Ján Gavura
Translated by James Sutherland-Smith and the author.
HELL
I expected a southern gale
and lots of red, blood-red colour.
Lava, flames or smoke of a blaze,
at least in something to match
the prophetic words.
It was all quiet.
People we met
were at peace.
Though when I looked at my daughter
and wanted to hold her firmly by the hand,
I found just the face of a dog
with sad or empty eyes.
PEKLO
Čakal som južný víchor
a veľa červenej, krvavočervenej farby.
Lávu, plamene alebo dym ohniska,
čo by aspoň trochu napĺňali
prorocké slová.
Bolo tu ticho.
Ľudia, ktorých sme stretali,
boli pokojní.
Keď som sa však pozrel na dcéru
a chcel jej pevnejšie stisnúť ruku,
našiel som len tvár psa
so smutnými alebo prázdnymi očami.
THE GAMBLER
Permit me, Lord,
to beg for a fortunate life for my three girls.
The game-plan ripples before me like a map.
I chose for them an incomparable mother
from a line that lost everything and with obduracy
recouped it. I hold this in my hand like a lucky die.
The girls attended the finest schools,
an Italian Master taught them to paint,
they learnt to ride and their maids, as was my wish
taught them the mysteries of making love to men.
The first marriage will be one of reason.
Grant the eldest girl a heart that is calm,
dispassionate, a love for the theatre and masks.
The second will, surely, fall for a poet
and everything she loves in him
she’ll come to hate. Let him continue to love her all the more,
as she loves him. And when, crestfallen,
she enters a convent let the bell
that sounds at the hour of her death unlock heaven’s gate.
The youngest sleeps naked each night.
her eyes don’t know how to look away
when they see suffering.
Lord, grant her a husband who’ll be a decent sort,
and who won’t cheat on her with the housemaids, at least, not so very often.
HRÁČ
Dovoľ mi, Pane,
prosiť o šťastný život mojich troch dcér.
Plán hry predo mnou sa vlní ako mapa.
Vybral som pre nich vynikajúcu matku,
z rodu, čo všetko stratil a zanovitosťou
znova získal. V ruke ho držím ako šťastnú kocku.
Dievčatá chodili do najlepších škôl,
maľbe ich učil taliansky majster.
Jazdia na koni a dojkám som prikázal,
aby ich učili tajomstvám milovania mužov.
Prvý sobáš bude z rozumu.
Daj teda najstaršej srdce pokojné,
nevzrušivé, lásku k divadlu a maskám.
Druhá si určite zamiluje básnika
a všetko, čo sa jej na ňom páči,
raz znenávidí. Nech radšej miluje väčšmi on ju
ako ona jeho. A keď sklamaná
odíde do kláštora, nech jej
zvon v hodine smrti odomkne nebo.
Najmladšia ešte aj v noci spí nahá,
jej oči sa nevedia odvrátiť,
keď vidia bolesť.
Pane, daj, nech k nej bude manžel slušný
a nepodvádza ju so slúžkami,
aspoň nie príliš často.
YOUR NORTH
It’s snowing and for the first wind
with the taste of sea foam
a man comes out of the house.
The eternal November brings
a message from an icy desert, where only the pure survive.
You come out after him,
wrapped only in a sheep skin coat, you shove to the front
the big girl with dark eyes,
and the smaller one with eyes like yours.
Before the moon turns around at full,
you ́ll give a birth for the third time.
But in the man’s voice something growls, the north.
And the wind won’t stop speaking,
it rustles in the memory, asks questions. Where and when.
The surface is broken by cold, fear by desire,
polar light by awakening. You are. Here. With him.
Never wholly yours,
your man. He won’t leave today.
TVOJ SEVER
Padá sneh a za prvým vetrom
s chuťou morskej peny
vychádza chlap z domu.
Večný november prináša
odkaz ľadovej púšte, kde prežívajú čistí.
Vychádzaš za ním,
zatočená do hune, postrčíš pred seba
veľkú s tmavými očami
a malú s očami celkom ako ty.
Skôr než sa mesiac obráti v splne,
porodíš tretíkrát.
Ale jemu už v hlase vrčí, sever.
A vietor neprestáva hovoriť,
šumí v spomienkach, kladie otázky. Kam a kedy.
Hladinu prelamuje chlad, túžbu strach,
polárnu žiaru precitnutie. Ste. Tu. S ním.
Nikdy nie celkom tvoj,
tvoj muž. Dnes neodíde.
SENTIMENTAL LOVERS OF THE CONDEMNED WORLD
Your houses at night
are like cold Guinness,
your souls ascend to the Heaven
like bubbles, inhaled and empty,
pleas not taken seriously,
dreams without the courage to dream.
Your eyes behind the lids
Glow like shots of whiskey
but you clamp your thighs tightly
so as not to conceive another beast.
May my sweet river
answer your sea.
SENTIMENTAL LOVERS OF THE CONDEMNED WORLD
Vaše domy v noci
sú ako chladný guinness,
duše vám stúpajú k nebu ako
bubliny, nadýchané a prázdne,
prosby nemyslené vážne,
sny bez odvahy snívať.
Vaše oči pod viečkami
žiaria ako poháriky whisky,
ale vy stískate stehná,
aby ste dnes večer nesplodili zmoka.
Nech vášmu moru
odpovie moja sladká rieka.
Ján Gavura was born in 1975 and is the author of four collections, Burning Bees (Pálenie včiel, 2001), the second, Every Morning You Are (Každým ránom si, 2006), Besa (2012) received a major prize from the Slovak Literary Fund and his most recent collection is King Hunger (Kráľ hlad, 2017).
James Sutherland-Smith was born in Scotland, but lives in Slovakia. He has published seven collections of his own poetry, the most recent being The River and the Black Cat, published by Shearsman Books in 2018. He also translates poetry from Slovak and Serbian for which he has received the Slovak Hviezdoslav Prize and the Serbian Zlatko Krasní Prize.