impossible in the city of possibility,
deepened, refreshed, calmed, from talking to the dead.

***

Clean out the house

Clean out the house for springtime. Sweep the floor
in patience and in conscientiousness.
Let in the wind that’s hammering at the door.

Who knows, some day we’ll hammer out a cure
for cruelty, corruption, cowardice,
clean out the house for springtime, sweep the floor.

Create a pattern, not caricature
of natural justice, without prejudice,
let in the wind that’s hammering at the door.

But human suffering? Don’t be so sure.
In practice every theory goes amiss.
Clean out the house for springtime. Sweep the floor.

We go the way the flies go. Dust, manure
or ashes will be all that’s left of us.
Let in the wind that’s hammering at the door.

We can trust nothing, nowhere rest secure
except in love, for love is limitless.
Clean out the house for springtime. Sweep the floor.
Let in the wind that’s hammering at the door.

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Sabahudin Hadžialić & Richard Berengarten - Tetovo, Macedonia 2011.

Deset pesama iz knjige

PLAVI LEPTIR
uz jedan prozni sastav

sa prevodima

Vere V. Radojević, Danila Kiša i Ivana V. Lalića

(izdanja Shearsman Books, Exeter, 2011,

 i Kragujevački oktobar, Kragujevac, 2007)

***

Dve fotografije 

“Vidi. Vidi, brzo. Slikaj. Odmah!” uzbuđeno rekoh. Bio je 25. maj, Dan mladosti, nacionalni praznik u bivšoj Jugoslaviji.  Sedamnaestogodišnja Lara je stajala s moje desne strane držeći u ruci foto-aparat i vodič, dok su joj misli lutale ko zna gde. Kad sam je munuo laktom, dva brza izraza preleteše joj preko lica. Prvo je nakrivila glavu i podigla levu obrvu sa onim paćeničkim pogledom kćeri koji kaže, “Šta sad on hoće?” A onda, pošto se okrenula i ugledala leptira kako se licka na mom prstu, plavih krilaca sklopljenih nagore, potpuno neuznemiren gomilom koja se tiskala i gurala svud oko nas, ona zinu razrogačivši oči - odraz moje sopstvene zadivljenosti. “Ali suviše je blizu,” protestovala je. “Neće uspeti.” “Nema veze,” insistirao sam. “Probaj. Požuri, pre nego što odleti.” Tad se ona brzo pokrenu. Izvadi foto-aparat iz meke kožne futrole, koraknu unazad, izoštri i kliknu.

Polako sam pomerio ruku ka mojim grudima, kako bih što pažljivije osmotrio to stvorenjce, a da ga ne uznemirim. Zasenjujuće išarana krila sa crnim tačkicama, prožeta žilicama kao list vinove loze. Čitava skala plave boje oivičena crvenim i zelenim prugama. Pravilno isklesane boje koje blistaju na suncu i menjaju se pri najmanjem treptaju. A onda, prisećanje iz detinjstva. Let, let, bubamaro, donesi mi goste... I nežno dunuh na inekta. Ali istog časa gomila drugih misli spopade moju maštu, misli su se rojile toliko brzo i u tolikom broju, da su jedna drugu prekidale i isključivale pre nego što je i jedna uspevala da se u celosti iskaže. Nije se toliko radilo o prekidu u vezama koliko o preopterećenosti linija.

Jedna je bila smešna. Nije to obična ili baštenska bubamara, budalo, nego leptir. Čudesan leptir. Takav kakvog nikada pre nisi video. A onda ozbiljnija promisao: Leptir je simbol duše. Čije? I još ozbiljnija: Ljudi i dece koje su ovde masakrirali nacisti koji su im takođe i kuće spalili. Roditelji su izgubili decu. Deca su izgubila roditelje. Zatim, sa nekom vrstom izdvojene, zamišljene radoznalosti, sa akutnom svešću o bolu koji, začudo, nije imao u sebi bola, nego je bio ispunjen neobičnim, mirnim, budnim prihvatanjem, takoreći neopredeljenim, toliko je bilo bezlično: Da li je ovo poruka neke od duša onih koji ovde leže mrtvi? Molba? Blagolsov? Naredba? Dužnost i čast kojom te obavezuju?  A onda, malo prizemnije. Koja vrsta leptira? Mužjak ili ženka? Da li je moguće da je potpuno odrastao, a tako majušan? Leptirske reči pojaviše se iz nigdine sećanja i zalepršaše oko moje glave: krizalis, gusenica, larva, lutka, lepidoptera, fritilarija, imago. I potom svest o prostoru, providnost u kombinaciji sa mirnom, ukorenjenom, svesnom radošću.

Ponovo dunuh na ovo stvorenjce i nežno zamahnuh rukom gore-dole.  Ovog puta je reagovao, odleprša, izvede nekoliko brzih, naizgled nasumičnih vazdušastih okreta tik ispred mog lica – i onda ponovo sednu, kao sasvim namerno, na onaj isti prst sa kog je upravo odleteo. Još jedna fantazija pomeša se sa ostalima, još uvek lebdeći: u mislima sa vratih u Englesku, prošle zime, mome prijatelju Dejvidu koji je izvršio samoubistvo jedne ledene februarske večeri ispred svog snegom zavejanog bungalova u ritovima okruga Kembridž, tako što je izduvne gasove svog parkiranog automobila sproveo  kroz cevi za grejanje, dok je on sedeo onesvešćen, vezan sigurnosnim pojasem na vozačevom mestu, radio odvrnut do daske, sa pola boce viskija na krilu i paketom Marlboro ciogareta na sedištu pored. Bio sam poslednji bliski prijatelj koji ga je video živog, tog jutra, u Londonu. Da li je ovo NJEGOVA duša, koja se ovde vraća? Na ovo mesto gde se susreću smrt i život? Da me pozdravi na neutralnom terenu? Da  ponovo uspostavi vezu sa mnom? Da objasni? Da okaje, možda, tu svoju nezasitu potrebu za savršenstvom?
“Navij film,” rekoh Lari. “Brzo. I dodaj mi fotoaparat.” Ispružio sam svoju levu ruku pravo ispred sebe i sa drugom rukom nespretno izoštrio sočivo (Ja sam levoruk.) Moj leptirak se činio isto onako bezbrižnim kao i pre, skoro kao da pozira – želeći, čekajući da mu se uradi portret.  Možda mi veruje, pomislih, skoro polaskan njegovom pažnjom. Ili mu se možda svidja kako mirišem. Okinuo sam. Odmarao se još nekoliko časaka na mom prstu i onda uzlete, zalebde i odleprša.  U trenu osetih iznenadnu paniku, nenadoknadivi gubitak. Čuvarka muzeja otvori staklena vrata i mi umarširasmo u muzej.

                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***

Plavi leptir 

Na moju jevrejsku ruku, niklu iz geta i štetlova,
dignutu iz neobeleženih grobova mog naroda istrebljenog
u Nemačkoj, Letoniji, Litvi, Poljskoj, Rusiji,

na moju ruku koju je negovala kći izbeglice,
šaku otvorenu u bombardovanom Londonu, odraslu
bezbedno u poratnim godinama u engleskim predgrađima,

na moju ružičastu vaspitanu ironičnu levu ruku
skorojevića, ne sasvim britanskog kvazidžentlmena
koja je naučila da škraba prve nenaučene poruke

među militaristima koji čitaju latinski i igraju ragbi
u elitnom internatu među zelenim brežuljcima Saseksa
i po samostanskim zidinama puritanskog Kembridža,

na moju anomijom oslabljenu ruku, na moju
ruku kojom pišem, sada nenadnom voljom
pruženu preda mnom u prolećno sunce Srbije,

na moju jedinstvenu živu ruku, zadrhtalu i uzrujanu
ovim majskim blagoslovom, nalik na devičanski
list što niknu na najstarijem hrastu Evrope,

na moju ponosnu čvrstu ruku, što je čudesno
blagosloviše njih dvehiljadeosamstotina mučenika,
odraslih i dečaka palih u Kragujevcu,

jedan plavi leptir naprosto je pao s neba
i počinuo na kažiprstu te moje
internacionalne proklete ljudske ruke.

                                  Preveli sa engleskog: Danilo KIŠ  i Ivan. V. LALIĆ

***
Nada: nada ili ništa

Kao seme nošeno vetrom, neukorenjeno još,
ili latica nekog nestvarnog mesecokreta, što blista
neubran, savršen, na jasnom noćnom nebu,

kao duga bez kiše, kao nevidljiva
ruka nekog boga pružena iz nigdine
da pljusne radošću iz prepunog roga izobilja,

kao pozdrav deteta nerođenog, nezačetog,
kao anđeo što nosi dar, prsten, obećanje,
kao blagoslov neke dvogubo iskupljene duše,

kao neka pesma što ničiji peva je duh
nekom neznancu, kao zvučno melodičan instrument
vekovima zatrpan u najdubljoj špilji bića,

kao reč jedva osluhnuta, jedva zapamćena,
još polushvaćena, reč jezika stranca
za kojom nesrećno srce žudi da otključa svoje dubine,

jedan plavi leptir hvata mi ruku, piše njome
nevidljivim mastilom preko svog vazdušnog lista:
Nada, Elphida, Nadježda, Esperanza, Hoffnung.

                                                       Preveo sa engleskog: Ivan V. LALIĆ

***

Kad umiru deca

Kad umiru deca, to je najteže vređanje
prirode i pravde.  Kazati zašto niko ne ume.
Šta je to pravda, gorko je pitanje.

Kakva je kazna i kakvo suđenje?
Izgovora nema. Izvinjenje ko da razume?
Kad umiru deca, to je najteže vređanje.

Ko daje razlog, to je pretvaranje
da sudbinu čita. U pravdu se kune.
Šta je to pravda, gorko je pitanje

kako to sudbina plete svoje tkanje.
Lažnim razlozima usta im se pune.
Kad umiru deca, to je najteže vređanje.

Smrt nema prava to klasje da žanje,
tek su zaživeli, lelek roditeljski kune
Šta je to pravda, gorko je pitanje.

Neznanče, druže, šta utehu i hrabrost donosi?
Zar nismo svi roditelji kad smrt decu kosi?
Šta je to pravda, gorko je pitanje.
Kad umiru deca, to je najteže vređanje.
                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***
Kada je noć prekrila Evropu

Druga pesma mrtvih
 
Ti koji prolaziš ovim putem
u evropskim danima
znaj ko je hodao
ovim brdima i dolinama
čovek i dečak
ništa nisu kazali
samo su poluzapamćene pesme znali
nosili su mašinske puške
kada je noć prekrila Evropu

U planinskom seocetu
žena im dade palentu
i mesto kraj ognjišta
proju i mleko
mrve bogate kao znanje
ljubaznost za ohrabrenje
čoveka i dečaka
nosili su mašinske puške
kada je noć prekrila Evropu

Iz čatrlje skrivene
među stenama u vrleti
iskričavih očiju devojka
izleti, vičući
povedite me sa sobom, vojnici,
umem da pucam iz mitraljeza
dva mrtva brata imam
Sad imam još tri
kada je noć prekrila Evropu

Bez sna u štalama bombardovanim
umirali su od gladi u sumraku
ali su ugljevlje razbacali 
ni traga nisu ostavili
na najviše vrhove se popeše
gde nikakve vojske ne dospeše
i gde lica mrtvih drugova
ne ječe zbog prekinutih snova
kada je noć prekrila Evropu.
                                            Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***

Bunar senki

Prva pesma mrtvih 

Ustaj, vojniče, zazvoni zvono,
tebi će takođe zazvoniti ono.
Hej, stražaru, svoj teleskop sklopi,
svoga horizonta nadu potopi.

Na kulu se popni, đakone,
povuci konopac zvona da zvone.
Na svome cvetu leptir će goreti.
Tobdžijo, i ti ćeš isto umreti.

Pitaj krvavog brigadira do tebe
što sam se usr'o od straha k'o bebe
al' odgovornost nisam skinuo sa sebe,
već sam mu rek'o da odjebe.

I pitaj generale sa trakama
koji ćeretaju po luksuznim dvoranama          
da li možda zadrhte u polutami
dok ja trunem u zajedničkoj jami.

Preživeli, pitaj predsednike sila,
imaju li ove žrtve smisla?
I da li će globalne lažare         
pregovarati da gase ove požare?

Oko ovog ognja senke jarosne
tapkaju da svaka nada ugasne.
Povuci konopac, zvono da zveči.
Šta je preostalo od tih praznih reči?


Povuci konopac,  zvona nek gruvaju,
kroz praznu školjku vetrovi duvaju.
K'o pakleni oganj večnih terevenki
svetlost odsijava po bunaru senki

                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ
***

Neobeleženi glasovi iz masovne grobnice

Sedma pesma mrtvih  

Došli ste na mesto, koje nije mesto, gde vreme i prostor staju,
gde najviše grane drveća prestaju,  gde se talasi zaustavljaju,
gde korenje više ne raste i reke više ne teku,
i gde poslednji čujni ton zgrabi tišinu i nikad ne ide dalje,
k'o fotografija strele zamrznute zauvek
ukočene u letu, uhvaćene u treptaju
k'o moljac ili muva u medenoj lopti ćilibara.

Došli ste na mesto, koje nije mesto, gde se niko ne seća reči
koje su možda čuli, nit izlaza iz lavirinta,
nit koraka naučenih u kolu, nit njihove suptilne varijante,
a vreme je katakomba, dubrava kostiju, stalnost,
stanica, sudbina, ali ne odredište,
gde su svi obrisi jučerašnjice u grešci naslagane,
gde sutrašnjica je ambis, a prostor-vreme vozovi ne idu više.
                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***

Ova je zemlja teška

Prva izjava preživelog  

Ova je zemlja teška
ponekad ne mogu da dišem
Pod svakim kamenom, lobanja
Pod plugom, zubi
U svakom selu groblje
imena poklane braće
popadali jedan na drugog
ribe u jezerima i morima
nagojene njihovim leševima
u svakoj reci, krv
      
Koliko još vekova treba
da utihnu naricanja majki
utisnuta u zidove kuća
obešena o grede štala
Koliko još treba da osveta
zamre u sopstvenoj kupki
da rodbina zaboravi
unuke svojih neprijatelja
i oštrenje noževa
u dugo čekanoj zasedi

Ipak, tvrda, ispucala zemljo
nemilosrdna, divlja, opustošena
zapljusnula si me lepotom
previla moje košmare
nahranila me, napunila mi dlanove
hlebom i solju
u moje usne ulila
svoje vino i poljupce
i gledajući kroz otvorene oči,
naučila  me da se ne bojim ničeg

                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***

Nedodirljivi

Druga izjava preživelog  

Većina se nije vratila. Oni koji jesu
malo pričaju. Ne postoje reči. Nema reči.
Šta oni mogu reći nama čija je mašta
jedino od ovog sveta, koji nikada ne besmo
gurnuti preko granica mogućeg?

Oni izgledaju, žele da izgledaju, neherojski
obični, nevešti, kao mi. A mi,
koji verujemo u reči i klizamo po površini
možda ćemo iza njihove ćutljivosti prepoznati
rečenice tako duboke da se ne mogu kazati.

Videvši ih želimo da ih pozdravimo kao heroje,
ali oni to neće. Odbojne oči
iza njihovih očiju kažu − Ne. Čast i pohvale
od nas njima ne pogoduju. Naša pažnja
kao tesna uniforma nelagodna im je.

Mi nismo budale. Nismo ni naročito zli.
Razumemo šta su propatili, saosećamo,
brinemo. Pa reci nam, počinjemo... Šta nas zaustavlja?
Tišina iza tišine iza njihove tišine
uverava nas da oni znaju da smo kvarljiva roba.

Otcepljeni su od nas. To nije naša greška
niti njihova, ne možemo dopreti do njih, njihova vizija
odbija da bude više od nekog ugla u našem sutra,
te oči iza njihovih zenica jasno kazuju
da pitanja koja najdublje leže ostaju bez odgovora.

Ta očiglednost ih zaklanja, ne nada.
Odabrani među odabranima, blagosloveni ili prokleti
zato što su preživeli nezamislivo,
kao da su dva puta rođeni, među živim mrtvima,
kreću se među nama, tiho. Nedodirljivi.
                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***
U tišini: Ožalošćena

Treća izjava preživelog  

Na obodu grada beskrajnih mogućnosti,
blizu ušća dveju reka, gde se ukrštaju Islam i Evropa,
žena sedi pored očevog groba. Ona u Boga ne veruje,
ipak umrlome, koji je u njenim mislima veliki kao bog,
upućuje pitanja bez reči. Na grobu pažljivo
sređuje majsko cveće, raznobojni buket
kupljen u kiosku na uglu u blizini njenog dvosobnog stana
na osmom spratu bloka u ulici Narodnih heroja
gde živi sa svojom ćerkom iz razvedenog braka
i sa voljenim koji je ne voli. Ova žena je neodređenih godina,
u dobi je tek precvale lepote. Među grobovima i cvećem
sedi da bi pobegla i našla sebe. A umrli
kome se obraća, iako ona zna da njega nema nigde,
poslaće joj jasnije odgovore po iznenadnim preletima misli,
nego odgovori koje živi pletu od prevrtljivih tokova reči,
sjajno nanizanih, mnogostranih, sa iznošenim, izanđalim nitima,
sve dok hiljadu i jedna pojedinost nepravdi i radosti,
ne raspletu svoje zamršeno povesmo, dok ne povrate balast i ravnotežu,
lakorodne, oslobođene  želja, bacivši okove sećanja
u vazduh, kao prah. I mada se ništa ne menja
sve je promenjeno. Ona zna ko je, i da jeste, 
pa ćutke seda u tramvaj kući, žena tek precvale lepote,
darivana nemogućim u gradu mogućnosti,
produbljena, osvežena, smirena, zbog razgovora s mrtvim.

                                             Prevela sa engleskog Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

***

Pospremi kuću

Pospremi kuću za proleće. Svetlost neka je kupa,
prozore i pod operi, sve nek se blista.
Pusti unutra vetar koji na vrata lupa.

Jednog će dana naći lek, možda već sutra,
za kukavičluk, mito, surovost, zlodela čista,
pospremi kuću za proleće, svetlost neka je kupa,

nacrtaj divnu šaru, nemoj žvrljanja glupa,
već šaru prirodne pravde, za ceo svet da je ista,
pusti unutra vetar koji na vrata lupa.

A ljudska patnja? Plaćanja za nju su skupa.
U praksi, svaka je teorija skliska.
Pospremi kuću za proleće. Svetlost neka je kupa.

Jurimo kao muve bez glave. Tek trošna trupla
ili pepeo samo ostaće od nas, zaista.
Pusti unutra vetar koji na vrata lupa.

U ljubav jedino veruj. U više ništa.
Ljubav je sva naša snaga, sva ishodišta.
Pospremi kuću za proleće. Svetlost neka je kupa.
Pusti unutra vetar koji na vrata lupa.

                                           Prevela sa engleskog: Vera V. RADOJEVIĆ

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Vera V. Radojević, Belgrade, Serbia 

Vera V. Radojević has co-operated with Richard Berengarten in literary translation between Serbian and English since 1989. She has published her translations of the first two parts of Richard Berengartens Balkan Trilogy in Serbian (The Blue Butterfly and In a Time of Drought); and she has recently finished working on the third part (Under Balkan Light). Her translation of In a Time of Drought (U vreme suše, RAD, Belgrade, 2004) was awarded the international Morava Charter prize at Mrčajevci in 2005. Her translation of The Blue Butterfly (Plavi leptir, Plava tačka, Belgrade, 2008) was the basis for the Veliki školski čas performance at Šumarice on October 21, 2008, in commemoration of victims of the 1941 Nazi massacre – the first time that the work of a poet from outside former Yugoslavia was ever used for the entire oratorio. With Richard Berengarten, Vera V. Radojević has also co-translated the following: a book of poems by Duška Vrhovac, I Wear My Shadow Inside Me (Forest Books, London, 1991); May Peace be the Name of the Centuries (Mir neka je ime vekova, three-language edition) by Slobodan Pavičević (Kragujevački oktobar, Kragujevac, 2010); and a collection of unpublished epigrams by Vito Marković. Recently, she has also translated from Serbian into English three essays on Richard Berengarten’s work by the leading Serbian writers Aleksandar Petrov, Slobodan Rakitić and Svetozar Ignjačević, all of which appear in Richard Berengarten, a Critical Companion, (ed. Norman Jope, Paul Scott Derrick and Catherine E. Byfield, Salt Publishing, Cambridge 2011). Born in Belgrade, Vera V. Radojević has lived and worked in London, the USA and France. She lives and works in Belgrade.

PREVOD:
Vera V. Radojević  sarađuje sa Ričardom Berengartenom na književnim prevodima sa srpskog na engleski od 1989. godine. U njenom prevodu na srpski su objavljene prve dve knjige Balkanske trilogije Ričarda Berengartena (Plavi leptir i U vreme suše); nedavno je završila rad na trećoj knjizi (Podbalkanskim svetlom). Njen prevod In a Time of Drought (U vreme suše, RAD, Beograd, 2004) je dobio medjunarodnu nagradu Povelja Morave u Mrčajevcima 2005, dok je njen prevod knjige The Blue Butterfly (Plavi leptir, Plava Tačka, Beograd i Spomen-park Kragujevački oktobar, Kragujevac, 2008) poslužio kao podloga za predstavu na Velikom školskom času u Šumaricama 21. oktobra 2008. u spomen žrtvama nacističkog masakra 1941.  – prvi put da je delo nekog pesnika van prethodne Jugoslavije ikad korišćeno za celokupni oratorijum. Sa Ričardom Berengartenom, Vera V. Radojević je zajednički prevela i sledeće: knjigu pesama Duške Vrhovac, I Wear My Shadow Inside Me [Svoju dušu u sebi nosim] (Forest Books, London, 1991); May Peace be the Name of the Centuries [Mir neka je ime vekova] Slobodana Pavićevića, trojezično izdanje (Spomen-park Kragujevački oktobar, Kragujevac, 2010); kao i zbirku neobjavljenih epigrama Vite Markovića. Nedavno je takođe prevela sa srpskog na engleski tri eseja o Ričardu Berengartenu vodećih srpskih književnika Aleksandra Pertova, Slobodana Rakitića i Svetozara Ignjačevića, koji su svi objavljeni u knjizi Richard Berengarten, a Critical Companion [Kritički saputnik Ričarda Berengartena] (ed. Norman Jope, Paul Scott Derrick i Catherine E.Byfield, Salt Publishing, Kembridž 2011). Rođena u Beogradu, Vera V. Radojević je živela i radila u Londonu, SAD-u i Francuskoj. Živi i radi u Beogradu.  

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Richard Berengarten with colleagues poets

Sabahudin Hadzialic, Craig Czury and Richard Berengarten

Richard Berengarten, Sabahudin Hadžialić and Craig Czury

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Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara. 
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić

All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com

Contact Editorial board E-mail: [email protected];  
Narudžbe/Order: [email protected]
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić, 
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili 
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina   

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