DRAGUTIN TADIJANOVIĆ

Born 1905 – Died 2007

Born in Rastušje, a village near Slavonski Brod. Lives in Zagreb. His books of poetry are:

LIRIKA [Lyric poems] 1931, SUNCE NAD ORANICAMA [The Sun over the Flowing Fields] 1933, PEPEO SRCA [Ashes of the Heart] 1936, DANI DJETINJSTVA [The Days of Childhood] 1937, TUGA ZEMLJE [The Sorrow of the Earth] 1942, PJESME [Poems] 1951, INTIMNA IZLOŽBA CRTEŽA IZ RABA [Intimate Exposition of the Drawings from Rab] 1954, BLAGAN ŽETVE [The Harvest Holiday] 1956, SREBRNE SVIRALE [The Silver Flutes] 1960, PRSTEN [The Ring] 1963, 1965, POEZIJA [Poetry] 1975, SABRANE PJESME [Collected Poems] 1976, SAN [The Dream] 1976.

JUTARNJA ZVIJEZDA POZLAČEN ORAH	THE MORNING STAR A GILDED WALNUT
Jutarnja zvijezda o nebo pribodena: Pozlaćen orah viseć na božićnom drvcu.	The morning star pinned upon the sky: A gilded walnut hanging on a Christmas tree.
Rasklopila je snene oči zora: Djevojčica razmažena, ljutita, Što su je tako rano bukom izbudili Još neispavanu.	The aurora reopened her sleepy eyes: A little girl, spoiled and angry That they had awakened her so early and so noisily, While she still wanted to sleep.
Uzduž potoka jabuke u cvjetanju mirišu; Na govedima klepke sve su glasnije.	Along the brook the apple trees are fragrant with blossoms; The cow-bells are ringing ever louder on the cattle.
Iz bliske niske fikare Dopire pjesma ptičija Do uha mome ocu ... Al on je ne sluša.	From the low copse nearby The song of the birds Reaches my father's ear… But he doesn't hear it.
Otac moj oruć vile na konje za plugom Pa nije ni primijetio, Kako se sjena konjâ prostrla do nakraj oranice, I kako se k nebu iz brazdâ para uzdiže Kao tamjan iz dragocjenih kadionica.	My father, plowing, is shouting to his plow-horses, So that he doesn't notice How the horses' shadow spreads over the field, Nor how steam from the furrows rises to the sky Like the incense from precious censers.

VEČER NAD GRADOM Firenze, Piazzale Michelangelo	EVENING OVER THE CITY Firenze, Piazzale Michelangelo
Šta te sputava, srce moje, da ne progovoriš iz dubinâ Kao orgulje skrivene a crnom lišću noći? Noćas gledaš, kako se odražava u Arnu red svjetiljaka Firentinskih.	What is impeding you, my heart, that you do not begin to speak from the depths Like the organs hidden in the black foliage of the night? You observe tonight how a row of lamps reflected in the Arno glitters, A row of Florentine lamps.
Zar nisi o tome davno sanjarilo U djetinjstvu, dok su nad glavom Drhtale zvijezde, u vinogradu? Noćas, gle! kako osjećaš vjetar, što dolijeta s Arna, Sa rijeke koju gledal otvorenim očima, A mogo bi je rukama grabiti kao vodu	Didn't you, in childhood long ago, Dream of this in the vineyard, While overhead the stars trembled? Tonight, look! How you feel the wind blowing from the Arno, From the river that you are watching with open eyes, And that you could dip out in your hands, like the water
S potoka u Rastušju. U Rastušju je mati, Moja mati, i moje sestre, i kuća. Jeste li spremile Ljetinu, vas tri koje ste same Ostale kod starinske kuće mojih djedova, Čuvajući oganj da ne zgasne med zidovima Doma, koji ostaviše muške ruke?	From the creek in Rastušje. Mother is in Rastušje, My mother and my sisters and my home. Have you already reaped The harvest, the three of you alone, Left behind in our old ancestral home, Watching to see that the fire is not extinguished within the walls Of the home deserted by men's hands?
Gledao sam Danas u San Lorenzu Zoru, koju stvoriše Ruke U tamnim tišinama mutnoga stoljeća; Bez prestanka mislim na ruke te I ne mogu da vjerujem, da su zaista Mrtve. Mrtve ruke. Oprostite mi, gospodine Michelangelo, što ja Raskidane misli redam nevješto a tihe rečenice.	I was looking today in San Lorenzo at the Aurora, created by Hands In the dark silences of the turbid century; I constantly think of these hands, And I can't believe that they are really Dead. Dead hands. Excuse me, Mr. Michelangelo, that I, Inexperienced, arrange disconnected thoughts in silent sentences.
Vi možda već znate, da sam ja pjesnik iz Hrvatske, Koji ne može da vjeruje, da su vaše ruke Mrtve. Mrtve ruke. Mislim na moje polje, koje su neznane Ruke požnjele; spavaj, srce moje, I ne slušaj muziku u gostionicama, I ne uzdiši, i ne plači nad rijekom Sa svjetlima. Ruka će sigurno Ugasiti svjetiljke. Spavaj. Spavaj, srce moje. Vjetar, i zlato, i kosti. I pepeo. Spavaj.	Maybe you already know that I am a poet from Croatia Who cannot believe that your hands are Dead. Dead hands. I think of my field which unknown Hands harvested; sleep, my heart, And listen no more to the music in the taverns, And sigh no more, cry no more on the river With the lights. A hand will surely Put out the lamps. Sleep. Sleep, my heart. The wind, and the gold, and the bones. And the ashes. Sleep.