Inside Black Australia

154

                                                                                 

                                                                                                                          Inside Black Australia

                                                                                                               iz antologije aboriginske poezije

 

                                                                                                                        prevedel David Bandelj

 

 

Stephen Clayton

(*1956)

 

The Good Old Days

Back in ’55, when I was just a lad

My father was a farmer

Working someone’s land.

Although I never knew him

I know that this is fact,

It’s written on my birth certificate

Occupation – Farmhand.

They call this time »The good old days«

I wonder if he’d known

He’d been working in the noon day sun

On land

His ancestors once owned

 

Dobri stari časi

Leta ’55, ko sem bil še deček

Je bil moj oče kmet

Obdeloval je zemljo nekoga drugega

Čeprav ga nikoli nisem poznal

Vem da je tako

Na mojem rojstnem listu piše

Poklic – hlapec

Oni Tistemu obdobju pravijo »dobri stari časi«

Razmišljam ali je vedel

Da je garal ob opoldanskem soncu

Na zemlji

Ki je bila nekoč last njegovih prednikov.

 

 

 Robert Walker

(1958 – 1984)

 

Solitary confinement

Have you ever been ordered to strip

Before half dozen barking eyes

Forcing you against a wall –

Ordering you to part your legs and bend over?

 

Have you ever had a door slammed

Locking you out the world

Propelling you into timeless space –

To the emptiness of silence?

 

Have you ever laid on wooden bed –

In regulation pyjamas,

And tried to get a bucket to talk –

In all seriousness?

 

Have you ever begged for blankets

From an eye staring through a hole in the door,

Rubbing at the cold and digging into your flesh –

Biting down on your bottom lip, while mouthing

»Please, Sir?«

 

Have you ever heard screames in the middle of the night,

Or the sobbing of a stir-crazy prisoner,

Echo over and over again in the darkness –

Threatening to draw you into madness?

 

Have you ever rolled up into a human ball

And prayed for sleep to come?

Have you ever laid awake for hours

Waiting for morning to mark yet another day of being alone?

 

If you’ve ever experienced even one of these,

Then bow your head and thank God.

For it’s a strange thing indeed –

This rehabilitation system!

 

 V samici

Ti je bilo kdaj naročeno se sleči

pred pol ducatom bevskajočih oči,

ki te potiskajo ob zid

in ukazujejo, da razpreš noge in se ukloniš naprej?

 

So ti kdaj zaloputnili vrata

in te zaklenili pred svetom

da bi te izstrelili v brezčasen prostor –

v praznino tišine?

 

Si kdaj ležal na leseni postelji

v kazenski pižami

in pripravljal vedro, da bi govorilo –

čisto resno?

 

Si kdaj prosil za odejo

oko, ki bulji vate skozi luknjo v vratih,

trepetal ob mrzlem zraku, ki se zajeda v meso

in grizljajoč spodnjo ustnico rotil

»prosim, gospod?«

 

Si kdaj slišal krike sredi noči,

ali hlipanje obnorelega ujetnika

ki so odmevali znova in znova v temi

in grozili da te potegnejo v njegovo blaznost?

 

Si se kdaj zvil v klobčič

in molil, da bi prišel spanec?

Si kdaj ležal buden ure in ure

in čakal, da jutro zaznamuje še en dan

tvoje osamljenosti?

 

Če nisi izkusil niti ene izmed teh stvari,

potem skloni glavo in se zahvali Bogu.

Ker je res čudna stvar –

tale rehabilitacijski sistem.

 

 

Kevin Gilbert Wiradjuri

(1933 – 1993)

 

Kiacatoo

On the banks of the Lachlan they caught us

at a place called Kiacatoo

we gathered by campfires at sunset

when we heard the death-cry of curlew

women gathered the children around them

med reached for their nulla and spear

the curlew again gave the warning

of footsteps of death drawing near

Barjoola whirled high in the firelight

and casting his spear screamed out »Run!«

his body scorched quickly on embers

knocked down by the shot of a gun

the screaming curlew’s piercing whistle

was drowned by the tunder of shot

men women and child fell in mid-flight

and a voice shouted »We’ve bagged the lot«

and singly the shots echoed later

to quieten each body that stirred

above the gurgling and bleeding

a nervous man’s laugh could be heard

»They’re cunning this lot, guard the river«

they shot until all swimmers sank

but they didn’t see Djarrmal’s family

hide in the lee of the bank

Djarrmal warned »Stay quiet or perish

They’re cutting us down like wild dogs

put reeds in your mouth – underwater

we’ll float out of here under logs«

a shot cracked and splintered the timber

the young girl Kalara clutched breath

she later became my great grandma

and told the story of my people’s death

the Yoorug bird cries by that place now

no big fish will swim in that hole

my people pass by that place quickly

in fear with quivering soul

at night when the white ones are sleeping

content in their modern days dreams

we hurry past Kiacatoo

where we still hear shuddering screams

you say »Sing me no songs of past history

let us no further discuss«

but the question remains still unanswered

How can you deny us like Pilate

refusing the rights due to us.

The land is now all allocated

the Crown’s common seal is a shroud

cover the land thefts the murder

but can’t silence the dreams of the proud.

 

 

 Kiacatoo

Na bregovih Lachlana so nas ujeli

na kraju, ki se imenuje Kiacatoo

zbrali smo se okoli ognjev

ob sončnem zahodu

ko smo slišali jok škurha

ženske so zbrale otroke okrog sebe

možje so zgrabili za sulico in woomero

škurh nas je spet posvaril pred koraki smrti, ki so se bližali

Barjoola se je visoko zavihtel

nad sojem ognja

zalučal svojo sulico in zakričal

»Bežite!«

njegovo telo se je hitro izžgalo na žerjavici

potem ko ga je pokosil strel iz pištole

Pokanje krogel je preglasilo

predirljivo piskanje škurha

moški, ženske in otroci so padali med begom

glas je zakričal »Polovili smo jih«

in streli so kasneje pojoč odmevali

da bi umirili vsako telo

ki je še trzalo v klokotanju krvi.

Slišal se je smeh živčnega moškega:

»Tile so zviti, preglej reko«.

In streljali so, dokler ni

vsak plavalec utonil.

Niso videli Djarrmalove družine,

ki se je skrivala v zavetju brega

Djarrmall jih je posvaril: »Molčite, sicer boste umrli,

udrihajo po nas kakor po divjih psih

dajte trstje v usta – pod vodo

odplavali bomo od tod pod hlodi«

strel je počil in zdrobil deblo

mlada Kaiara je zajela zrak,

postala je moja prababica in pripovedovala zgodbo o

smrti mojega ljudstva

zdaj na tistem kraju joče ptič Yoorug

nobena velika riba ne bo plavala v tisti luknji

moji ljudje gredo hitro mimo tega kraja

v strahu in drgetaje v duši

ponoči, ko belci spijo

zadovoljni v svojih sanjah novejših dni

hitimo skozi Kiacatoo kjer še slišimo pretresljivo kričanje

praviš mi »Ne poj mi več pesmi o preteklosti,

ne razpravljajva dlje«,

a vprašanje ostaja brez odgovora

kako nas lahko zanikaš kot Pilat

in zavračaš pravice, ki nam pripadajo.

Deželo so zasedli

kraljevi pečat je mrtvaški prt,

ki prekriva ukradeno zemljo, umore,

a ne more utišati sanj tistih, ki so ponosni.