Poetryzine magazine presents the selected poems by the Croatian poet Marija Juracic
One harsh Moscow winter
That winter, Moscow was still red
Lenin shamelessly exposed
and long shadows followed our footsteps.
The city embraced us quietly, secretly,
open nostrils, it breathed us eagerly
we smelled of spring.
It offered us Red Square
and the St. Basil's Cathedral
and we were looking for Yesenin.
I asked you which pubs he went to
whether he shook off the snow with his boots
whether he wore a hat, cursed vulgarly this Russian winter.
The city offered us Lomonosov and golden domes
and I asked you why Blok set the library on fire
and whether it hurts him much.
And what about Mayakovsky? We were looking for Gilbert
and his Nathalie, searched the inns
by jukeboxes, but they were nowhere to be found.
Only the three of us are covered in sable
carried through the snow, and her flags clearly sounded some distant, lost winters.
Moon over Granada is silent
(For Lorca)
That spring Granada was touristically lavish
It hugged us with the charm of an old lady
whose lace smells secret.
Your boyish way and man's look
which you caressed me with, stolen kisses
it was all a bright, colorful postcard.
We drank sangria from tall, cold glasses
you bought me flowers in the square,
and I did
she thought of him the whole time.
Black mare, red Moon.
Granada did not protect him. I think he's still traveling
in the company of two bullfighters and one teacher.
Black mare, red Moon.
The moon was high, a silent witness,
painfully beautiful.
It was bright that black night.
I also remembered the one-bearded, talented one
of an Andalusian dog who cruelly humiliated him
rolled in the mud.
He wanted to shock me with that stupid one too
cut pupil
cut across the Sun.
I told you he was a freak and I didn't like him
neither him nor his pictures, and you laughed
as he would laugh at a child who does not know what he is saying.
Mare black, red moon.
He was afraid. I know he was afraid because we are all afraid.
And I was watching the moon over Granada.
I wanted, I desperately wanted to take the film back
rewind life, but there was no film.
Only the red moon cried over Granada.
I give you these poems
I give you these poems
if you return to me the verses
for you written.
Give me back my flowers
of white wax
of a blue dream.
And return to me the burned candles
and I'll give you a full glass
of black stars
out the eye dropped.
If this isn't a real song
because in a real song I would never say
that you are a swindler and a thief
than my soul and my gold
still give me back my songs.
If you want,
I'll lie to you
female blurred,
smooth, twisted
I didn't write never to you a verse,
that it's all just nonsense,
the lazy game
the play he and she
since time immemorial
I'll confide you
I bathe in a mountain lake at night
with a full moon
the wind comes to visit my
that the birches tell me all your secrets
and my wolf friends
guard the little squirrels from the beasts.
But give me back my verses.
They are not written for you.
They are written for Love.
Translated into English by Marin Mamic