poborhya
V HORNÍ VSI IN HORNÍ VES
Zbynĕk Hejda tr. Bernard O'Donoghue with Šimon Danicek & Alexandra Büchler


Byla dvĕ slunce
tenkrát navečer.
„Zdálo se mi," řekla,
„jak stojím na zápraží
a maminka
mĕ volá na zahradu,
že jsou dvĕ slunce na obloze.
A já jí povídám,
jak je to divné,
že se mi už zdálo,
jak spolu stojíme
právĕ na tomto místĕ
a nad obzorem
dvĕ slunce jako matnicí
prosvítají".

A my tam stáli,
živí, skuteční,
tenkráte navečer,
kdy nad Vrchem
dvĕ matná podzimní
zapadala slunce.

A jednou v noci
nĕkdo tlouk.
Jdu otevřít
a ve vratech
maminka - třicet roků mrtvá.
Já mĕla radost ze shledání,
ale: „Proboha maminko,
jakpak vy víte,
kam jsem se přivdala?
A víte, J. že zemřel?"
„Dĕvenko, já vím všechno ..."
Vtom ale
jsem se probudila,
jak nĕkdo zatlouk
na vrata.
A otevřít
jsem nešla.

Zas bylo to v noci.
Vyšla jsem na zápraží.
Má mrtvá sestra,
bílá, stála na dvoře.
„Co ty tu?" řku.
A ona: „Dnes
J. hlídá hřbitov ..."
A tu zřím,
kterak snad lidské maso z úst ...
Bůh ví,
co se tam dálo ...

Cestou od Počátek
vracela jsem se za tmy domů.
Vĕdĕla jsem,
že všichni dávno zemřeli,
a přece, ta radost!,
doma se svítilo.
Rozebĕhla jsem se
jako šílená.
V kuchyni za stolem
sedĕl tatínek,
ale on na mĕ
hledĕl vyčitavĕ.

Před Cerekví
ještĕ u rybníka
bývala a je tam
kovárna.
My s tatínkem
chodívali jsme kolem.
Ten rok
chodilo se tudy
naposled.
Pak rybník přet'ali
novou cestou.
Před kovárnou
kovali konĕ.
Často a dlouho
stavali jsme tam.
Vloni v létĕ
zase jsem tudy šel.
Ta cesta pokamenila jaksi
i zarostla.
A kámen
zčernal na ní.
Vĕtvička suchá
praskla mi pod nohou.
Bože, já nepíšu básnĕ,
já pláču.


There were two suns
towards evening then.
"I dreamt," she said,
"that I am standing in the doorway
and Mum
is calling me out to the garden,
that there are two suns in the sky.
And I tell her
how strange it is,
that I have already dreamt,
that we are standing together
on the very spot
and above the horizon
two suns, as if through a filter,
are showing through."

And we were standing there,
living, real,
when, towards the evening,
above Vrch
two dim autumn
suns were setting.

And once at night
someone was banging on the gate.
I go to open it
and there at the gate was
my mother - dead for thirty years.
The meeting made me happy,
but: "How on earth, Mum,
can you know what family I married into?
And do you know
that J. has died?"
"My little girl, I know everything ..."
But at that point
I woke up
because someone had banged
on the gate.
But I didn't go
to open it.

It was night again.
I walked out of the house.
My dead sister,
white, was standing in the yard.
"What are you doing here?" I say.
And she: "Today,
J. is guarding the graveyard ..."
And suddenly I see
human flesh, perhaps, in her mouth ...
God knows
what was going on there ...

Along the road from Pocatky
I was going home in the dark.
I knew
that everyone had died long before,
and yet, what joy!,
the lights were on at home.
I started running
like a woman possessed.
At the kitchen table
my father was sitting,
but he was
looking at me reproachfully.

On the road to Cerekev,
by the pond,
there used to be - still is -
a forge.
Me and my Dad
used to pass it.
That year
was the last time
you could walk past it.
Then the pond was cut in two
by a new road.
In front of the forge
horses were shod.
Often we would stand there
for a long time.
Last summer
I went that way again.
The road had somehow grown stony
and overgrown.
And the stones
had turned black.
A dry stick
crackled under my foot.
Oh God! I am not writing poems,
I am crying.

Copyright © Zbynek Hejda 2007; trans. © Bernard O'Donoghue, Šimon Daníček & Alexandra Büchler 2007


...buy this book
next
index