Poem
Péter Závada
Requiem for Steve Irwin
(1)Lagoons turn into coastal lakes.
Salt water, over time, turns fresh.
The future of a dominant species
emerges from the vegetation.
When you set off in the Range Rover for Lakefield
National Park, you leave behind
the dry season – drought has dried
the riverbed into a desert of cracks.
But the mangrove swamps still give off
the homely smell of putrefaction.
A teeming variety among the branches,
a rich taxonomy of families,
nascent spawncare
in the nests.
A fanboat carves a path
through the sweltering anaerobic heat,
the hum of its propeller scattering
herons and darters
from among the aerial roots.
(2)
An isolated area. From the roots of the ferns
there’s a view of evolution.
Those that found shelter in the mud and brackish water
have grown lungs
with which to blame you
for the dams, the draining of the swamps.
It’s your fault. The mudskippers
still remember the massacre of the native-born,
their place taken by colonies of prisoners.
And the descendants of these former convicts
turn back the dinghies, even close to shore,
of the fleeing.
(3)
It’s your fault. The mouth of the ravine
still echoes the screams of the murdered.
It tells of the Golden Age of Creation, when
formless space was delineated, resolving into material objects.
Things took form, damselfish were born,
and birds of paradise.
(4)
Every man is terrifying.
You’d rather be an anteater
in a catshark’s dream.
You’d shed your white, middle-class skin,
hardening shame into reptilian scales.
You’d assume the outer covering of
a tortured region.
Oh, for some blond naturalists
to trap you ‘mid ropes
quite near some holidaymaker’s paradise.
Your empathy would acclimatise,
like the temperature of blood,
to the cold puddles; and time,
like the blood’s circulation, would be reversible.
(5)
Shadows are the body’s harbingers.
The vertical slit of the pupil floats
darkly in the flat, elongated construct of the skull:
an inert log in the eutrophic water.
Blind terror of dawn.
The vertebrae of a spine appear in the water
like a scattered archipelago.
A habitat shrinking into an individual,
a slimy mise en abyme.
But you’re not one of them.
You will never know the
phenomenology of a tick.
The escape routes of guilt
lead you back into the body.
Those that walked in the footsteps
of the prehistoric reptiles left their own traces,
so that birds may now drink
the water gathered there.
Darwin, Comte, and Spencer have drawn you into
the one way street of phylogenesis.
(6)
But the mangrove swamps refuse to leave.
Barely audible splashes in the depths:
crabs scuttling in their muddy holes,
as the riverbank clings to the shrubs
so as not to be swept away by the waves.
Only a fraction of continuity reaches you as,
over millennia, dry land
gains ground upon the waters.
© Translation: 2019, Mark Baczoni
Requiem voor Steve Irwin
(1)Lagunes worden meren langs de kust.
Wat zout was, wordt zoet mettertijd.
Uit de vegetatie rijst de toekomst
van een dominante soort op.
In de Range Rover rijdend naar het Lakefield
National Park laat je het droge seizoen
achter je – de droogte heeft de rivierbedding
tot een gebarsten woestijn gemaakt.
De mangrovebossen wasemen nog steeds
hun vertrouwde rottingslucht uit.
Tussen de takken krioelt het leven,
een rijke taxonomie van families,
in de nesten vindt beperkte
broedzorg plaats.
Een moerasboot baant zich een weg
in de anaerobe hitte
Door het propellergeronk vliegen
reigers en slangenhalsvogels op
van de luchtwortels.
(2)
Geïsoleerd gebied. Van onder de varens
heb je uitzicht op de evolutie.
Wie zijn thuis vond in de modder en het
troebele water, heeft longen laten groeien
en laat je rekenschap afleggen
van de dammen en drooggelegde moerassen.
Het is jouw schuld. De slijkspringers
hebben nog gezien hoe de oorspronkelijke bewoners
werden afgeslacht en vervangen
door gevangenenkolonies. Maar de afstammelingen
van de veroordeelden sturen nu de bootjes
van de vluchtenden terug, zelfs van voor de kust.
(3)
Het is jouw schuld. De ingang van het keteldal
weerkaatst nog het geroep van de vermoorden.
Hij vertelt van de Droomtijd van de schepping, toen
de vormeloze ruimte openbrak en zich tot voorwerpen verdichtte.
De dingen kregen vorm, koraaljuffertjes
en paradijsvogels werden geboren.
(4)
Schrikwekkend is ieder mens.
Jij zou een buidelmiereneter willen zijn
in een droom van een kathaai.
Je zou vervellen, je witte middenklasse-huid
afwerpen, de schande tot hoornschubben
verharden. Het buitenste kleed
van een gepijnigd stuk aarde aantrekken.
Werd je maar met touwen gevangen
door blonde natuurwetenschappers
vlak bij toeristengebieden.
Was je medegevoel maar aan te passen, als
de temperatuur van het bloed, aan koele plassen,
en was de tijd maar, net als de richting
van de circulatie, omkeerbaar.
(5)
De schaduw is een bericht van het lichaam.
In de langgerekte, plat gevormde schedel
zweven de pupillen als zwarte verticale spleten:
een dode boomstam in het groene water vol algen.
De blinde paniek van het ochtendgloren.
Uit het water komt de geribbelde rug
als een uitgestrekte eilandengroep omhoog.
Een habitat tot een dier gekrompen,
een vochtige mise en abyme.
Maar je bent niet een van hen.
Je kunt de fenomenologie
van een teek niet kennen.
De vluchtlijnen van schuldbesef
voeren je terug in het lichaam.
Zij die het spoor van de oerreptielen volgden
lieten ook hun eigen sporen na
nu blijft er water in staan
voor vogels om te drinken.
Als Münchhausen hebben Darwin, Comte en Spencer
jou aan het touw van de fylogenese geregen.
(6)
Maar de mangrovebossen wijken niet.
In de diepte klotst het nauwelijks hoorbaar:
krabben scharrelen in hun modderige holen
terwijl de kust zich vastgrijpt aan de struiken
om niet door de golven te worden meegesleurd.
Slechts een fractie dringt tot je door van de continuïteit
waarmee het vasteland duizenden jaren
terrein won ten koste van het water.
© Vertaling: 2019, Mari Alföldy
Rekviem Steve Irwinért
(1)A lagúnákból part menti tavak lesznek.
Ami sós volt, idővel megédesedik.
A vegetációból kiemelkedik
egy domináns faj jövője.
Mikor a Range Roverrel elindulsz a Lakefield
Nemzeti Parkba, magad mögött hagyod
a száraz évszakot – az aszály a folyómedret
repedezett sivataggá szikkasztotta.
De a mangroveerdőkből még
az otthonos rothadásszag árad.
Az ágak közt nyüzsgő sokaság,
családok gazdag rendszertana,
a fészkekben kezdetleges
ivadékgondozás.
Egy mocsárjáró utat tör
az anaerob forróságban.
A propellerzúgásra gémek és kígyónyakú
madarak rebbennek szét
a léggyökerek közül.
(2)
Elszigetelt terület. A páfrányok tövéből
rálátás nyílik az evolúcióra.
Akik a sárban, poshadt vízben otthonra leltek,
mostanra tüdőt növesztettek,
hogy számonkérjék rajtad
a gátakat, lecsapolt mocsarakat.
Te vagy a hibás. A szemforgatóhalak
még emlékeznek rá, mikor az őslakosokat
lemészárolták, és helyüket fegyencek
kolóniái foglalták el. De az egykori elítéltek
leszármazottai ma partközelből is
visszafordítják a menekülők sajkáit.
(3)
Te vagy a hibás. A meggyilkoltak kiáltásait
máig visszhangozza a völgykatlan torka.
A teremtés Álomidejéről mesél, mikor
a formátlan tér fölszakadozott, tárgyakká sűrült.
A dolgok alakot kaptak, születtek korallsügérek,
paradicsommadarak.
(4)
Iszonyú minden ember.
Erszényes hangyász lennél
egy macskacápa álmában.
Fehér, középosztálybeli bőröd
levedlenéd, a szégyent forrasztanád
szarupikkelyekké. Magadra öltenéd
egy megkínzott földterület kültakaróját.
Bár fognának be kötelekkel
szőke természettudósok az
az üdülőövezetek közelében.
Idomulna együttérzésed, mint a vér
hőmérséklete, a hűvös pocsolyákhoz,
és volna az idő, akárcsak
a keringés iránya, megfordítható.
(5)
Az árnyék a test híre.
A koponya megnyúlt, lapos szerkezetében
a pupillák függőleges hasadéka feketén lebeg:
halott farönk az algás-zöld vízben.
A pirkadat vak rémülete.
A vízből a bordázott hát,
mint kiterjedt szigetcsoport tűnik elő.
Egyeddé zsugorodó élőhely,
nyirkos mise en abyme.
De nem vagy közülük való.
Nem ismerheted meg egy kullancs
fenomenológiáját.
A bűntudat szökésvonalai
visszavezetnek a testbe.
Ők, akik őshüllők nyomában járnak,
saját nyomaikat is hátrahagyták,
hogy a bennük összegyűlt vízből
most madarak ihassanak.
Darwin, Comte, Spencer fölfűzött
a törzsfejlődés Münchhausen-fonalára.
(6)
De a mangroveerdők nem tágítanak.
A mélyben alig hallható csobbanások:
rákok mocorognak iszapos üregükben,
míg a part a cserjékbe kapaszkodik,
a hullámzás nehogy elsodorja.
Csak töredéke jut el hozzád
a folytonosságnak, ahogy évezredek alatt
a szárazföld teret nyer a víz rovására.
© 2019, Péter Závada
Poems
Poems of Péter Závada
Close
Requiem for Steve Irwin
(1)Lagoons turn into coastal lakes.
Salt water, over time, turns fresh.
The future of a dominant species
emerges from the vegetation.
When you set off in the Range Rover for Lakefield
National Park, you leave behind
the dry season – drought has dried
the riverbed into a desert of cracks.
But the mangrove swamps still give off
the homely smell of putrefaction.
A teeming variety among the branches,
a rich taxonomy of families,
nascent spawncare
in the nests.
A fanboat carves a path
through the sweltering anaerobic heat,
the hum of its propeller scattering
herons and darters
from among the aerial roots.
(2)
An isolated area. From the roots of the ferns
there’s a view of evolution.
Those that found shelter in the mud and brackish water
have grown lungs
with which to blame you
for the dams, the draining of the swamps.
It’s your fault. The mudskippers
still remember the massacre of the native-born,
their place taken by colonies of prisoners.
And the descendants of these former convicts
turn back the dinghies, even close to shore,
of the fleeing.
(3)
It’s your fault. The mouth of the ravine
still echoes the screams of the murdered.
It tells of the Golden Age of Creation, when
formless space was delineated, resolving into material objects.
Things took form, damselfish were born,
and birds of paradise.
(4)
Every man is terrifying.
You’d rather be an anteater
in a catshark’s dream.
You’d shed your white, middle-class skin,
hardening shame into reptilian scales.
You’d assume the outer covering of
a tortured region.
Oh, for some blond naturalists
to trap you ‘mid ropes
quite near some holidaymaker’s paradise.
Your empathy would acclimatise,
like the temperature of blood,
to the cold puddles; and time,
like the blood’s circulation, would be reversible.
(5)
Shadows are the body’s harbingers.
The vertical slit of the pupil floats
darkly in the flat, elongated construct of the skull:
an inert log in the eutrophic water.
Blind terror of dawn.
The vertebrae of a spine appear in the water
like a scattered archipelago.
A habitat shrinking into an individual,
a slimy mise en abyme.
But you’re not one of them.
You will never know the
phenomenology of a tick.
The escape routes of guilt
lead you back into the body.
Those that walked in the footsteps
of the prehistoric reptiles left their own traces,
so that birds may now drink
the water gathered there.
Darwin, Comte, and Spencer have drawn you into
the one way street of phylogenesis.
(6)
But the mangrove swamps refuse to leave.
Barely audible splashes in the depths:
crabs scuttling in their muddy holes,
as the riverbank clings to the shrubs
so as not to be swept away by the waves.
Only a fraction of continuity reaches you as,
over millennia, dry land
gains ground upon the waters.
© 2019, Mark Baczoni
Requiem for Steve Irwin
(1)Lagoons turn into coastal lakes.
Salt water, over time, turns fresh.
The future of a dominant species
emerges from the vegetation.
When you set off in the Range Rover for Lakefield
National Park, you leave behind
the dry season – drought has dried
the riverbed into a desert of cracks.
But the mangrove swamps still give off
the homely smell of putrefaction.
A teeming variety among the branches,
a rich taxonomy of families,
nascent spawncare
in the nests.
A fanboat carves a path
through the sweltering anaerobic heat,
the hum of its propeller scattering
herons and darters
from among the aerial roots.
(2)
An isolated area. From the roots of the ferns
there’s a view of evolution.
Those that found shelter in the mud and brackish water
have grown lungs
with which to blame you
for the dams, the draining of the swamps.
It’s your fault. The mudskippers
still remember the massacre of the native-born,
their place taken by colonies of prisoners.
And the descendants of these former convicts
turn back the dinghies, even close to shore,
of the fleeing.
(3)
It’s your fault. The mouth of the ravine
still echoes the screams of the murdered.
It tells of the Golden Age of Creation, when
formless space was delineated, resolving into material objects.
Things took form, damselfish were born,
and birds of paradise.
(4)
Every man is terrifying.
You’d rather be an anteater
in a catshark’s dream.
You’d shed your white, middle-class skin,
hardening shame into reptilian scales.
You’d assume the outer covering of
a tortured region.
Oh, for some blond naturalists
to trap you ‘mid ropes
quite near some holidaymaker’s paradise.
Your empathy would acclimatise,
like the temperature of blood,
to the cold puddles; and time,
like the blood’s circulation, would be reversible.
(5)
Shadows are the body’s harbingers.
The vertical slit of the pupil floats
darkly in the flat, elongated construct of the skull:
an inert log in the eutrophic water.
Blind terror of dawn.
The vertebrae of a spine appear in the water
like a scattered archipelago.
A habitat shrinking into an individual,
a slimy mise en abyme.
But you’re not one of them.
You will never know the
phenomenology of a tick.
The escape routes of guilt
lead you back into the body.
Those that walked in the footsteps
of the prehistoric reptiles left their own traces,
so that birds may now drink
the water gathered there.
Darwin, Comte, and Spencer have drawn you into
the one way street of phylogenesis.
(6)
But the mangrove swamps refuse to leave.
Barely audible splashes in the depths:
crabs scuttling in their muddy holes,
as the riverbank clings to the shrubs
so as not to be swept away by the waves.
Only a fraction of continuity reaches you as,
over millennia, dry land
gains ground upon the waters.
© 2019, Mark Baczoni
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