Lidija Nikčević: Stanica

Great Britain

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

FRANCE

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Germany

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Italia

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Albania

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Poland

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Russia

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Slovakia

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Sweden

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Slovenija

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

North Macedonia

Another Great Preparation / Cleaning Up/ The Sweeping Gesture

In the place where my books used to stand,

— my chosen deities, from different years,

with different signatures, titles,

different smells and experiences,

sometimes emotional and tactile,

and, most frequently, the usual, courteous dedications –

in that place, hence,

neatly folded tablecloths are now.

The pure embroidery of unknown ladies replaced

what used to be my real home,

a reading sanctuary,

the place where I reliably hid from the world.

For years. Different years that went

into letters that mean nothing to anyone.

 

The place where I buried myself,

now is the centre of domestic ephemera.

The books that formed my taste in everything

are placed somewhere else today, far away from my glance.

The books that my father used to bring from Zagreb bookshops,

so precious and dear, those preserved books.

And the shabby ones that as a boy I used to borrow

from the cold „Njegoš“ library in my cold town.

 

Where the translated editions of books that

were precious to me used to stand,

now are positioned immovably the Czech crystal glasses,

porcelain coffee cups that rarely,

very rarely are used, when a guest from far away comes suddenly,

or sometimes in during her afternoon rest

my mother muses how

material things will outlive us unjustly.

And books, it seems, belong to those dead-alive things.

So precious and dear, those preserved now, and subsequently old, books.

 

Still, proudly stand the silver candle-lights,

in the place, where my books used to stand.

And a jar with a red Easter egg

that protects our home, the home I left.

 

Those dead objects have outrivalled all my sacred books,

sacred books of the days of my first readings,

sacred days of the first books that I owned,

from a time when it wasn’t easy

either to get the books or to come into contact with the people.

 

In the place where my books used to stand,

worthless figures are now,

regularly brought from the travels:

a white miniature figure of Mozart,

a tiny relief of Venice, Bled, Krakow,

Montpelier, Trogir… A juniper leaf,

dry margaritas, a piece of a Herzegovinian tombstone,

a souvenir from Lake Como,

where I wanted to go to die.

Or it seems to me that everything is like that.

 

Sometimes, brought from travels,

those tiny petrified remembrances remind me

of other countries, of another me.

That is how I am also petrified

while waiting to hear a voice from some other time.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević