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Seven Poems by Milena Marković

Translated from the Serbian by Steven Teref, Maja Teref
Translators' Note
the dog that ate the sun

 

 

once upon a time

there was a very hungry dog

every day he ate about three bigger

and four smaller

members of the human race

then he grew tired and fell asleep

spring came

the sun woke up the hungry dog

the dog jumped at the sun and swallowed it

this dog wants to swallow me too.

 

puppy dog, you puppy hound,

you beastly bastard

i gave you a small bone

the big one i tossed to the sparrows

and the swallows got eaten by pigeons

they overate and burst

there you go

they also ate that old lady

who fed them

all of her

bones and all

not a drop of blood left.

 

no sun, you hound

i came out once, it wasn’t there

i hid in the entryway and bolted out

so slick

it wasn’t there

only loony pera jerking off behind the bushes.

 

a toilet bowl

with a swirling ballerina

when you flush

you mustn’t lie on the floor

or rats will nibble on you.

 

i straddled the hound’s spine

and a dragon’s tail

we ate birds in flight

and frogs in mid-leap.

there needed to be a sacrifice

i shoved my head into the dog’s jaw

to tickle its maw

so he’d puke up the sun

the dragon leaves with the sunset

a really good cowboy

it has a poetic dimension

but i was digested long ago

and shat out as a fat turd.

 

 

 

 

 

the bombing

 

 

they’re all happy chewing

the weather’s nice at the daća

my arms and chest are catching

a suntan

i’m wondering if anyone wants me

happy is a newly minted widow

happy is an unborn child

never mind that its mother waits for a bus

which will never come

because that part of the city is now in ruins

we’re alive and healthy

our bridges closed

i put on lipstick

i want to fuck everyone

i’m alive and healthy

it’s springtime

there is no rain

it’s the best spring in recent memory

vojin is in artillery at the front

in a survival episode like a desert mole

he’s like a german who can’t venture into the forest

because of fucking guerillas there

bale is in the anti-aircraft unit

fat mare is a reserve cop

my godmother and i went to clean out the rowboat

by the river we realized how beautiful life can be

but then we couldn’t go there anymore

because they kept bombing

a nearby station

which i didn’t even know existed

i saw there

a soccer field for cops

then my godfather became a communications officer

around him everyone was dead drunk

spitting at the sky

they got turned on by a teenage girl

who jerked them off through the fence

my hair is filthy there is no water

my scalp is bleeding from scratching

i’m waiting for summer so i can wear a tube top

and go to the sava

they can keep bombing who gives a fuck.

 

 

 

Note: The daća is a memorial service with a priest held forty days after the funeral of the deceased. It involves food, so it’s also like a picnic with the dead. For example, if the deceased used to smoke, then you would place a lit cigarette in the ground for them. The forty-day observance without food is called the parastos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

posturing

 

 

i’m in berlin

i’m wearing new red boots

in berlin

very lively

i don’t live here

the spider on the window does

i leave it be

people ride their bikes a lot here

i don’t like it

because i don’t know how to ride a bike

i spend money

better spent on kids

i spend it

i carry a bottle of beer in my hand

through the streets

my eyes full of tears

when i should’ve travelled i couldn’t

i didn’t have money

i didn’t have papers

i had a small child

everything that came after

came too late

 

we sit in berlin

in café chagall

with a crazy russian doing pullups

to show off his strength

he has closely cropped hair

and with a welsh guy covered in ink

and probably on his ass too

 

at any minute

the russian could’ve said something

to start a fight

the welsh guy could’ve said something

and hit us with a blunt object

snatched my new boots and split

though it would’ve been hard to take them off

at any minute

anything could’ve happened

we could’ve cried and sung

and palled around

and slashed our wrists

who’s to say who lives and who dies

instead, we went for burritos

and watched rich american kids

hit on the waitress

the russian and the welsh guy
left behind, still posturing
didn’t end up fighting
and i’m still wearing my new
red boots.

 

 

 

 

 

the floor

 

 

my friend kova taught me

basic self-defense in my living room

in zvezdara by the đeram farmer’s market

while we drank red wine and listened to our rock gods.

we scraped our knees and elbows

a few times i managed to pin him down

but only after i kissed him first

then he laughed on the floor

bursting at the seams.

 

we danced in perfect circles

in the hallway and the living room while

the awakened righteous neighbors banged

the radiators and cut the power.

 

we sang at the top of our lungs

sometimes we even cried

i think he’d already fallen ill

through and through though it was

hard to pin him down.

 

i’m bursting with laughter, my dear friend

why couldn’t you make it, beautiful

since then, i haven’t

pinned anyone down.

 

 

 

 

 

you, brother

 

 

we sleep in the car

and outside it’s such a summer

that i feel like being a tree

all the time i imagine

what your skin feels like

i just want to look at you

skipping rope

that i twirl

you want me to be your pillow

while you wear a night cap

you squeeze me as you dream of

oncoming trains.

 

 

 

 

 

herzog

 

 

beer and tequila

and what’s that

after half a life

after all the beer and tequila and many years

what happened to that smart boy

who used to exercise on the crossbars and rocked in his chair

a virtuoso who had the answer to every question

but never raised his hand when the others didn’t know

so as not to embarrass them

so what happened

a foreign land

sold porn under the table

shot by a .38

had a few wives and a few children

and a shady shady life

a shady shady job

a shady shady man

from a snub-nosed boy

that’s what comes of evil times

and a foreign land

and who’s that man now

i don’t know him

what’s worse he scares me

and i don’t scare

easily

 

 

 

 

 

off i go

 

 

unlike carver, i don’t want a ship

i want a boat

a shallow, wooden one

with a strong engine

because water calms

water soothes

water tells you there is more

everything looks better

on the water

even those ghastly big ships

terrify when docked

not when they sail

even when a rat goes for a splash

it’s beautiful

in the water

full of shit

corpses

potato peels

and plastic bottles

but it flows and flows

there, where

i want to go.

 

 

 

 

Sedam Pesama Milena Marković

By Milena Marković
pas koji je pojo sunce

 

 

bio jednom jedan

mnogo gladan pas

svaki dan je jeo po troje velikih

i četvoro malih

pripadnika ljudske rase

onda se umorio i lego da spava

došlo je proleće

sunce je probudilo gladnog psa

pas je skočio na sunce i proguto ga

hoće pas i mene da proguta.

 

kuće pas, kučetu pasino,

psino mrcino

dam ti kost malu

veliku sam bacila vrapcima

a vrapce pojeli golubovi

prejeli se i pukli

eto

pojeli i onu babu

što ih je hranila

celu celcatu

sa sve kosti

ni kap krvi ostala.

 

nema sunca psino

izašla jednom, nema ga

sakrila se u ulaz i istrčala

na kvarno

nema ga

samo ludi pera drka iza žbunja.

 

klozetska šolja

sa balerinom koja igra

kad pustiš vodu

ne smeš da ležiš na podu

načeće te pacovi.

 

sela psini na kičmu

i zmaju na rep

jedemo ptice u letu

i žabe u skoku.

mora da padne žrtva

stavljam mu glavu u čeljust

da zagolicam ždrelo

onda će da povrati sunce

zmaj odlazi sa zalaskom

mnogo dobar kaubojac

ima poetsku dimenziju

samo sam ja davno svarena

i israna u govnetu debelom.

 

 

 

 

 

bombardovanje

  

 

srećni su svi i žvaću

na daći je vreme lepo

meni se hvata boja na rukama

i poprsju

razmišljam hoće li me neko

srećna je novopečena udovica

srećno je nerođeno dete

nema veze što mu majka čeka autobus

koji neće doći

jer je porušen deo grada

živi smo zdravi smo

mostovi zatvoreni

namazala sam karmin

jebe me sa sa svakim

živa sam zdrava sam

proleće je

nemamo ni kišu

ne pamtim ovakvo proleće

vojin je na frontu artiljerija

u epizodi opstanka pustinjska krtica

on je nemac i ne sme u šumu

tamo je jebena gerila

bale je pvo

debeli mare je u rezervnoj muriji

sa kumom sam išla da praznimo čamac

tamo smo shvatili kako je život lep

onda nismo mogli više da idemo

jer su stalno gađali

neku stanicu u blizini

nisam znala da ima stanica

videla sam samo

murijaški teren za fudbal

onda je kum otišao u veziste

tamo su svi bili mrtvi pijani

i pljuvali u nebo

hit je bila neka maloletnica

što je drkala preko žičane ograde

prljava mi je kosa nema vode

raščešljala sam se do krvi

čekam leto da obučem mišelinke

i odem na savu

onda nek gađaju ko im jebe mater.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

prebaci

 

 

ja sam u berlinu

imam nove crvene čizme

u berlinu

vrlo živom

tu ne živim

tu živi jedan pauk na prozoru

neću da ga diram

i ljudi mnogo voze bicikle

to mi se ne sviđa

jer ne znam da vozim bicikl

pare što trošim

otkidam deci od usta

trošim ih

nosim flašu piva u ruci

ulicama

i oči su mi pune suza

kad sam trebala da putujem nisam mogla

nisam imala para

nisam imala papire

imala sam dete malo

sve što je posle došlo

nije došlo na vreme

 

u berlinu sedimo

u kafani šagal

sa ludim rusom koji je radio zgibove

da nam pokaže koliko je snažan

glatko izbrijanim rusom

i sa jednim iz velsa koji se skroz iscrto

mora da ima nešto i na dupetu

 

moglo je da počne da se dešava

rus je mogao da prebaci

da krene da se bije

velšanin je mogao da prebaci

i da nas udari tupim predmetom

uzme moje nove čizme i pobegne

teško bi mi skinuo sa noge

moglo je da počne da se dešava

da plačemo i pevamo

i da se bratimimo

da se sečemo

pa ko živ ko mrtav

ovako smo otišli na buritose

i gledali bogatu američku decu

kako muvaju konobaricu

bez rusa i velšanina

oni su izvodili svoju tačku

i dalje

nisu prebacili

ja imam nove

crvene čizme.

 

 

 

 

 

patos

 

 

moj drug kova me je učio

temeljnoj samoodbrani u mojoj dnevnoj sobi

na zvezdari pored pijace đeram

dok smo pili crno vino i slušali naše bogove.

drali smo kolena i laktove

uspela sam nekoliko puta da ga oborim

ali samo kad bih ga pre toga poljubila

onda se on smejao na podu

takoreći puco je od smeha.

 

igrali smo u savršenim krugovima

po hodniku i dnevnoj sobi dok su

probuđene komšije pravednici lupali

u radijator i gasili struju.

 

pevali smo u dva jaka glasa

a ponekad i plakali

mislim da je već bio bolestan

iznutra i spolja mada ga je bilo

teško oboriti.

 

pucam od smeha dragi moj

što nisi izdržao još lutko lepa

od onda nikog nisam

oborila na patos.

 

 

 

 

 

brate

 

 

spavamo u kolima

a napolju je takvo leto

da mi dođe da budem drvo

stalno mislim

kakva ti je koža

hoću samo da te gledam

kad bi hteo da preskačeš konopac

koji ja vrtim

kad bi hteo da ti budem jastuk

a ti da nosiš noćnu kapu

da me stežeš dok sanjaš

vozove koji te stižu.

 

 

 

 

 

hercog

 

 

pivo i tekila

i šta je to

posle pola života

piva i tekile i raznih godina

šta je bilo sa onim pametnim dečakom

što je vežbao na prečki i klatio se na stolici

virtuozno i znao odgovor na svako pitanje

a nikad se nije javljao kad drugi ne zna

da ne ponizi

šta se desilo

tuđina

valjanje pornića

primljen metak triesosam

nekoliko žena i nekoliko dece

i mutan mutan život

mutan mutan posao

mutan mutan čovek

postao onaj prćasti dečak

šta su ti zla vremena

šta ti je tuđina

i ko je sad taj čovek

ja ga ne poznajem

što je još gore plašim se

a nije baš lako da se ja

uplašim.

 

 

 

 

 

odo

 

 

ja neću brod kao karver

hoću čamac

i to onaj plitki drveni

sa dobrim motorom

jer voda smiruje

voda blaži

voda ti kaže da ima još

sve lepše izgleda

na vodi

i oni grozni veliki brodovi

plaše kad stoje

ne kad plove

i pacov kad se praćakne

lep je

u vodi

i puna je govana

i leševa

i ljuski od krompira

i plastičnih flaša

al ide ide

tamo negde

gde hoću i ja.

Translators' Note

Milena Marković is a big city poet who revels in the crumbling concrete and shadowy figures of Belgrade and other European metropolises. Many of her poems are about living in a dingy urban world populated by the addicted, the down-and-out, the mad, the unseemly. Though tragedy may befall some of her characters, rarely is there judgment and never is there pity. There’s empathy and humor underlying her poems for the fallen. But sometimes, the most fallen figure is the speaker herself. The speaker is always someone in the world, not outside it looking in.

Knowing this, as translators, we have what we need to faithfully render Marković’s voice in English. Conversations with the poet have reinforced this idea for us. She insists her work remain explicit, direct, raw, casual. This blemished nakedness permeates her plays, her screenplays, and her poems. You can smell the stale sweat and greasy hair of her characters. This has been our lodestar.

As for our process, we weigh translation challenges against this backdrop. Take for instance, “the dog that ate the sun.” The title contains a dialectal past tense of eat. Instead of pojeo, Marković dropped the e to pojo. The closest equivalent in English would be et. The problem with et is that it positions the poem at the exact opposite of its milieu. Et is heard mostly in rural America, not in a place like urban Belgrade. A literal translation would rip the reader out of the poem. Another dialectal choice Marković made was in clipping progutao to proguto. Unlike pojo, proguto didn’t have a ready equivalent to draw on. We briefly toyed with words such as gobble or gulp but they didn’t capture the image of the dog nabbing the sun in one quick bite. We decided on swallowed as the best solution. In both cases, they were direct and clear. Trying to replicate the dialect would have gotten in the way of what makes the poem remarkable, which is the imagery. The neighbor Pera jerking off behind bushes. The speaker being shat out of a dog’s ass.

The poem “herzog” presented a challenge in determining which Herzog the poet had in mind. Was it Werner Herzog or Saul Bellow’s Herzog? What centered us in the poem was the character himself. The character was a misfit. Here was a “shady” figure who “sold porn under a table.” Was he not unlike a Woyzeck or an Aguirre? But, also, was he not unlike Bellow’s Herzog? This shadowy man straddled the weird and the macho. As it turned out, Marković had in mind Bellow but she revealed that the poem needed a “masculine” title and settled on the name of Bellow’s anti-hero.

The most challenging task for us proved to be the title of the poem “prebaci.” Before we zeroed in on “posturing,” we ran through a host of possibilities, each with their own dissonance. Prebaci can be a quip or gibe made in passing. But the poem itself is getting at something more. The centerpiece of the poem is the machismo tension between the Russian and tattooed Welsh tough guys. The physicality of the antagonists is unspoken, so the prebaci here is figurative. What we have here is the macho spectacle of yobbos, or more precisely, their posturing. One could say posing, but that would be judgmental, and the speaker herself is not judging them. In fact, she relates to them despite her acknowledging their potential threat. She uses the verb bratimiti se, which means “to fraternize with,” when she imagines hanging out with them as if she is one of the guys. It’s an empathetic sentiment. So, “posturing” is the more appropriate rendering of “prebaci.” 

Steven Teref
Maja Teref

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