Eavan Boland Dublin 24 September 1944 –
The Pomegranate
The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell. And found and rescued there. Love and blackmail are the gist of it. Ceres and Persephone the names. And the best thing about the legend is I can enter it anywhere. And have. As a child in exile in a city of fogs and strange consonants, I read it first and at first I was an exiled child in the crackling dusk of the underworld, the stars blighted. Later I walked out in a summer twilight searching for my daughter at bed-time. When she came running I was ready to make any bargain to keep her. I carried her back past whitebeams and wasps and honey-scented buddleias. But I was Ceres then and I knew winter was in store for every leaf on every tree on that road. Was inescapable for each one we passed. And for me. It is winter and the stars are hidden. I climb the stairs and stand where I can see my child asleep beside her teen magazines, her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit. The pomegranate! How did I forget it? She could have come home and been safe and ended the story and all our heart-broken searching but she reached out a hand and plucked a pomegranate. She put out her hand and pulled down the French sound for apple and the noise of stone and the proof that even in the place of death, at the heart of legend, in the midst of rocks full of unshed tears ready to be diamonds by the time the story was told, a child can be hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance. The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured. The suburb has cars and cable television. The veiled stars are above ground. It is another world. But what else can a mother give her daughter but such beautiful rifts in time? If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift. The legend will be hers as well as mine. She will enter it. As I have. She will wake up. She will hold the papery flushed skin in her hand. And to her lips. I will say nothing. |
A gránátalma
Egy mítoszt szeretek csak, a lányét,
akinek nyoma veszett a pokolban. S aki megkerült ott s megmenekült. A mese lényege szeretet és zsarolás. A nevek Démétér és Perszephoné. És a legjobb e mítoszban, hogy akárhol beléphetek. Velem marad. Gyermekként, száműzetésben, ködök s fura mássalhangzók városában olvastam először, s eleinte száműzött gyermek voltam az alvilágban, recsegő esthomály, hunyó csillagok. Később elindultam egy nyári alkonyon, keresve a lányomat, hogy ágyba tegyem. Ahogy jött futva, kész lettem volna bármit megadni, hogy el ne veszítsem. Vittem a házba berkenyék, darazsak és méz-illatú bundleiák között. De akkor Démétér voltam, és tudtam, hogy a tél szunnyad mindegyik fa mindegyik levelében ott azon az úton. Egynek se volt menekvés. Nekem sem. Most tél van, és elrejtőznek a csillagok. Fölmegyek a lépcsőn, látom a lányom aludni, tini-magazinjai körötte, kóla és egy tál, rajta bontatlan gyümölcs. A gránátalma! Hogy is felejthettem el! Hazajöhetett volna bántatlanul, és vége volna a történetnek, az egész szívszaggató kutatásnak, de ő leszakított egy gránátalmát. Kinyúlt és lehúzta az alma francia nevét, a kő hangját és a bizonyosságot, hogy akár halál helyén, a mítosz szívében, sziklák közt – melyekben elsíratlan könnyek gyűlnek, készen gyémánttá válni, mire elhangzik a történet – a gyermek megéhezett. Inthetném. Még nincs veszve minden. Hideg az eső. Kovaszínű az út. A külvárosban autók, kábeltévé. A fátylas csillagok fenn lebegnek. Ez más világ. De mit adhat lányának az anya, ha nem ily gyönyörű hasadékot az időben? Halogassam a bánatot? Silányabb úgy az ajándék. A mítosz az övé lesz, amint az enyém volt. Beleléphet. Akár csak én. Majd felébred. Kezébe veszi a vöröses, papírszerű héjat. Szájához emeli. Meg sem szólalok.
Fordította: Thomas Kabdebo
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The Pomegranate
The only legend I have ever loved is
the story of a daughter lost in hell. And found and rescued there. Love and blackmail are the gist of it. Ceres and Persephone the names. And the best thing about the legend is I can enter it anywhere. And have. As a child in exile in a city of fogs and strange consonants, I read it first and at first I was an exiled child in the crackling dusk of the underworld, the stars blighted. Later I walked out in a summer twilight searching for my daughter at bed-time. When she came running I was ready to make any bargain to keep her. I carried her back past whitebeams and wasps and honey-scented buddleias. But I was Ceres then and I knew winter was in store for every leaf on every tree on that road. Was inescapable for each one we passed. And for me. It is winter and the stars are hidden. I climb the stairs and stand where I can see my child asleep beside her teen magazines, her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit. The pomegranate! How did I forget it? She could have come home and been safe and ended the story and all our heart-broken searching but she reached out a hand and plucked a pomegranate. She put out her hand and pulled down the French sound for apple and the noise of stone and the proof that even in the place of death, at the heart of legend, in the midst of rocks full of unshed tears ready to be diamonds by the time the story was told, a child can be hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance. The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured. The suburb has cars and cable television. The veiled stars are above ground. It is another world. But what else can a mother give her daughter but such beautiful rifts in time? If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift. The legend will be hers as well as mine. She will enter it. As I have. She will wake up. She will hold the papery flushed skin in her hand. And to her lips. I will say nothing. |
Nar
Tek jedna legenda mi je draga,
mit o devojci u paklu izgubljenoj.
I nađena je tamo i spašena.
Suština priče je ljubav i ucena.
Imena su Ceres i Persefone.
I što je najbolje u toj legendi da bilo gde
mogu pristupiti. Ostaje sa mnom.
Prvi put kao dete,
u izgnanstvu, u gradu magle i čudnih
suglasnika čitala i u početku
u podzemlju prognano dete bila,
praskajući sumrak, zvezda na samrti. Kasnije
u letnjem predvečerju krenula u potragu
za mojom kćerkom da nju u krevet stavim.
Kako se trčeći približavala bila sam spremna
sve dati samo da nju ne bi izgubila.
Pored oskoruša, osinjaka i bandleira
mirisa meda nosila nju u kuću.
Ali tad sam Ceses bila i znala sam
da na tom putu u svakom lišću
svakog drveta zima drema.
Spasa nije bilo.
Ni za mene.
Zima je
i zvezde su skrivene.
Popnem se stepenicama i vidim kćerka mi
spava, pored nje magazin za mlade,
kola i tacna sa netknutom voćem.
Nar! Kako sam mogla zaboraviti?
Mogla bi kući doći i biti bezbedna
i bio bi kraj događaju, čitavom
srceparajućem ispitivanju, ali
ona je otkinula nar.
Ispružila se i skinula francusko
ime jabuke i glas
stene i izvesnost
da čak i na mestu smrti,
u srcu legende, među stenama
u kojima neoplakivane suze
spremne su da se u dijamant pretvore,
za vreme dok je priča pričana dete
se ogladnio. Mogla bi nju upozoriti. Još ima šanse.
Kiša je hladna. Cesta je boje kremena.
U predgrađu auta i kablovska televijia.
Zastrte zvezde negde gore titraju.
To je drugi svet. No šta još može
dati majka svojoj kćerci ako ne tako
krasnu pukotinu u vremenu?
Odgađam li tugu umanjujem čar.
Legenda će njen biti kao što je i moja bila.
Može pristupiti. Kao i ja.
Probudiće se. Uzeće u ruke
crvenkastu, papirnatu ljusku.
Podićiće do usne. Ništa neću reći.
Prevod: Fehér Illés
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