PASKAL PETI

Paskal Peti živi u Londonu. Bavila se likovnom umetnošću, vajarstvom, bila je urednik za poeziju za Poetry London, drži kurseve poezije. Objavila je pet zbirki poezije: Srce jelena (Heart of a Deer, Enitharmon, 1998), Zoo otac (The Zoo Father, Seren, 2001), Lovkinja (The Huntress, Seren, 2005), Priča čuvara drveta (The Treekeeper’s Tale, Seren, 2008) i Šta mi je voda dala: pesme po Fridi Kalo (What the Water Gave Me: Poems after Frida Kahlo, Seren, UK, 2010; Black Lawrence Press, US edition, 2011). Poslednja zbirka pesama bila je u užem izboru za nagrade T.S. Eliot i Velška knjiga godine, a proglašena je knjigom godine u Observeru. Zbirke Lovkinja i Zoo otac takođe su ulazile u uži izbor za nagradu T.S. Eliot. Zoo otac je dobio više nagrada, proglašen je knjigom godine u časopisima Independent i Times Literary Supplement, a kao delo u nastajanju dobio je dve velike stipendije Umetničkog saveta Engleske.

www.pascalepetit.co.uk

www.pascalepetit.blogspot.com

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Pascale Petit (France/Great Britain)

From the book The Zoo Father, translated from English by Milan Dobričić, Treći Trg, 2012.

The Strait-Jackets

I lay the suitcase on Father’s bed

and unzip it slowly, gently.

Inside, packed in cloth strait-jackets

lie forty live hummingbirds

tied down in rows, each tiny head

cushioned on a swaddled body.

I feed them from a flask of sugar water,

inserting every bill into the pipette,

then unwind their bindings

so Father can see their changing colours

as they dart around his room.

They hover inches from his face

as if he’s a flower, their humming

just audible above the oxygen recycler.

For the first time since I’ve arrived

he’s breathing easily, the cannula

attached to his nostrils almost slips out.

I don’t know how long we sit there

but when I next glance at his face

he’s asleep, lights from their feathers

still playing on his eyelids and cheeks.

It takes me hours to catch them all

and wrap them in their strait-jackets.

I work quietly, he’s in such

a deep sleep he doesn’t wake once.

Embrace of the Electric Eel

For thirty-five years, Father, you were a numb-fish,

I couldn’t quite remember what it felt like

that last time you hugged me when I was eight,

just before you went away.

But when you summon me to your stagnant pool,

Dad, Papa, whatever I should call the creature

that you are, now you finally ask for my love:

do you think I’ve become strong as the horses

Humboldt forced into a stream

to test the voltage of Amazonian eels?

He had never witnessed

“such a picturesque spectacle of nature”

as those great eels clamped against the bellies

of his threshing horses, how their eyes

almost popped out and their manes stood on end.

Though the jolt alone did not kill them,

many were so stunned they drowned.

That’s how it is, Father, when you open your arms

and press your entire length against my trunk.

Self-Portrait with Fire Ants

To visit you Father, I wear a mask of fire ants.

When I sit waiting for you to explain

why you abandoned me when I was eight

they file in, their red bodies

massing around my eyes, stinging my pupils white

until I’m blind. Then they attack my mouth.

I try to lick them but they climb down my gullet

until an entire swarm stings my stomach,

while you must become a giant anteater,

push your long sticky tongue down my throat,

as you once did to my baby brother,

French-kissing him while he pretended to sleep.

I can’t remember what you did to me, but the ants know.

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Paskal Peti (Pascale Petit, Francuska/Velika Britanija)

Zoo otac, preveo sa engleskog Milan Dobričić, Treći Trg,  2012.

LUDAČKE KOŠULJE

Polažem kofer na Očev krevet

i odšniravam lagano, nežno.

Unutra, spakovani u suknene ludačke košulje,

leži četrdeset živih kolibrija

svezanih u redove, svaka majušna glava

položena na povijeno telo.

Pojim ih iz pljoske šećernom vodicom,

uvlačeći svaki kljun u pipetu,

zatim odmotavam njihove poveze

kako bi Otac mogao da vidi promenu njihovih boja

dok lepršaju po njegovoj sobi.

Oni lebde tik iznad njegovog lica

kao da je on cvet, njihovo zujanje

jedva čujno iznad aparata za kiseonik.

Po prvi put od kada sam stigla

on diše lako, kanila

zakačena za njegove nozdrve gotovo isklizava.

Ne znam koliko dugo tako sedimo

ali kada sledeći put bacim pogled na njegovo lice

on je zaspao, svetla s njihovih pera

još uvek igraju na njegovim kapcima i obrazima.

Potrebni su mi sati da ih sve pohvatam

i uvijem u njihove ludačke košulje.

Radim tiho, on je tako

duboko u snu da se nijednom ne budi.

ZAGRLJAJ ELEKTRIČNE JEGULJE

Trideset pet godina, Oče, bio si električna raža,

nisam se mogla baš setiti kakav je osećaj bio

poslednji put kad si me zagrlio kada sam imala osam godina,

baš pre nego što si otišao.

Ali kada me prizoveš u svoj ustajao bazen,

Tata, Tajo, kako god bi trebalo da zovem biće

koje jesi, sada napokon tražiš moju ljubav:

misliš li da sam postala snažna poput konja

koje je Humbolt saterao u potok

kako bi testirao napon amazonskih jegulja?

On nikad nije prisustvovao

„tako slikovitom spektaklu prirode“

dok su se te velike jegulje stezale oko stomaka

njegovih pomahnitalih konja, kako su njihove oči

gotovo iskočile a njihove grive se nakostrešile.

Mada ih sâm udar nije ubio,

mnogi su bili toliko ošamućeni da su se udavili.

Tako je to, Oče, kada raširiš svoje ruke

i pripiješ se celom dužinom uz moj torzo.

AUTOPORTRET SA VATRENIM MRAVIMA

Da bih te posetila, Oče, nosim masku od vatrenih mrava.

Kada sedim čekajući da objasniš

zašto si me napustio kad sam imala osam godina

oni uđu jedan po jedan, njihova crvena tela

gomilaju se oko mojih očiju, ubadajući moje zenice dok ne pobele

i ne oslepim. Zatim napadnu moja usta.

Probam da ih oližem, ali silaze niz moj jednjak

dok ceo roj ne ubada moj želudac,

a ti moraš postati džinovski mravojed,

gurnuti svoj dugi lepljivi jezik niz moje grlo,

kao što si jednom učinio mom mlađem bratu,

francuskim poljupcem dok se pretvarao da spava.

Ne mogu se setiti šta si učinio meni, ali mravi znaju.