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.
