MELANCHÓLIE MELANCHOLIAS
Kamil Peteraj trans. John Minahane
(from Slovak)

Svetlo sa zachycuje o konáre, pomaličky klesá
a augustový mesiac t'ažkne nad vinicou.
Akoby bol obrovským okom vody,
ktoré sa z hĺbky prevalilo
na nebo
a odtial' ticho ráta spätne bežiaci čas.

Svorky psov predo dvermi,
všetky stopy zmýlené,
akoby viedli len do zabudnutia... A prahy?
Také nizke, až sa ich bojíme prekročit'.

Často si mýlime kaluže s jazerami, šum s dychom,
náhody s posolstvami, nevyslovené so zamlčaným,
anjelský, rituál
s diabolskou komédiou:

a možno niekedy aj najdeme bod priezorný, kde vesmir
ukáže viac hlbky alebo len sekundový, virez
svojich napnutch odvrátenu
stranu nezachytitel'ného dotyku
vysky a priepasti zároven ...

Je miesto, z ktorého môžeš vojst' do oblohy
a zároveň zostupovat' na zem,
miesto, kde v hrobovom tichu počut'
esenciálny ml'askot štiav.

Vidíme, kol'ko sa urodilo tieňov.
A ty? Brodiš sa suchým pieskom
a vieš, že nič nezahojí puklinu,
ktorú nosíme v očiach.

V sol'ničke ruži mrzne pel'.

Úsvit, panenský a popraskaný,
je zrazu ako dno vel'kej lode,
ticho sa šinúcej medzi vetvami gaštanov.

Deň na predlžujúcom sa vlásku svetla padá do jesene.

A jeseň - na smrt' bledá,
plná haraburdia a mŕtvej lyriky,
odchádza
obrovskou prázdnou bránou

na jedinom hrkotavom voze
na obzore ...

Requiem listopádu ticho a spotene znie ...

Ó, tužba a strach splynút'! O, ničivé údery
na membrány sluchu! Tiché šialenstvo
mihotavej sviečky a modrých stúh a uprostred —
tvoj rýchlo sa miňajúci knôt!

Hl'a, pradávne tajomstvo, oddelené len vláskom
objatia cez bozk - prichádza
spájat' a delit' zároveň: v lôžku prázdneho vtáčieho hniezda
prebudi vysilenú smrt'.

Jeseň: sen, ktorý plynie ...
... ale nie sem. Napitá, nabitá
smútkom visiacej kvapky
kĺžucej sa
po prázdnom strome.

Na stenách vinič. Plazí sa
verne, od pomýlenej trčiacej vetvičky
až po suchý ornament.

Viem, budeme tiect' a vylievat' sa zo svojich brehov,
kým luna,
posúvajúc sa na svoje marginálne miesto
v chladúcej noci odratúvat' bude
ako obrovské hodiny

čas márny i plodný,
čas zberu a tichého chúlenia sa do seba.

Light catches on branches, falling little by little,
and the August moon grows heavy over the vineyard.
As if it were the giant eye of water
that has rolled up from the depths
to the sky
where it quietly reckons backward-running time.

Dog packs at the door,
all prints muddled,
seeming only to lead to oblivion ... And thresholds?
So low that we fear to cross.

Often we confuse puddles with lakes, rustlings with breath,
chance with portent, the unsaid with the suppressed,
angelic ritual
with devilish comedy:

and sometime too we may find a spyhole, where the universe
reveals more depth, or a moment's opening
of its taut strings, the other
side of the ungraspable touch
of altitude with abyss ...

There is a place where you may rise to the sky
and simultaneously descend to earth,
a place where in sepulchral silence
one hears the essential slurping of the sap.

We see how numerous the shadows are.
And you? Trudging through dry sand,
you know there is nothing that can heal the rift
we carry in our eyes.

In the roses' cruet the pollen will freeze.

Dawn, virginal and fissured,
is suddenlv like the keel of a great ship,
silently scudding between the chestnut sprays.

On a lengthening hair of light day falls into autumn.

And autumn – pale as death,
full of old junk and burnt-out lyrics,
departs
through a giant empty gate

on the single creaking wagon
on the horizon ...

The autumn requiem with a quiet sweat-sodden sound ...

Oh. desire and fear to fuse! Oh, ruinous blows
to the aural membranes! Silent lunacy
a flickering candle and blue ribbons and amidst –
n our quickly-wasting candlewick!

See, the primeval mystery, separated only by the hair
of embrace in a kiss – it comes
to weld and sever at once: in the bed of an empty bird's nest
it rouses feeble death.

Autumn: dream that flows ...
... but not hither. Saturated, fraught
with the grief of the hanging drop
sliding
down the bare tree.

Vine on the walls. It creeps
faithfully, from the straying twig
to the dry ornament.

I know we will flow and issue from our banks
while the moon,
shifting to its position on the margin,
in the cooling night will mark time
like an enormous clock

time vain and fruitful,
time of gathering and quiet huddling into oneself.

Copyright © Jan Buzassy 2010: transl. copyright © John Minahane 2010 - publ. Arc Publications


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