Lidija Nikčević: Stanica

Great Britain

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

FRANCE

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Germany

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Italia

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Albania

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Poland

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Russia

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Slovakia

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Sweden

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

Slovenija

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević

North Macedonia

Autumn 2007

Someone unknown brought the autumn

into the north room…

Miroslav Krleža

Quite ordinary is the beginning of the text:

autumn is coming — the season that settled in me long ago.

Autumn is coming and it is good that precisely now

I am writing poems that no one will read.

I am writing poems in a manner forgotten,

using the daily fog, early evening,

the clouds that we appropriate as if they were near us.

And everything else that for these months is characteristic.

Some grey colours rule the space now

and to our words leave but a poor heritage.

With the mysterious autumn bedding, the town is covered –

bedding that proves useful in covering various shames.

In a manner forgotten I am writing,

as autumn is coming, no one will read.

 

But about the seasons, still, who cares;

about poems, who cares,

for the images of landscapes below the black sky,

the sky created neither by poets nor alchemists,

landscape usually named in calendars as November.

For the fog that frequently creeps into my texts –

and even I don’t know how — nobody cares.

Still, I mention fog, as if I’ll disappear into it.

 

It is autumn, the year 2007.

There is something for everyone:

long nocturnal arias — for those who have something to remember,

short, arrogant cuts — for the restless and impatient,

and cold rains for the sensible, silent souls.

What has been prepared for those like me,

who long for some ancient dictionaries,

for those left only with the return to old scrap-books.

All music is here, because autumn is coming, with its deceptions.

From the room, the north room,

I watch the transparent raindrops:

the sky-waters are irregularly dripping on my windows,

on my autumn life.

During autumn days life can relinquish the place with verses,

only hopes are left after days like those that will soon disappear

or remove themselves into a better time, into more beautiful seasons.

 

It is autumn: to go somewhere?

Into hopes that have disappeared,

into the years that we remember,

into the seasons that retreat, as will this poem,

for here are only words written

that autumn comes in a year unknown, irrelevant tomorrow.

 

Autumn, with its delusions and its familiar face,

overwhelms the miraculous colours and erases them afterwards:

the fantasies born during the previous months roughly disappear.

That is how our souls enter autumn

dressed in various colours.

And from here, I think, no one will need them.

Translated by Aleksandra Nikčević Batrićević