Ivan Goran Kovačić čita svoje pjesme borcima u hercegovačkim planinama (1943.). Izvor: https://www.unwantedimages.org/photos/350 (čeka se autorizacija)
Ivan Goran Kovačić čita svoje pjesme borcima u hercegovačkim planinama (1943.). Izvor: https://www.unwantedimages.org/photos/350 (čeka se autorizacija)
The first page of the poem “The Pit” by Ivan Goran Kovačića. Illustrated by Zlatko Prica in 1944. Photo: https://www.bibliofil.hr/en/jama
The first page of the poem “The Pit” by Ivan Goran Kovačića. Illustrated by Zlatko Prica in 1944. Photo: https://www.bibliofil.hr/en/jama
Spomen ploča sa stihom iz "Jame" u središnjem komemorativnom prostoru Spomen područja Jasenovac u Hrvatskoj. Smisao ove pjesme daje opći ton komemorativnim svećanostima, budući da se vijenaci polažu neposredno ispod ploče. Poruka je neočekivana; intimno je to i dirljivo promišljanje o ljepoti i gubitku najjednostavnijih, svakodnevnih životnih iskustava. Foto: S. Horvatinčić, 2016.
Spomen ploča sa stihom iz "Jame" u središnjem komemorativnom prostoru Spomen područja Jasenovac u Hrvatskoj. Smisao ove pjesme daje opći ton komemorativnim svećanostima, budući da se vijenaci polažu neposredno ispod ploče. Poruka je neočekivana; intimno je to i dirljivo promišljanje o ljepoti i gubitku najjednostavnijih, svakodnevnih životnih iskustava. Foto: S. Horvatinčić, 2016.
Prvi spomenik Ivanu Goranu Kovačiću bista je kipara Vojina Bakića iz 1946. Pjesnik je prikazan zatvorenih očiju - jednostavan no duboko dirljiv umjetnički postupak u čast palog pjesnika. Postavljen na elegantno postolje od reflektirajuće ploče s intimnim natpisom "GORAN", i dalje stoji na istaknutom mjestu u beogradskom Kalemegdanu. Foto: S. Horvatinčić, 2022.
Prvi spomenik Ivanu Goranu Kovačiću bista je kipara Vojina Bakića iz 1946. Pjesnik je prikazan zatvorenih očiju - jednostavan no duboko dirljiv umjetnički postupak u čast palog pjesnika. Postavljen na elegantno postolje od reflektirajuće ploče s intimnim natpisom "GORAN", i dalje stoji na istaknutom mjestu u beogradskom Kalemegdanu. Foto: S. Horvatinčić, 2022.
U njegovu rodnom selu Lukovdolu u Gorskom kotaru, 1964. godine svečano je inauguriran nešto drugačiji spomenik Ivanu Goranu Kovačiću, djelo istog umjetnika Vojina Bakića. Spomenik je visoko estetizirani, stilizirani portret pjesnika, položen izravno na zemljani humak okružen njegovim stihovima, vječno zagledan u nebo, dok se okolna atmosfera neprestano reflektira na ulaštenoj površini skulpture od nehrđajućeg čelika. Njemu se u čast od 1963. u Lukovdolu svake godine održava pjesnički festival "Goranovo proljeće". O festivalu: https://www.versopolis.com/festival/5/goran-s-spring. Fotografija: S. Horvatinčić, 2021.
U njegovu rodnom selu Lukovdolu u Gorskom kotaru, 1964. godine svečano je inauguriran nešto drugačiji spomenik Ivanu Goranu Kovačiću, djelo istog umjetnika Vojina Bakića. Spomenik je visoko estetizirani, stilizirani portret pjesnika, položen izravno na zemljani humak okružen njegovim stihovima, vječno zagledan u nebo, dok se okolna atmosfera neprestano reflektira na ulaštenoj površini skulpture od nehrđajućeg čelika. Njemu se u čast od 1963. u Lukovdolu svake godine održava pjesnički festival "Goranovo proljeće". O festivalu: https://www.versopolis.com/festival/5/goran-s-spring. Fotografija: S. Horvatinčić, 2021.
„Ja sam u vrijeme priprema za [First] [Prvi] Kongres [kulturnih radnika Hrvatske 1944.] [of Cultural Workers in Croatia in 1944],radio dosta na plakatima i ilustracijama za Vjesnik i Naprijed, a onda je došlo do štampanja Goranove ‘Jame’ u tehnici litografije; Zlatko Prica i ja radili smo ilustracije. Pokušali smo napraviti jednu litografsku prešu od komada tračnica, greda i jednog točka skinutog sa nekog bunara. Iz Zagreba smo uspjeli dobiti, preko naših kanala, i jedan litografski kamen. Poslije svakog odštampanog lista kamen smo morali iznova brusiti. Ja sam Goranov tekst pisao guščjim perom i to naopako, kao kad se gleda u ogledalu.“
Citat Ede Murtića govori koliko je kreativnosti i sirove materijalnosti utkano u prvo ratno izdanje „Jame“. Njen autor Ivan Goran Kovačić, rođen 1913. u Lukovdolu, bio je mladi pjesnik u usponu kada je 1942. godine, zajedno s jednim od najpoznatijih hrvatskih pisaca Vladimirom Nazorom (1876.-1949.), odlučio pobjeći iz okupiranog Zagreba. Njihovo pristupanje partizanima nije pomoglo vlastitom opstanku; bio je to javni čin antifašističkog otpora. Goran je skončao od četničke ruke u srpnju 1943. u blizini Foče u Bosni i Hercegovini.
Goran je „Jamu“ napisao u siječnju i početkom veljače 1943. Jeziv je to prikaz zvjerstava počinjenih nad jugoslavenskim stanovništvom pod fašističkom okupacijom, ispričan u prvom licu od strane pripovjedača koji je i sam postao žrtvom jednog takvog zločina. Pjevajući o vlastitoj patnji i patnji drugih žrtava, zaklanih i bačenih u jamu, on slika prizor koji se često opisuje kao moderna verzija Danteova “Pakla”. Jezivim slikama suprotstavljena je stroga formalna shema: šesterostihovi (sestine) s fiksnim shemama rimovanja i stihom od jedanaest slogova. Formalni elementi teksta ogledaju se u bogatim ilustracijama, šokantnim u svojoj iskrenoj, brutalnoj ekspresivnosti.
Pjesmu je 10. veljače 1943. u Livnu javno pročitao zagrebački glumac Vjekoslav Afrić. Dojam koji je tada ostavila na svoju prvu publiku – ranjenike Prve proleterske divizije – morao je biti vrlo snažan i dubok: sraz košmarnog sadržaja, ali podjednako i surove stvarnosti slušatelja s kojom su se slušatelji zasigurno identificirali, s discipliniranom baroknom formom poeme, morao je biti strahovito moćan.
Primjerci ratnog izdanja podijeljeni su stranim vojnim misijama, kako bi, kako navodi Murtić, “svjetska javnost bila upoznata s činjenicom da Titovi partizani posebnu pažnju poklanjaju kulturi i umjetnosti”. Jedna od njih stigla je do Picassa, koji je nakon rata, pošto je pročitao francuski prijevod, napravio ilustraciju za francusko izdanje. Pjesma je prevedena na desetke drugih jezika, a njezini su stihovi uklesani u brojne spomenike žrtvama fašizma diljem Jugoslavije. Lujo Parežanin Sanja Horvatinčić
Izvori / Saznaj više:
- “How we printed ‘The Pit'”, Četvrti jul (No. 1041, June 3rd 1982):14.
- Ivan Goran Kovačić, Jama (Zagreb: Liber, Vjesnik, 1974).
- Dragutin Tadijanović, “O Goranovoj poemi Jama”, u: Ivan Goran Kovačić, Jama (Zagreb: Liber, Vjesnik, 1974): 33-35.
- Katalog Memorijalnog muzeja Ivana Gorana Kovačića u Lukovdolu (Lukovdol, 1975).
Izvorni tekst pjesme “Jama” + prijevodi na talijanski i engleski jezik:
I. Krv je moje svjetlo i moja tama. Blaženu noć su meni iskopali Sa sretnim vidom iz očinjih jama; Od kapljâ dana bijesni oganj pâli Krvavu zjenu u mozgu, ko ranu. Moje su oči zgasle na mome dlanu. Sigurno još su treperile ptice U njima, nebo blago se okrenu; I ćutio sam, krvavo mi lice Utonulo je s modrinom u zjenu; Na dlanu oči zrakama se smiju I moje suze ne mogu da liju. Samo kroz prste kapale su kapi Tople i guste, koje krvnik nađe Još gorčom mukom duplja koje zjapi – Da bodež u vrat zabode mi slađe: A mene dragost ove krvi uze, I ćutio sam kaplje kao suze. Posljednje svjetlo prije strašne noći Bio je bljesak munjevita noža, I vrisak, bijel još i sad u sljepoći, I bijela, bijela krvnikova koža; Jer do pojasa svi su bili goli I tako nagi oči su nam boli. O bolno svjetlo, nikad tako jako I oštro nikad nisi sinulo u zori, U strijeli, ognju; i ko da sam plako Vatrene suze s kojih duplje gori: A kroz taj pakô bljeskovi su pekli, Vriskovi drugih mučenika sjekli. Ne znam, koliko žar je bijesni trajo, Kad grozne kvrge s duplja rasti stanu, Ko kugle tvrde, i jedva sam stajo. Tad spoznah skliske oči na svom dlanu I rekoh: »Slijep sam, mila moja mati, Kako ću tebe sada oplakati…« A silno svjetlo, ko stotine zvonâ Sa zvonikâ bijelih, u pameti Ludoj sijevne: svjetlost sa Siona, Divna svjetlost, svjetlost koja svijeti! Svijetla ptico! Svijetlo drvo! Rijeko! Mjeseče! Svjetlo ko majčino mlijeko! Al ovu strašnu bol već nisam čeko: Krvnik mi reče: »Zgnječi svoje oči!« Obezumljen sam skoro preda nj kleko, Kad grč mi šaku gustom sluzi smoči; I više nisam ništa čuo, znao: U bezdan kao u raku sam pao. II. Mokraćom hladnom svijestili me. Ćuške Dijelili, vatrom podigli me silom; I svima redom probadali uške Krvnici tupim i debelim šilom. »Smijte se!« — ubod zapovijedi prati — »Oboce svima pred krst ćemo dati!« I grozan smijeh, cerekanje, grohot Zamnije, ko da grohoću mrtvaci; I same klače smete ludi hohot Pa svaki bičem na žrtve se baci. A mi smo dalje u smijanju dugu Plakali, praznih duplja, mrtvu tugu. Kada smo naglo, ko mrtvi, umukli (Od straha valjda, što smo ipak živi), U red za uške otekle nas vukli, I nijemi bol na stranu sve nas privi; (U múku čuli iz šume smo pticu); Provlačili su kroz uške nam žicu. I svaki tako, kada bi se mako, Od bola strašna muklo bi zarežo. »Šutite!« — rikne krvnik — »nije lako, Al potrebno je, da tko ne bi bježo.« I nitko od nas glavom da potrese I drugom slijepcu ljuti bol nanese. Krvožednike smiri žičan lokot I umorni su u hlad bliski sjeli; I začuo se vode mrzli klokot U žarku grlu, i glasno su jeli, Ko poslije teška posla; zatim stali Jedan sa drugim da se grubo šali. Zaboravili kao da su na nas: Zijevali, vjetre puštali su glasne. »Eh, jednu malu vidio sam danas…« Dobaci netko, uz primjedbe masne. I opet klokot hladna vina ili vode Trgne slijepce — žica me probode. III. U mome redu počela da ludi Neka žena. Vikala je: »Gori! Ljudi, gori! Kuća gori! Ljudi!« A žica ljuto počela da pori Nabreknute, grozne naše uši. Na tla se žena ugušena sruši. »Dupljaši! Ćore! Lubanje mrtvačke! Sove! U duplja dat ćemo vam žere Da progledate! Vi, ćorave mačke!« Zareži pijan koljač kao zvijere I slijepcu nožem odcijepi lice Od uha, što se zaljulja vrh žice. Urlik i teški topot slijepe žrtve (Što bježeć kroz mrak uvis noge diže), I brz trk za njom, sred tišine mrtve, I tupi pad, kad lovca nož je stiže. O, taj je spasen! — rekoh svojoj tami, Ne opazivši da nas vode k jami. Srce je muklo šupljom grudi tuklo; Tad druga srca preko žice začuh. Lupanje ludo naprijed nas je vuklo. (Što srca skaču, kad u mraku plaču!) I od te lupe progledah kroz rupe: U jasnom sjaju misli mi se skupe. I vidjeh opet, ko još ovog jutra, Duboku jamu, juče iskopanu. Napregnuh sluh da čujem, kad unutra Uz tupi udar prve žrtve panu. Oštrom svijesti odlučih da brojim: Ja, pedeseti, što u redu stojim. I čekao sam. Skupljao sam točne Podatke: tko je već nestao straga, Tko sprijeda — zbrajo, odbijo, dok počne Udaranje, padovi. Sva snaga Mozga u jasnoj svijesti se napregnu, Da promjene mi pažnji ne izbjegnu. Negdje je cvrčak pjevo; oblak pokri Začas u letu sjenom cijelo polje. Čuo sam, kako jedan krvnik mokri, A drugi stao široko da kolje. Sve mi to zasja u sluhu ko u vidu, Sa bljeskom sunca na nôžnome bridu. IV. Kad prva žrtva počela da krklja, Čuh meki udar, mesnata vreća Padaše dugo. Znao sam: u grkljan Dolazi prvi ubod, među pleća Drugi, a ruka naglo žrtvu grune U jamu, gdje će s drugima da trune. Netko se mrtvo ispred mene složi Il iza mene, riknuvši od straha, A ja udarce silnom svijesti množih, Odbijajući pale istog maha, Mada sam svakog — što kriknu, zagrca — Ćutio kao ugriz u dno srca. Čovjek iz jame jeco je ko dijete, Tek priklan; cikto jezivo mu glasak. Strepih da račun moj se ne pomete. Tad buknu u dnu bezdna bombe prasak. Tlo se zaljulja. Klonuće me svlada. Nestala u spas posljednja mi nada. Al silna svijest pažnjom me opsjednu: U sluh se živci, krv, meso i koža Napregli. Zbrojih trideset i jednu Žrtvu; šezdeset i dva boda noža. Slušo sam udar, kojom snagom pada, I meni opet vratila se nada. Na jauk iz bezdna sada nova prasne Bomba uz tutanj. I mrtva tjelesa Padahu sad uz pljuske manje glasne, Kao u vodu, povrh kaše mesa. Uto oćutjeh da po krvi kližem. Protrnuh: evo, i ja k jami stižem! V. — O vidio sam, vidio sve bolje, Ko da su natrag stavljene mi oči: I bijelu kožu, i nož koji kolje, I žrtve (kao jagnjad, što se koči Časkom pred klanje, al u redu bliže Korak po korak mirno k nožu stiže). Bez prekidanja red se dalje mico — Ko da na čelu netko nešto dijeli — Nit je tko viko, trzo se, narico; Na žezi strašnoj tiho su nas želi Ko mrtvo klasje koje jedva šušti. (To se čula krv, što iz grla pljušti). Korak po korak pošli smo; stali opet; Krljanje, udar, pad i opet korak. Začuh zvuk jače. Ukočene, ko propet, Stadoh: Na usni tuđe krvi gorak Okus oćutjeh. Sad sam bio treći, Što jamu čeka u redu stojeći. Strašna mi tama, od sljepoće gora, Sav um pomuti i na čula leže, I za njom svjeltost ko stotine zorâ: Iskro! Strijelo! Plamene! Sniježe! Silno svjetlo bez ijedne sjene, Ko oštar ubod igle usred zjene. Drug se preda mnom natrag k meni nago, Kao od grča; onda je zastenjo, Naprijed posrne, uzdahnuo blago — I tihi uzdah s krkljanjem mu jenjo. Surva se, pljusnu kao riba. Zine Preda mnom prostor bezdane praznine. Sve pamtim: naprijed zaljuljah se, natrag, Bez ravnovjesja — kao da sam stao Jezive neke provalije na prag, A iza mene drugi ponor zjao. Bijela strijela u prsi mi sinu, Crna me šinu s plećî. U dubinu. VI. U bezdnu uma jeza me okrijepi. Osjetih hladno truplo, gdje me tišti, Hladnost smrti da mi tijelo lijepi. Strah sviješću sinu: Neka žena vrišti! U jami sam — tom ždrijelu našeg mesa; Ko mrtve ribe studena tjelesa. Ležim na lešu: kupu hladetine, Mlohave, sluzne, što u krvi kisne, I spas sa jezom iz leda me vine: Svijest munjom blisne, kada žena vrisne. Okrenuh se, u groznici tad k vrisku Pružih ruku: napipah ranu sklisku. I prvi puta sva životna snaga Nad leševima stala da se skuplja; Na vrisak skrenuh ruku, i u duplja Lubanje zaboh prste; tijela naga Ko da su sva zavrištala u jami — Sav pakô jeknu jezivo u tami. Bomba će pasti! Užasnuh se prvo; U grču strašnu zgrabih rukom niže. Zakoljak nađoh grozan. Leš se rvo Sa mnom i na me počeo da kliže. Krkljo mu grkljan u krvavoj rani; Korake začuh i glasove vani. O bože moj, zagrlila me žena Sad zagrljajem druge svoje smrti: Kako joj koža lica nagrbljena… Starice! Bako! I uzeh joj trti Koščate ruke, i žarko ih ljubih. Činilo mi se: mrtvu majku ubih. Čuo sam, kako umirući stenje, I poželio ludo da oživi. Sve leševe tad molih oproštenje. Oćutjeh tvrdu usnu, gdje se krivi — Obeznanih se. Kad sam opet skido Mrak nesvijesti, još sam gorko rido. VII. Ušutjeh. Sâm sam međ truplima lednim, A studen smrti na leđa mi sjela, Na udove. U ledu mrtvih žednim Vatrama nepca, jezika i ždrijela. Led smrti šuti. U njem pakô gori. A nigdje vriska da samoća ori. Taj grozni teret, što na meni leži, Ni smrtnim ledom neće da priušti Hladnoću grla; a biva sve teži; Odjednom skoro viknuh: voda pljušti! Čujem gdje s vrha po truplima teče; Ah, studen mlaz! — al peče, peče, peče! Po goloj koži, po leđnome jarku, Niz trbuh, prsa, slabine i bute Potočić studen pali vatru žarku, Dube u mesu kanaliće ljute. I kad na usnu mlazić žarki kapno, Opaljen jezik kusnu živo vapno! Puna je jama: na lešine liju Vapno da živim strvine ne smrde. O hvala im, nas mrtve sada griju Plamenom svoje samilosti… Tvrde Leševe ćutim: trzaju se goli, Ko mrtve ribe, kad ih kuhar soli. Taj zadnji trzaj umirućeg živca, Taj čudni drhtaj, na kojem sam plivo, Učini da sam blagosiljo krivca: O gle! još truplo kraj mene je živo — To starica me hladnom rukom gladi, Jer zna da moji ne prestaše jadi! VIII. Kada se mrtvi val života stišo, Korake začuh ko daleku jeku: Netko je jamu par puta obišo; I nasta mir, ko mir u mrtvu vijeku. Pomakoh nogu, stegnuh lakta oba — Ko grobar, kad se izvlači iz groba. Zaprepastih se: leševi se miču, Kližu nada me, polako se ruše — Smiju se, plaču, hropoću i viču, Pružaju ruke i bijesno me guše… Osjećah nokte, stražnjice, bokove, Trbuhe, usta, što me živa love. Prestravljen stadoh. Stadoše i oni. Sad je težina manja. Mrtva noga Pala mi preko ramena. Ne goni Nitko me više! — Od penjanja moga Ruše se mrtvi! — rekoh sebi; — To se O vratu tvome splele ženske kose. Prostrujo hladan zrak na moja usta Kroz sloj leševa: izlazu sam blizu! I srknuh utopljenički: krv gusta Kroz nosnice u grlo oštro briznu. Smijo sam se — al da me netko tako Nakreveljena vidje, taj bi plako Il bi od straha sledio se, nijem Pred tom rugobom. Jer, što da se tješim: Odsad će ljudi mislit da se smijem Kad plačem, i da plačem kad se smiješim. Ta prazna duplja, gnijezda grozne tame, Sjećat će svijet na crno ždrijelo jame. I sáma sebe osjećo sam krivim, Što ostavljam u bezdnu te mrtvace, Jer zrak je ovaj živ… a ja ne živim… I čekah da me opet natrag bace. Al rana živim bolom: živ si! reče, Sabrah se. Vlaga! S njom se spušta veče. IX. O nikad nisam očekivo tamu S tolikom čežnjom. Pazi! rosa kliže Niz trupla dolje do mene, u jamu! Užaren jezik počeo da liže Kaplje sa ruku, nogu, mrtvih tijela, Što su se na me ko žlijeb nadnijela. Pomamno sam i divlje se penjo, Gazio prsa i trbuhe grubo — I kad bi mrtav zrak iz trupla stenjo, Nisam već trno. Vuko sam i skubo Dugačke kose, uspinjo se mesom, Podjaren žeđom kao ludim bijesom. Nisam osjećo bola, straha, stida; Obarah leš za lešom, grabih, plazih Po njima ko po zemlji što se kida. A možda svoju mrtvu sestru gazih, Susjeda vukoh, lomih nježnu dragu. Žeđ mi je dala bezumlje i snagu. Kad sam se divlje iz jame izvuko, Zaboravih svijest, oprez, da l’ je mrko: Tlom krvavim sam puzo, tijelo vuko Do trave: zvjerski, živinski je srko; Uranjo u nju, jeo je i guto I ko po rijeci livadom sam pluto. Dozvah se: ustâ, punih trave, ležim, Gorim, ledenim: u teškoj sam mori. Spasen! O, kamo, kamo sad da bježim? Zadrhtah: pjesma krvnikova ori. Daleko. Našim mukama se ruga. I mržnja planu. Ostavi me tuga. X. Odjednom k meni miris paljevine Vjetar donese s garišta mog sela; Miris iz kog se sve sjećanje vine: Sve svadbe, berbe, kola i sijela, Svi pogrebi, naricaljke, opijela; Sve što je život sijo i smrt žela. Gdje je mala sreća, bljesak stakla, Lastavičje gnijezdo, iz vrtića dah; Gdje je kucaj zipke, što se makla, I na traku sunca zlatni kućni prah? Gdje je vretena zuj, miris hljeba, Što s domaćim šturkom slavi život blag; Gdje su okna s komadićkom neba, Tiha šrkipa vratâ, sveti kućni prag? Gdje je zvonce goveda iz štale, Što, ko s daljine, zvuk mu kroz star pod U san kapne; dok zvijezde pâle Stoljeća mira nad sela nam i rod. Nigdje plača. Smijeha. Kletve. Pjesme. Mjesec, putujući, na garišta sja: Ugasnuo s dola dalek jecaj česme, Crni se na putu lešina od psa… Zar ima mjesto bolesti i mukâ, Gdje trpi, pati, strada čovjek živ? Zar ima mjesto, gdje udara ruka, I živiš s onim koji ti je kriv? Zar ima mjesto, gdje još vrište djeca, Gdje ima otac kćerku, majku sin? Zar ima mjesto, gdje ti sestra jeca, I brat joj stavlja mrtvoj na grudi krin? Zar ima mjesto, gdje prozorsko cvijeće Rubi još radost i taži još bol? Zar ima većeg bogatstva i sreće, Nego što su škrinja i klupa i stol? Iz šume, s rikom gorâ, prasak mukô Zatutnji. Za njim tanad raspršeno Ciknu, ko djeca njegova. Pijuko Nada mnom zvuk visoko, izgubljeno. Bitka se bije. Osvetnik se javlja! Osvijetli me radost snažna poput zdravlja. Planu u srcu sva ognjišta rodna, Osvetom buknu krvi prolivene Svaka mi žila, i ko usred podna Sunca Slobode razbi sve mi sjene. Držeć se smjera garišnoga dima, Jurnuh, poletjeh k vašim pucnjevima. Tu ste me našli ležati na strani, Braćo rođena, neznani junaci; Pjevali ste, i ko kad se dani, Široka svjetlost, kao božji znaci, Okupala me. Rekoh: zar su snovi? Tko je to pjevo? Tko mi rane povi? Oćutjeh na čelu meku ruku žene; Sladak glas začuh: »Partizani, druže! Počivaj! Muke su ti osvećene!« Ruke se moje prema glasu pruže, Bez riječi, i doségnuh nježno lice, Kosu i pušku, bombu vidarice. Zajecao sam i još i sad plačem Jedino grlom, jer očiju nemam, Jedino srcem, jer su suze mačem Krvničkim tekle zadnji puta. Nemam Zjenice da vas vidim i nemam moći, A htio bih, tugo! — s vama u boj poći. Tko ste? Odakle? Ne znam, al se grijem Na vašem svjetlu. Pjevajte. Jer ćutim, Da sad tek živim, makar možda mrijem. Svetu Slobodu i Osvetu slutim… Vaša mi pjesma vraća svjetlo oka, Ko narod silna, ko sunce visoka.
Izvorni tekst pjesme “Jama” + prijevodi na talijanski i engleski jezik:
I. BLOOD is my daylight, and darkness too. Blessing of night has been gouged from my cheeks Bearing with it my more lucky sight. Within those holes, for tears, fierce fire inflamed The bleeding socket as if for brain a balm – While my bright eyes died on my own palm. While played, I never doubt, God's feathered creatures, Reflected still in them, and clouds’ procession; But all I felt were my blood-spattered features, Bruised gulfs in that once brillant profusion. Haw radiant lay my eyeballs in my hand, Yet from those eyes no tear could more descend! Then ever other fingers ran the warm Coagulating blood my slaughterer found By the profounder agony of holes he formed For better grip, more sensuously to wound; But me the softness of my blood enthralled, And I rejoiced as blood were red tears falling. The final light before the frightful night The lightning swooping of the polished knife, The cry too white still in my blinded sight, The bleach-white bodies of the murderers, Who stripped their torsos for their sweaty task – Was dazzling even to my blinded mask. O painful daylight, never so hard yet Or penetrating did you break the East With fiery arrow; I might have thought I shed Teardrops with leaping flames that seared my cheeks Through all that hell so many lightnings brent, So many cries of other victims rent. What time that furious conflagration fanned, All that I knew of time were callouses for eyes, Hard-grown and aching; and could hardly stand. And only then my slippery eyeballs fingered And knew – and cried: My sight, O Mother mine, is gone. How shall I wepp when your life too is done? Then dazzling daylight like a myriad carillons From endless gleaming bell-towers in my crazy Brain illumined like the lights of Zion, A lovely light – a light which sanctified – Bright birds, bright river, trees and, brilliant Boon pure as mother's milk, still brighter moon. Now came a torture I had never guessed – My murderer commanded “Break your own eyes!” I nearly prayed for mercy to the beast, But slimy-fingered spasmic hands obeyed – And then no more I heard, no more could tell, To empty nothyng faltered, and I feel. II. WITH chilly urine woke me, and with blows Belaboured fire back to my head, and then These executioners pierced our ear lobes With blunted, clumsy spikes, each one in turn – “Laugh, laugh!” they ordered, as they thrust their tools, “Ear-rings are fire for force-converted fools!” Then horrid laughter, sobbing, loud and wild Reverberated as if dead men laughed; But crazy humour hindered those defiled – To silence us our wilted flesh they flayed; But endless now in our long choking wit, With gaping sockets our dead sorrow wept. Then suddenly like corpses we were still (No doubt from fear lest we were still alive) – Tugged by our swollen ears they dressed us, till The silent torture turned us all awry (But birds that sang to us, not one did tire) While through our tattered lobes was drawn a wire. So each man of us if the least he starts Howls dully when he feels the frightful pain. “Silence” – the executioner – “we know it smarts, But we're not going to let you go again!” Not one of us could even shake his head But give another blinding pain instead. That warder wire appeased our cruel captors, And, tired, nearby they sat down in the shade; Refreshing water gurgle then was heard Down parching throats, laud pleasure as they ate, As if they'd laboured hard, till they began To pass foul, slimy jokes from man to man. Then even seemed our presence was forgotten; We heard them yawn and break their wind at leisure. “Oh boy, I saw a skirt today” – a rotter Spued dirty observations from his tongue. Thus passed their noon, in wine or cooling water – Ours passed on burning wire, strung for the slaughter. III. NOW in my rank a girl went mad and shrieked Her warning — “Men! Fire! the house is burning, Fire!” And now the wire strung through us wreaked New agony and rent distorted gaps In all our monster ears until she fell And choking lay, oblivious to hell. “Blind sockets, deaths-head skulls, you purblind rats, We'll doctor you with hot coals in those holes To make you see again, blind blinking bats!” And, as he spoke, a drunken murderer lent Leering forward, and slashed down through a face, To leave its ear still dangling, wired in place. We heard the victim's cry, his frenzied pace As, thus released, down maddened dark he ran; Through mortal silence then we heard the chase, And, as the knife struck twice, his heavy fall. So one is saved, I told my night of it, No knew they led our steps towards the pit. I heard the heart dull in my hollow breast And through the wire to others’ beating harked; To that dumb drum we pressed our steps ahead (Haw loud it rumbled through the weeping dark!) By that tattoo I saw through holes for eyes My thoughts assemble as in bright sunrise. And saw again, as I had seen at dawn, The hollow pit which yesterday we dug; I strained my hearing and at last it came – That sudden flat sound as each victim fell – Knife-edged, my thought itself began to tell The forty-nine before me, known so well. And, waiting fingered memory's index, Ticked whom they took before, behind, all round – So add, subtract, until the following blows Descend and new men die; till all my strength Of mind to dazzling clarity was grown. To let no change take place, and pass unknown. Somewhere cicadas sang; a single cloud Brushed fleeting shadow over everything. I heard one murderer nature easing loudly, The while another, heated, wildly slew – All this engraved like sight, and glittered clear As sun upon the knife-edge, in my ear. IV. WHEN the first sacrifice began to choke I heard a silken sound, a fleshy sack Which settled slow. I knew that first the throat They stuck, then in between the shoulder-blades A second thrust, then swiftly pushed away To fill the pit, together to decay. Before my blindness, limp and dead, one fell, Then with a yell of fear, behind my back, While my keen senses noted down each blow And every person dead, struck from my list – No man nor girl who cried or sudden wept But in my heart – my wound – their agony leapt. A comrade in the pit now whimpered like a child, Throat but half stuck – that asound so ominous Alarmed me lest I lost the list compliled – Then down below a hand-grenade they tossed – The firm earth rocked. A weakness bend my shape; What hope now had I that I might escape? Yet consciousness triumphant still possessed me; Now nerves and blood and flesh and skin became A straining ear; I counted thirty-one – Sixty and two more strikings with the knife – I heard a blow which fell with savage force, And once again my folly took its course. When now another cry for intermission Brought yet another hand-grenade, new dead Began to fall with thuds of less precision, As if on water, o'er a slush of flesh; And so in blood I feel my foot-soles sink – A spasm shook me – I had reached the brink. V. OH, THEN I saw, with suddenly better sight, As if my eyes returned – but to my back – That whitened skin, that knife prepared to strike, The victims too who while last seconds tick Stand stiff and still, yet automatic steal By inches toward the knife their nerves can feel. Uninterruptedly the ranks moved slowly on – As if some distribution was ahead – Not one that shouted, started back or groaned, While steadily in sultry air death mowed The deadripe corn, which fell with only sound The fluent blood which spurted to the ground. Thus step by step, with briefest pause between – The croak, the knife, the thud; the queue pace Nearer, nearer still. Strained on a rack, I backed, felt on my lips the bitter taste, Another's blood, and thus became the third Who waited at the pit till it – occurred. The darkness more disgusting through my blindness Blasted my mind and cluttereb every sense – And sense bevond a thausand daybreaks cried Intense – O arrow! O flame! O bewildering snow! Light, come at last devoid of any shade, With needles in my aching eyeballs played. The comrade next bent suddenly towards me, As if a cramp had gripped him, then he groaned, And, stumbling forward, set a soft sigh free, That lonely sigh, consumed in his death-rattle — Swung downward, flopping like a fish. With this, Before me gaped the bottomless abyss. Each detail fresh today – my body swayed In space – as if upon the final rung Of endless nothing balanced there before me, And at my back another nothing hung. A whitened arrow was my own throat slit, Black death the stab behind; before – the pit. VI. BUT in the pit, by quivering heart made keen, I felt the chilling corpse that pressed me down, And my own clamour too, that webbed me in. Fear flared my senses when a woman shrieked! I am in the pit, cold maw that took our flesh, That took our corpes clammier than fish. I lay upon a corpse – a mould of brawn, A flabby slimy thing in bloody steep; Yet thought was rescued by that human cold, And flashed new lightning when a woman screamed. I turned in fever quick towards the sound And stretched my hand – to touch a soft, wet wound. For the first time my every ounce of strength Knotted together over all the dead; To hide that shriek I held my breath and pressed Deep fingers in my sockets – bodies naked Shrieked together in the darkened pit, And hell re-echoed with the din of it. Then my new fear awoke – grenades would fall! With awful spasm at first I thrust and gripped A woefully butchered limb – the body crawled To writhe with me, and, writhing, slipped, The blood-lapped gurking gullet gaping wide – When footsteps came and voices spoke outside. O heavens above, a woman's tense embrace Of second death contained me and I felt My fingers ridging in her wrinkled cheeks – O whitened hairs! O Granny! and I held Her bony hands and warmed them with my breath, Felt I had caused my own dear mother's death. I heard how she lamented as she died, How passionately still che longed to live. I begged all those now dead for absolution. I felt a twisted lip grown swiftly stiff – And fainted then. When once again I stripped The darkness from my mind, my flesh still wept. VII. STOPPED – alone – of all cold corpses, first! But chill of death subtly up my spine; My limbs – congealed in choirs of dead men – thirsting With gums and tongue and gullet throbbing fire. The ice of death is still. Inside, hell flamed, Though not a cry, to give that silence shame. Yet that lewd burden pressing on my body Not even with the ice of death can slake My burning throat; that ever deader sod Confines me – till I nearly shriek for water – Then water sprinkles, near and far by turns, On, cooling shower! that burns, burns, burns! Over the naked skin, the vale of ice, Down belly, breast and flanks and thighs at once That cooling rivulet sets teasing fire, And hollows angry furrows in the flesh. A burning droplet on my stiff lips traced, My tongue revealed to me the quicklime taste. The pit chockful, on carcases they poured That fire, to spare the world our stealing stench: I thanked them that, now dead, they tried to warm Us with that charity … I felt wrench Of naked corpses as their sinews turned, Like long dead fishes by crude saline burned. That final spasm of nerves yet not quite still, That wondrous shudder on which I now floated Compelled me bless the guilty one for this: When look! a corpse beside me was alive – Grey-haired old granny's icy hand caressed Me, now she knew I still had not found rest. VIII. WHEN tat dead wave of life again subsided, I caught the sound of steps as from afair – Somebody twice walked slowly round the site, Then peace shone steady, like the evening star. I bent, to rise, hitched feet up, one by one, Like digger when his graveyard job is done. Then what surprise! The corpses moved about, Slid over me and slowly settled in; They laughed and wept, groaned and sighed and shouted, Reached for me – gripped me – furiously throttled – I felt their nails, their buttocks, and their thighs, Their mouths and bellies corner me alive. From terror I was still – then they still too – Their weight decreased, a dead leg on my shoulder Dangled limp. They had pursued, but now Pursed no more! – my climbing had undone The dead – I told myself. – That mangled nosse About your neck, a dead girl's locks have tangled! Soft air now brushed its coolness on my mouth Between the dead – then I was near escape! And as if drowning, gulped; and thickened blood Through nostrils spurted down my parching throat. I laughed aloud – yet who saw me with gob Of comrade's blood bedecked, would sorely sob. Or fear would petrify him, smite his speech Before monstrosity like me — for why Deceive myself when mast think I grin If i am weeping, or, if smiling, cry? Yet, in these empty sockets none may now forget Like their tenebrous depths, the deadly pit. For I could not relieve myself of guilt Were I to leave my dead in that dark hole. The air's alive – but do I also live? I half expected they would clutch me to them – But then my mortal wounds “You live!” declared. Be brave! Day's done — the evening damp is here! IX. OH, NEVER did I wait for darkness’ coming With such desire. For now the dew was seeping Over the upper bodies down to me! My inflamed tongue set greedily to lick Drops from the arms and legs of those now dead, And down contorted gutters nectar bled. Like a wind creature, maddened then, I tried To clamber out, on bosom or on belly Treading, non when those things like bellows sighed Did I pay heed, but clutshed and cramped my fringers In the still hair, wherever dead flesh held, Like maddened dog by burning thirst compelled. Now was I free from pain and fear and shame, Free to betray and spurn the dead, and crawl On bodies as on sodden ground that crumbled. Was it my sister that I trod – I cared not; Some friend I mauled, girl's fragile bones I shattered – My maddened thirst was master – what else mattered? When like a beast I'd clambered from the pit, All wisdom, caution, fled, I cared not any more Who saw, but in blood crawled about and dragged Myself to pasture, quadrupedal snorted, Rooted burning lips, and gaped, and sank My oblivious body as I crept and drank. At last twast done; with grass-filled mouth I lay Twixt fire and ice, exhausted beyond sense, But saved! though beffled – whither could I flee? A shudder broke me. Far aff the tyrants sang – With dirty catch their dismal triumph they shared. When my soft mood was gone, and hatred flared! X. MY NOSTRILS suddenly had caught the scent, The wind-borne echo of our burning homes! From ashes rose my youthful years’ content – The weddings, harvests, dances, and long hours Beside the hearth – the funerals with bells and wakes, All that life's sower sows and death's scythe takes. That simple happiness, the window's glint; Swallow and young; or windborne garden sweet – Where? – The unhurried cradle's drowsy tilt? Or, by the threshold, sunshine at my feet? The spindle's whirring, or the sweetish scent Or bread – the chairs, the nook, that all require But pease – that squere of sky the window bent – Door hinges’ gentle creak, the cosy fire – The cowbell clanging stately from the byre? – Afair, it seemed, through the floor boards seeped in Drip drip in sleep, while one by one the stars The ages lit, o'er villages and kin. No weeping – only oaths and bawdy yells. The moon above a ruined village stands. no more below the house the well-hoist spelling Peace. Death's odour only fills our land. Is there a place where suffering and pain Men suffer, and endure, but yet alive? Is there a place where men forget again And live with those who wronged them by their side? Is there a place, where children cry delight, A father has a daughter – son, a mother? Where even dreaded death is calm, and white, With lilies for farewell, placed by brother? Is there a place, where flowers on the sill Enhance a pleasure or a grief diminish? Could there be happiness or wealth more full Than oaken table, chest, and humble bench? The forest suddenly rattled, magnified From hill to hill, and bullet scattering squeaked Like thunder children near me; high and wide, Their errand missed, they sighed, and disappeared. Comrades were come, the avenging battle started! Light as strong as health lit up my heart! All the hearths of home blazed up in me, And every sinew swelled with vengeance for Our bodies they had pillaged – I could see The midday sun shrink gloom to liberty. The smoking village as my nostrils’ guide, I strove to take my stand my men beside. Then it was you found me, still by the path Oh my own kin, my unknown warriors! Singing you came, like the first quickening swath Of fruitful light, which, heralding the day, Boathed me. I tried to ask – for had I swoonned, To dream of singing hands? O bowhund my wounds? Upon my forehead moved a girl's cool fingera, Upon my ears sweet music “Comrade partisan, Rest now in peace, your agonies are requited!” I reached my hands in dark towards her voice, Without a word I touched the tender face, The hair, grenades, and rifle af my grace. Began to sob and never have ceased yet, With throat alone, for now I have no eyes; With heart alone, for now my tears the knife Of murderers gourged away. I am deprived Of eyes to see you, and that strength is gone Which I so need, to fight too, till we've won. But who are you, and whence? I only know That your light warms me. All – Sing! for I can feel At last I live; even though I'm dying now, This in sweet Liberty, with Vengeance stolen From death. Your singing gives my eyses back light, Strong as our People, and our sun as bright. Izvori
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