Brana Petrović

BRANISLAV PETROVIĆ (1937-2002)

Branislav Petrović was born on 7th April 1937 in Bjeluša, near Ivanjica, and died on 25th September 2002 in Belgrade. He attended primary school in Slatina, grammar school in Čačak. He studied at the Faculty of Law in Belgrade, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in Belgrade, the Department of Yugoslav Literature and Serbo-Croatian Language.

His poetry was translated into Albanian, Arabian, English, Italian, Chinese, Hungarian, Macedonian, German, Norwegian, Polish, Portuguese, Romanian, Russian, Slovakian, Slovenian, Turkish, Ukrainian, French, Czech and Swedish.

He published the following collections of poetry: The Power of Speech (Prosveta, 1961), Construction Site (Prosveta, 1964), Оh, Damn You, Rige od Fere Street (Prosveta, 1970), Premonition of the Future (Srpska književna zadruga, 1973), On the Trail of Dust (Glas, 1976), Increasingly Alone (Narodna knjiga and BIGZ, 1977), Lo and Behold (Jedinstvo, 1990), Squaring the Circle (NIN, 1999). The collection Cosmos Burns was published posthumously (NIN, 2004).

He was the Editor of the Prosveta publishing house and the Editor-in-Chief of the third series of Srpski književni glasnik.

Apart from poetry, he wrote literature for children.

For his literary work, he received the following accolades:

1961 the “Mladost” award for the collection The Power of Speech;

1967 the “Rade Drainac” award for a collection of poems in manuscript form;

1970 the annual award of the Vojvodina Section of the Writers’ Association of Serbia, for the collection The Heart of Heart;

1971 the “Isidora Sekulić” award for the collection Oh, Damn You, Rige od Fere Street;

1971 the “Jefimijini dani [Jefimija’s Days]” award;

1973 the “Branko Miljković” award for the collection Premonition of the Future;

1975 the “Zlatna struna [Golden String]” award;

1987 the “Borski grumen [The Nugget of Bor]” award;

1988 the October Award of the City of Belgrade;

1991 the “Zmaj Award” for the collection Lo and Behold;

1993 the “Biblios” award;

1994 the “Zlatni beočug [Golden Link]” award;

1997 the “Zaplanjski Orfej [The Orpheus of Zaplanje]” award, for the poem “The Departure of Bohumil Hrabal”;

1998 the “Žička hrisovulja [The Žiča Chrysobull]” award;

1999 the “Jovan Hadži Kostić” award for newspaper satire;

1999 the “Dis Award”;

2000 the “Belovodsk Rosetta” award;

2002 the “Desanka Maksimović” award.

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THE POWER OF SPEECH

The power of breathing the power of trees to grow right

the power of the house to suddenly collapse upon the head of a sleeper right

but

the power of speech is a special and the greatest power

the power of speech the power of speech the power of speech

the power of speech

I can say ARM EMBRACE THIS LIGHT

and my arm obediently

in a beautiful way

embraces the shining wonder while walking

and I can say EARTH YOU ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL TOY

IN MY ROOM

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL ONE IN MY HAND

and immediately afterwards EARTH YOU ARE AN INSIDIOUS CHEAT

I’LL BITE YOU LIKE A DOG

and right after that THIS BULL IS WORTH MORE THAN

A MOUNTAIN FROM WHICH WATER FLOWS 

then I lie down in the grass

lay my head on a warm stone

to sleep interminably the way coal sleeps

and when I wake up (and that I admit is

a power that defies understanding) and see a tree I can say TREE

and when I see the sun I can say SUN

and when I see the son of man I can say BOY

then BOY BOY BOY

but Henri Michaux would then exclaim differently

he would say GARÇON then GARÇON GARÇON GARÇON GARÇON

and our bronze words would mingle in the field

and if Pasternak came along

with his smile reminiscent of a snake ready to pounce

all the flowers in the field would turn

some would even tear themselves from the ground for

they are from distant meadows

and would like to hear

this wonderful confusion

MALCHIK BOY GARÇON

MALCHIK BOY GARÇON

MALCHIK BOY GARÇON

MALCHIK BOY GARÇON

and thus indefinitely the power of speech.

ESSAY ON ICE

Everything is ice already. As is the thought of ice as transcendence.

As is the censer on the grave, the incense and wreaths.

And the (chilled) chaffinch, alighted on the cross, frozen in a moment:

It fluttered off, quite simply, to its avian universe.

And the memory of you turned to ice:

Turned small, minuscule, smaller than a drop of dew.

And that salamander of ours, with a terrible squeak, turned to ice.

So did the bees, the brave hornet, the wasps.

And our white house, in front of which a cow grazes.

And the morning star above our house turned to ice.

The vineyard is frozen, the wine, and the dreams sealed in wine.

And poetry also turned to ice. As did David’s psalms.

My thought unquestionably won’t let me

See anything but the ubiquitous ice.

Maker, mad force, you ingenious euphoria!

You are ice, too. And everything that you created is ice.

ON THE ROAD TO NOVI SAD

On the road to Novi Sad

somewhere near Inđija

we fell asleep one evening

in the grass among the clouds

Our star kept us warm

with its icy eyes

the wind read poets to us

with whom he’d kept company

In the tavern AT THE WHITE HART’S

in an unknown town

we drank that strong brandy

from an antique jug

When we arrived on Mt Fruška

wild apricots were in bloom

it looked as if we were dreaming

parting with our souls

And when we saw the Danube

coming from the direction of Sremski Karlovci

our hearts started dancing

four hearts inside each one of us

In Karlovci they greeted us

with flat round bread and heavenly fire

they showed us the grammar school

and various other wondrous sights

They offered us eastern wines

that they import from Hungary

for wines from Mt Fruška

are preserved for gods

Returning from those parts

four weeks later

it was as if we’d died

from those heavenly wild apricots

 

   

THE DEPARTURE OF BOHUMIL HRABAL

My pal, friend and wedding witness

Bohumil Hrabal,

A poet from the golden city of Prague,

“Fell from a hospital window

While feeding pigeons”.

That’s what the agencies’ reports said.

However, it is not nice to use the word Fell

speaking of a gentleman who Flew away.

To fall and to fly away are not one and the same thing.

Such imprecision saddens the heart.

And Bohumil Hrabal was not feeding pigeons

As hack writers report

Pigeons were feeding him

In the noble poverty and glory of senescence.

The pigeons of his city

Fed him with crumbs of light.

To make his wings stronger.

So that he should be strong when he flew away.

 

VERSES ON GARBAGE

1

For a long time it was believed that the first

Force in the world was the force of the Worm.

But when the mighty garbage prevails

There will be no worms in the world.

No worms or carrion or venomous viper,

Nor ear listening to nightingales.

No cat or dog, no beast whatsoever

Nor eye watching lakes.

No octopus or crab or stingray,

Or language to say all that.

European art, African flowers

Everything will be one garbage pile.

Everything will be devoured

By cloaca mundi ready to pounce.

                         2

In books is the seed of garbage. It stinks.

But it smells wondrous well to the book-lover, the boss.

The lyrical poem rots. And the epic one smells

Of the corpse of the hero and its horse.

Drama disintegrates. Theatricals will be of no help.

To Jefimija, daughter of the master of Drama.

Tragedy stinks. I’m afraid not even garbage

Will have it with all that stench.

The novel, old scoundrel, cares not one bit

Whether it’ll end up as faeces or slop.

Collections of papers, dictionaries, historical writings –

They all hang on a thread above the garbage dump.

Scientific treatises, political articles –

They’re all chained fast to garbage.

Fearsome dragons will gorge with gusto

On intimate diaries, letters memoirs.

And as for the book-lover? Why, he’ll

Follow the path of all the books, jars, underpants, fruit. 

                          3

The fridge, too, is full of garbage,

Eggplant, peppers that swell.

Never mind the yoghurt, but it’s too bad

That liver paste will end up the garbage dump.

To be followed by the famous sausage of Kranj,

Looking like last year’s carrion.

Bologna sausage is good for nothing else as well,

But woe of woes, bacon will also follow suit!

All those stews, noodles and soups

Go to the garbage dump without a fight.

The egg is pugnacious, but nevertheless,

Garbage awaits it with a spoon.

                           4

And what will you contribute to the garbage all around?

Socks, underpants, your canine soul?

No one will hold it against you (and must not do so)

If you contribute poems to the ubiquitous garbage.

To the steaming heaps of garbage

Add the vomited contents of your heart, soul.

Will those bottles, plastic goods, cloths,

Be able to withstand the garbage of your spirit?

Will the spirits of garbage admit you

And your flights of inspiration, metaphors, rhymes?

Along with great garbage let

Your poems, too, run against rivers.

Let them charge against a branch, a leaf –

Who gives you the right to remain pure?

Let them charge against bees, beetles –

Who gives them the right to love, as opposed to all the rest?

In a time of garbage, whatever does not want

To become garbage is garbage already.

And you yourself, at peace with the world,

Follow the rubbish, joined with the garbage.

Translated from Serbian by Novica Petrović