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Boland, Eavan: Nar (The Pomegranate in Serbian)

Portre of Boland, Eavan
Portre of Fehér Illés

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The Pomegranate (English)

The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell.
And found and rescued there.
Love and blackmail are the gist of it.
Ceres and Persephone the names.
And the best thing about the legend is
I can enter it anywhere.  And have.
As a child in exile in
a city of fogs and strange consonants,
I read it first and at first I was
an exiled child in the crackling dusk of
the underworld, the stars blighted.  Later
I walked out in a summer twilight
searching for my daughter at bed-time.
When she came running I was ready
to make any bargain to keep her.
I carried her back past whitebeams
and wasps and honey-scented buddleias.
But I was Ceres then and I knew
winter was in store for every leaf
on every tree on that road.
Was inescapable for each one we passed.
And for me.
                    It is winter
and the stars are hidden.
I climb the stairs and stand where I can see
my child asleep beside her teen magazines,
her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.
The pomegranate!  How did I forget it?
She could have come home and been safe
and ended the story and all
our heart-broken searching but she reached
out a hand and plucked a pomegranate.
She put out her hand and pulled down
the French sound for apple and
the noise of stone and the proof
that even in the place of death,
at the heart of legend, in the midst
of rocks full of unshed tears
ready to be diamonds by the time
the story was told, a child can be
hungry.  I could warn her.  There is still a chance.
The rain is cold.  The road is flint-coloured.
The suburb has cars and cable television.
The veiled stars are above ground.
It is another world.  But what else
can a mother give her daughter but such
beautiful rifts in time?
If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.
The legend will be hers as well as mine. 
She will enter it.  As I have.
She will wake up.  She will hold
the papery flushed skin in her hand.
And to her lips.  I will say nothing.



Uploaded byP. T.
Source of the quotationhttp://www.poets.org

Nar (Serbian)

Tek jedna legenda mi je draga,
mit o devojci u paklu izgubljenoj.
I nađena je tamo i spašena.
Suština priče je ljubav i ucena.
Imena su Ceres i Persefone.
I što je najbolje u toj legendi da bilo gde
mogu pristupiti. Ostaje sa mnom.
Prvi put kao dete,
u izgnanstvu, u gradu magle i čudnih
suglasnika čitala i u početku
u podzemlju prognano dete bila,
praskajući sumrak, zvezda na samrti. Kasnije
u letnjem predvečerju krenula u potragu
za mojom kćerkom da nju u krevet stavim.
Kako se trčeći približavala bila sam spremna
sve dati samo da nju ne bi izgubila.
Pored oskoruša, osinjaka i bandleira
mirisa meda nosila nju u kuću.
Ali tad sam Ceses bila i znala sam
da na tom putu u svakom lišću
svakog drveta zima drema.
Spasa nije bilo.
Ni za mene.
                    Zima je
i zvezde su skrivene.
Popnem se stepenicama i vidim kćerka mi
spava, pored nje magazin za mlade,
kola i tacna sa netknutom voćem.
Nar! Kako sam mogla zaboraviti?
Mogla bi kući doći i biti bezbedna
i bio bi kraj događaju, čitavom
srceparajućem ispitivanju, ali
ona je otkinula nar.
Ispružila se i skinula francusko
ime jabuke i glas
stene i izvesnost
da čak i na mestu smrti,
u srcu legende, među stenama
u kojima neoplakivane suze
spremne su da se u dijamant pretvore,
za vreme dok je priča pričana dete
se ogladnio. Mogla bi nju upozoriti. Još ima šanse.
Kiša je hladna. Cesta je boje kremena.
U predgrađu auta i kablovska televijia.
Zastrte zvezde negde gore titraju.
To je drugi svet. No šta još može
dati majka svojoj kćerci ako ne tako
krasnu pukotinu u vremenu?
Odgađam li tugu umanjujem čar.
Legenda će njen biti kao što je i moja bila.
Može pristupiti. Kao i ja.
Probudiće se. Uzeće u ruke
crvenkastu, papirnatu ljusku.
Podićiće do usne. Ništa neću reći.



Uploaded byFehér Illés
Source of the quotationhttp://feherilles.blogspot.com

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