Estetika (Slovak)
1
Podivní vojaci
v krčme na spadnutie
prevraciame nočnú oblohu
jak veľký čierny džbán.
Popíjame unavené dažde jesene.
A tak pozde
a tak márne
atak slnka začne sa.
Kohúty už odtrúbili dávno svitanie.
Na nás si ľahla noc.
Útočí na nás bubnová paľba melanchólie,
tlačí nás k zemi slzotvorný spleen.
A oddávna pletie sa nám v pomätenej mysli
smutná, malá násobilka odvahy:
Píšeme
zotierame,
zotierame,
zotierame,
2
A potom ráno:
Akýsi priateľ,
dobrý známy,
akási kdesi videná už tvár
pozerá na mňa oknom kaviarne.
Vstane, kývne prstom, zahrozí,
povetrie je plné ekrazitu
a nad nami detonujú oblaky.
- Básnik, uteč, básnik, mlč!
Premieľaj si na obdratom mlynku
perly sĺz,
krúpy hviezdičiek,
neskonalej lásky
sladký perníček.
Básnik, mlč!
3
To som ja,
zafúľaný večný učeň múz.
Zavesil som sa na krk životu,
napil som sa jeho horkej krvi.
A teraz vystupujem zo seba
jak rieka z brehov
a nesiem slovo ešte žeravé,
slovo ešte nenarodené a slepé,
spravím vám z neho krásnu sponu do vlasov,
ostrý nôž a pluh
a všetko, čo sa vám len zachce,
každý predmet nevyhnutný pre šťastie.
Rozkážte, a budú kvitnúť stromy.
Povedzte, a bude zvoniť štrk.
Usínať budete s mojím slovom v srdci
a zobúdzať vás bude k životu.
Ale keď raz
v studenom a hustom daždi
pocestujeme spolu do práce
a ukradomky dotýkať sa budem
vašich vlhkých plášťov,
usmejte sa na mňa
aspoň očami. | Publisher | Dotyky |
| Source of the quotation | http://www.zones.sk/ |
|
Aesthetics (English)
1
Odd soldiers
in the dilapidated tavern
we’ve overturned the night sky
like a great black jug.
We guzzle the tired Autumn rains.
And so behindhand
and so pointlessly
the attack of the sun will begin.
Cocks have tarantara’d the dawn long since.
In us the night lies down.We’re assailed by a drumming fusillade of melancholy,
a tearful spleen forces us down upon the earth.And from the not-so-distant past a sad, small
multiplication table of courage tangles in us:
We writewe erase,
we erase,
we erase.
2
And afterwards the morning:
Some pal,well known,some face already seen somewhere
regards me through the cafe window.
Standing, finger-wagging he warns
the atmosphere is full of cordite
and the clouds above us detonate.
- Poet, flee, poet, be silent!
Grind in a run-down little mill
pearls of tears,
a barley of stars
undying love
sweet gingerbread.
Poet, be silent!
3
It's me,
the soiled eternal student of the muses.
I hung myself on the throat of life,
I drank his bitter blood.
And now I break out from myself
like a river from its banks
and I bear a word still red hot,
a word yet to be born and blind,
I'll fashion from it a lovely grip for your hair,
a sharp knife and a plough
and anything that you desire,
each object essential for happiness.
Command and the trees will bloom.
Say the word and gravel will ring.
You'll fall asleep with my word in your heart
and it'll wake you up to life.
But once when
in thick cold rain
we go to work together
and I touch furtively
your damp raincoat,
smile at me
at least with your eyes.
| Source of the quotation | 100 Years of Slovak Literature, Vilenica |
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