DRINKING BEER, THINKING OF JEFFERS
Drinking beer,
watching the stone wall I just finished,
and thinking of
Jeffers.
Sometimes what
people do
with their lives
is far better
than any art they produce—
paintings,
sculptures,
a book of poems,
a novel…
Jeffers was a good poet.
One of the few
who ended up
on the cover of
Time magazine
back in the 1930s.
Of course, it means
nothing,
it proves nothing.
Jeffers—
a man with a chiseled, determined face,
a tough, sinewy body,
and a voice of slow tempo, leaning on the first
syllable
and long pauses at
the end of the line,
as if laying stone upon stone.
Later to be
dismissed,
rejected,
pushed aside
by the literary
world,
called
old-fashioned,
and forgotten.
The Beat Generation
climbed up onto the
stage.
Maybe Kenneth
Patchen before them,
or alongside—
a different voice
anyway.
But I'm drinking
beer, watching my stone wall,
and thinking of
Jeffers.
I always liked his
Be Angry at the
Sun
But what I like the
most
is how he built
Hawk Tower
on a rugged
coastline of Big Sur
with his own hands.
Stone by stone.
A four-floor
granite tower—
each year another
level.
A Tower of Songs
at the edge of the
world!
Each evening, after
writing,
he would climb up
to the top,
smoke his pipe,
watching the ocean,
watching the light
fade.
Contemplating.
Or just enjoying
his way of life. His existence.
He goes down,
walks a minute to his home, Tor House,
the place he also built with his own
hands,
and a little help from a local builder.
His beautiful wife,
Una, who never cut her hair
puts food on the table.
Vegetables from the garden, eggs and meat
from her chicken
coop.
They eat. He, she,
and their twin boys.
By the fire, they rest.
He reads his work.
Afterward, she reads aloud.
The boys read after her.
Then radio, or the gramophone.
Stravinsky.
And the late-night
news.
"This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice."
Time to sleep now.
Maybe fuck, not to be polite.
And dream…
Hawk Tower, Tor
House,
Jeffers and his life at Big Sur.
A poet’s magnum opus.
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AI - translation from English
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PIJEM PIVO I RAZMIŠLJAM O ROBINSONU JEFFERSU
Pijem pivo,
gledam kameni zid koji sam upravo dovršio,
i mislim na Jeffersa.
Kadkad je ono
što ljudi rade
sa svojim životima
daleko bolje
od bilo koje umjetnosti koju stvaraju—
slike, skulpture,
knjiga poezije,
romani…
Jeffers je bio dobar pjesnik.
Jedan od
rijetkih
koji je završio
na naslovnici Time Magazina
tamo negdje 1930-ih.
Naravno, to ne znači ništa,
niti dokazuje što.
Jeffers—
čovjek isklesanog, odlučnog lica,
žilavog, snažnog tijela,
i glasa sporog ritma, koji se naslanja na prvi slog,
s dugim stankama na kraju stiha,
kao da polaže kamen na kamen.
Kasnije
odbačen,
gurnut u stranu
od književnog svijeta,
proglašen zastarjelim,
izvan vremena —
zaboravljen…
Na scenu dolazi Beat Generation.
Možda Kenneth
Patchen prije njih,
ili usporedno s njima —
u svakom slučaju drugačiji glas.
Ali ja pijem
pivo, gledam svoj kameni zid,
i mislim na Jeffersa.
Uvijek mi se
sviđala njegova
Be Angry at the Sun.
Ali ono što mi
se najviše sviđa
jest kako je sagradio Hawk Tower
na surovoj obali Big Sura
vlastitim rukama.
Kamen po kamen.
Četverokatni
granitni toranj—
jedna godina, jedan kat.
The tower
of Songs,
na rubu svijeta!
Svake večeri,
nakon
pisanja,
penjao bi se
na vrh,
pušio lulu,
gledao ocean,
i svjetlost kako isčezava.
Kontemplirao.
Ili jednostavno uživao
u svom načinu života. U svojoj egzistenciji.
Potom bi se
spustio i pošao do svog doma.
Imao je svega par minuta do Tor Housa,
kuće koju je također, uz malu pomoć lokalnog majstora,
sagradio
vlastitim rukama.
Njegova lijepa
žena Una,
koja nikada nije šišala kosu
stavlja hranu na stol—
povrće iz svoga vrta, jaja i meso
iz kokošinjca.
Jedu. On, ona,
i njihovi sinovi blizanci.
Zatim odmaraju
uz kamin.
On čita svoje radove.
Zatim ona čita naglas.
Dječaci čitaju nakon nje.
Svira radio ili glazba s gramofona. Stravinski.
Onda kasne vijesti.
“Ovog jutra Adolf Hitler govorio je u Gdanjsku—čujemo njegov glas.”
Vrijeme je za spavanje.
Možda jebanje, da ne budemo pristojni.
I snove.
Hawk Tower,
Tor House,
Jeffers i njegov život u Big Suru.
Pjesnikov magnum opus.
