SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR

It’s farewell to the drawing-room’s civilised cry
The professor’s sensible whereto and why
The frock-coated diplomat’s social aplomb
Now matters are settled with gas and with bomb.

The works for two pianos, the brilliant stories
Of reasonable giants and remarkable fairies,
The pictures the ointments, the fragible wares,
And the branches of olive are stored upstairs.

For the Devil has broken parole and arisen
He has dynamited his way out of prison
Out of the well where his Papa throws
The rebel angel, the outcast rose.

Like influenza he walks abroad,
He stands on the bridge, he waits by the ford;
As a goose or a gull he flies overhead,
He hides in the cupboards and under the bed.

Assuming such shapes as may best disguise
The hate that burns in his big blue eyes
He may be a baby that croons in its pram,
Or a dear old grannie boarding a tram;

A plumber, a doctor, for he has skill
To adopt a serious profession at will;
Superb at ice-hockey, a prince at the dance,
He’s fierce as the tigers, secretive as plants.

O were he to triumph, dear heart, you know
To what depths of shame he would drag you low,
He would steal you away from me, yes, my dear,
He would steal you and cut off your marvellous hair.

Millions already have come to their harm,
Succumbing like doves to his adder’s charm;
Hundreds of trees in the wood are unsound
I’m the axe that must cut them down to the ground.

For I, after all, am the fortunate one,
The Happy-Go-Lucky, the spoilt third son;
For me it is written the Devil to chase,
And to rid the earth of the human race.

The behaving of man is a world of horror,
A sedentary Sodom and slick Gomorrah
I must take charge of the liquid fire
And storm the cities of human desire.

The buying, and selling, the eating and drinking,
The disloyal machines and irreverent thinking,
The lovely dollards again and again
Inspiring their bitter ambitious men.

I shall come, I shall punish, the Devil be dead,
I shall have caviare thick on my bread
I shall build myself a cathedral for home,
With a vacuum cleaner in every room.

I shall ride on the front in a platinum car,
My features shall shine, my name shall be star:
Day long and night long the bells I shall peal
And down the long street I shall turn the cart wheel.

So Little John, Long John, Polly and Peg,
And poor little Horace with only one leg,
You must leave your breakfast, your desk, and your play
On a fine summer morning the Devil to slay.

For it’s order and trumpet and anger and drum,
And power and glory command you to come:
The graves shall open and suck you all in
And the earth shall be emptied of mortal sin.

The fishes are silent deep in the see,
The skies are lit up like a Christmas tree
The star in the West shoots its warning cry
“Mankind is alive, but mankind must die”.

So good-bye to the house with its wallpaper red,
Goodbye to the sheets on the warm double bed,
Good-bye to the beautiful birds on the wall,
It’s good-bye, dear heart, good-bye to you all.

W.H. Auden, 1937

---

Poeziju će svi pisati

san je davna i zaboravljena istina
koju više niko ne ume da proveri
sada tuđina peva ko more i zabrinutost
istok je zapadno od zapada lažno kretanje je
najbrže
sada pevaju mudrost i ptice moje zapuštene
bolesti
cvet između pepela i mirisa
oni koji odbijaju da prežive ljubav
i ljubavnici koji vraćaju vreme unazad
vrt čije mirise zemlja ne prepoznaje
i zemlja koja ostaje verna smrti
jer svet ovaj suncu nije jedina briga

ali jednoga dana tamo gde je bilo srce stajaće sunce
i neće biti u ljudskom govoru takvih reči
kojih će se pesma odreći
poeziju će svi pisati
istina će prisustvovati u svim rečima
na mestima gde je pesma najlepša
onaj koji je prvi zapevao povući će se
prepuštajući pesmu drugima
ja prihvatam veliku misao budućih poetika:
jedan nesrećan čovek ne može biti pesnik
ja primam na sebe osudu propevale gomile:
ko ne ume da sluša pesmu slušaće oluju

ali:

hoće li sloboda umeti da peva
kao što su sužnji pevali o njoj

B. Miljković, 1959