NIKOLA ŠOP

Born 1904

Born in Jajce, Bosnia. Lives in Zagreb, immobilized by a grave illness. His books of poetry are:

PJESME SIROMAŠNOG SINA [Poems of a Poor Son) 1926, NOKTURNO [Nocturne] 1928, ISUS I MOJA SJENA [Jesus and My Shadow] 1934, OD RANIH DO KASNIH PIJETLOVA [From the Early to the Late Cocks] 1939, TAT I MJESEČINA [The Thief and the Moonlight] 1924, TAJANSTVENA PRELA [The Mysterious Spinnings] 1943, ZA KASNIM STOLOM [At the Late Table] 1943, ASTRALI JE [The Astral Poems] 1961, POEZIJA [Poetry] 1961, POHODI [Visits] 1972, DOK SVEMIRI VENU [While Universes Wither Away] 1975, IZABRANE PJESME, [Selected Poems] 1978.

ISUS ČITA NOVINE	JESUS READS THE NEWSPAPER
Znam, dobri moj Isuse, kad jedne kiše duge, donesem ti za večeru hljeb skriven pod skut, ulazeći u sobu, vidjet ću pun tuge tvoj sveti lik nad novine nagnut.	I know, my good Jesus, that after a long rainy day when I bring you, hidden under my coat, a loaf of bread for your supper, I know that entering your room I will see your saintly figure bent sadly over the newspapers.
I nezapažen kraj tebe ću sjesti, gledajuć mračenje na tvome licu čistom. Dok pogledom prelijećeš od vijesti do vijesti. Dok uzbudjeno prevrćeš list za listom.	And unobserved I will sit down next to you and watch how your serene face becomes dejected, while your glance keeps moving from news-item to news-item, as excitedly you turn page after page.
Čime ću moći da te tješim u tom času, Stojeći pred tobom, sav stidom obuzet. I da li bih imao dosta snage u svom glasu, kada bih pred tobom branio ovaj svijet.	How could I console you in that moment, Standing in front of you so ashamed. Would that I had enough force in my voice, standing in front of you, to defend this world.
Na telka ta slova pao bih svojim stasom malim, Radost čovjeka bi u oku mome zasijala. Pusti, rekao bih ti jedva glasom uzdrhtalim, nek se i dalje vrti nala zemlja mala.	I wish I could cover with my body those painful words and reflect in my eye the joy of man: With a hardly trembling voice I would say to you "Let our little earth keep turning."
Onda bih sasvim tiho izilo pred vrata. I pustio da ostanel sam u svome bolu. Moleći pred pragom, da tvoj gnjev umiri mirisni, blagi kruh na stolu.	After that I would go very quietly through the door. And I would leave you alone with your pain, praying on the threshold that your anger might be softened by the fragrant and soft bread.

KUDA BIH VODIO ISUSA	WHERE I WOULD TAKE JESUS
Isuse blagi, u doba kasnih sati, kad još bdiju siromasi tvoji, Skromnom krojaču odvest ću te, da ti jedno obično odijelo skroji.	Sweet Jesus, in these late hours, when your poor people still keep watch, I will take you to an humble tailor, for him to cut you out a simple suit.
I obućaru malom, koji svu noć kuje oštre čavle u teški potplat. Dok tvornice cipela žučno bruje. Milion pari skuju za jedan sat.	And to the little shoemaker who all night long keeps hammering sharp nails into the hard soles, while the shoe-factories grimly hum turning out a million pairs per hour.
Zatim čovjeku, koji šešire pravi, sa spuštenim obodom, da skriju bol. Jedan će da se nakrivi i na tvojoj glavi. Prostran da u se primi i tvoj oreol.	After that to the man who makes the hats with the lowered brim to hide the pain. One of those you will cock on your head, a broad one to hide your aureole.
Onda ćemo poći u krčmu kraj grada, koja liči na stari, nasukani brod. Gdje braća za stolom, od silnog jada bacaju čafe i šešire na pod.	Then we will go to an inn on the edge of town, similar to an old stranded ship, where your brothers about the table, when seized by grief, hurl their glasses and hats to the floor.
Prvi krik pijetla bit će britka strijela, od koje će ti srce da krvari. Drugi krik pijetla bit će mrak u dnu čela. Prepoznat nećeš ni ljude ni stvari.	The first cockcrow will be a sharpedged arrow causing your heart to bleed. From the second cockcrow your forehead will darken: you will recognize neither the people nor the things around you.
A trećim krikom kad se pijetli jave, o Isuse, zateturat ćeš od bola. Tvoj šešir će pasti s glave. Šešir i aureola.	And by the third cockcrow, O Jesus, you will stagger up from the pain. Your hat will fall from your head. Your hat and your aureole.