DOBRIŠA
CESARIC
Born
1902, died 1980
FROM
CONTEMPORARY CROATIAN POETRY - TRANSLATIONS By ANTUN
NIZETEO and G. MARVIN TATUM
- - - -
Journal of Croatian Studies, XX, 1979, –
Annual Review of the Croatian Academy of America, Inc. New York, N.Y., Electronic edition by Studia Croatica, by permission. All rights
reserved by the Croatian Academy of America.
- - - -
Born in Slavonska Požega, lives in Zagreb. His books of
poetry are:
LIRIKA
[Lyric Poems] 1931, SPASENA SVIJETLA [The Saved Lights] 1938, IZABRANI STIHOVI
[Selected Verses) 1942, PJESME [Poems] 1951, KNJIGA PREPJEVA [A Book of
Translations] 1951, OSVIJETLJENI PUT [The Lighted Road] 1953, GOLI ČASOVI
[The Naked Hours] 1956, IZABRANE PJESME [Selected Poems) 1960, IZABRANA LIRIKA
(Selected Lyric Poems) 1975, SVIJETLA ZA DALJINE [Distant Lights] 1975, PJESME,
MEMORASKA PROZA [Poems. Prose Memoirs] 1976, IZABRANE PJESME
I PREPJEVI [Selected Poems and Translations] 1975, VOĆKA POSLIJE KIŠE [The
Fruit Tree after the Rain] 1977?
TRUBAČ SA SEINE (Matoš u Parizu)
|
THE TRUMPETER OF THE SEINE Matoš[i] in Paris |
Moja je soba tako jadno mala, Da ne bih u njoj izdržati mogo, Da mi oči ne sanjaju budne. Al ne ropćem. Sudbini velim: Hvala; Jer mojoj bijedi čudan sjaj je dala, I moje patnje nisu uzaludne.
|
My room is so meagerly small That I could not endure it If I did not daydream. But I don't complain. I say Thank you, destiny; For giving splendor to my misery So that my suffering is not in vain. |
Danas sam opet ručo
samo čaj. Al vlažna blagost sja u mome oku: Ja opet mislim na svoj rodni kraj. I čežnja preobražava mi javu: Sa Quaija mjesto Seine čujem Savu, I Tuškanac mi šumi iz aleja.
|
Today again my lunch was only a cup of tea. But my look is full of gentleness: Again I think of my native country. This dream is changing my reality: On the quay instead of the Seine I hear the Sava[ii] And here the alley is our Tuškanac.[iii] |
Na domovini dvostruka je sjena: Baca je Pešta, i baca je Beč. Ona je sva u crno zavijena — Ne ćuje, Majko, niko tvoju riječ! Mrmori, diše more, teče Drava, A izmedju
njih jedna zemlja zpava. |
On my country lies a double shadow: That of Vienna and that of Budapest. My native country is shrouded in black— And nobody, Mother, hears your voice! The sea keeps on breathing, the Drava flowing, And between them a country sleeps. |
Pod vedrim nebom slobodnog Pariza Koliko puta tuga me je srela U vrevi Étoilea, Saint-Michelea! O Bože moj, tu treba biti jak! U tome svjetlu još me više boli Rodjene moje grade gluhi mrak.
|
Free under the clear sky of Paris How many times have I felt despair In the crowds of the Étoile, Saint-Michele! O my God, give me strength! By this light I feel much more The pitch-dark night of my country. |
Udišem Pariz. Smjelim bijegom spasih Slobodnu dušu, ali ja
sam sin, A mojoj majci sve su sjede vlasi. Ja žene nemam, a ni druga nemam. Što još imadem? Samo jezik svoj, U koji život svoga srca spremam.
|
I breathe Paris. By bold flight I saved The freedom of my spirit, but I am also a son, And my mother is getting ever more grey. No wife, no comrade have I. What then do I have but my language In which I keep the life of my heart. |
Zanosi, misli, ritmovi i rime! Ja bezimen u bezimenu mnoštvu Daleko negdje stičem sebi ime. I muku mučim samca dezertera, Što zabranjenu domovinu sanja Na hartiji, u potezima pera.
|
Ecstasy, thoughts, rhythms, and rhymes! Anonymous in an unknown crowd, I am Making a name for myself somewhere far away. A deserter, I suffer here alone and dream of my forbidden country Only with the words of my pen. |
Pero ... ta mala, ta obična stvar, A kako živa, kako puna snage! Kad iz njeg teće novih riječičar, Omamljuju me kao govor drage.
Sva utjeha je u torn malom peru, Što pod njim niče, smije se i plače, I sja i grije, i vraća mi vjeru.
|
The pen... this small, curious thing, How vivid it is, and how strong! When from it flow the novel words Which enchant me like my sweetheart's speech.
All my comfort is in this little pen, From it stems my joy and my sorrow, In me it shines, it warms my faith. |
O Hrvatska, o moja domovino, Ti moja bajko, ti moja davnino! Ti porobljeni, oteti mi kraju! Gle, jadni dezerter ti daje dar, Bogatiji no kraljevi ga daju, I sav je ljubav, pobuna i žar. |
O Croatia, O my country, You, my fairy tale, you my past! You enslaved captive land of mine! Look, the poor deserter's gift Is richer than the kingly one, For it is love, ardor, and revolt. |
Ja, skoro
prosjak duh slobode širim, Pa ma i nemô na svom grobu
svijeću, Ja neću, neću, neću da se smirim. Ko svježi vjetar u sparinu pirim, A kada,umor svlada duše lijene, Na otpor trubim ja trubač sa Seine!
|
A beggar, I spread around the spirit of liberty, And I do not care if on my grave no candle will burn, I will not give in, never, never. As a fresh breeze in the heat I blow again, And when the lazy minds are tiring, I, the trumpeter of the Seine, Sound my call of resistance! |
Što mi je plaća? Mržnja gmizavaca, Što svoje blato lijepe o moj glas. Al ja pred licem roda stojim vedar. Za hljeb
slobode prilažem svoj klas: Zar nije zlatan i bogat i jedar?
|
And what is my pay? The hatred of the crawlers Who stick their mud to my repute But I face my people with serenity. For freedom's bread I give my grain: Is it not golden and sound and rich? |
O SATI SUMNJE, SATI BOLA
|
O HOURS OF DOUBT, HOURS OF PAIN |
O sati sumnje, sati bola, Ko stvara, taj vas kleti neće Jer radosti su male svijeće, A iz vas raste aureola.
|
O hours of doubt, hours of pain One who creates will never curse you For your joys are little candles, And your outcome is the aureole. |
Slabašnu djecu radost radja, I njezin porod brzo gine, A pjesme, rasplamsane bolom, Gore ko svjetla za daljine.
|
Weak children are born by joy, And its offspring will perish quickly, But poems fired by pain, Burn like lights in the distance. |