Miroslav Antić – Pustinja

Tekst pesme

Pustinja

I

Sve češće mi se događa da oko sebe zapažam obilje nečeg polovičnog čemu se odaje počast.
Obilje nesigurnog, prikrivenog i krnjeg, a tako uvaženog.

Možda prenaglo rastem. A možda prenaglo raste ovaj svet oko mene i gubi osećanje pravednosti i obraza.
Nešto nije u redu.

Recimo: vidim početak. Svi okolo se dive. A meni nešto zasmeta. Osećam, treba drukčije.
Prepoznam starost novog. Jalovitost zahuktalog. Prepoznam gde se mešaju velikodušnosti i pohlepa, i beslovesnost i složenost, i saradnja i izazov, i davanje i krađa.

Izbrišem sve rukavom i sve ponovo započnem.

II

Ili mi kažu: ovako izgleda savršenstvo. A ja vidim: ne izgleda.
I krivo mi što vidim.

Još deda mi je govorio: « Treba pustiti svakoga da radi kako radi. Ako je sobom ushićen, nemoj to da mu kvariš.
Što više njih u zabludi, sve više si u pravu».

A ja tako ne mogu. Prislonim uho na tle i učim sebe slušanju. Mnogima je to vredelo.
Slušam šta govori zemlja. Valja joj verovati.
Zemlja ne govori napamet.

Zasučem onda rukave. Izgubim dane i noći. Niti me neko moli. Niti me neko tera. Niti mi kažu hvala.
Zapnem umesto drugog, raskrvarim svu dušu, ali mirno i strpljivo dovršim dovršeno.

III

Prosto mi neprijatno kad vidim na nekoj slici nešto nedoslikano, a ne smem to da priznam ni drugima ni sebi, da ne ispadnem priglup.
Ili kad čujem u pesmi gutljaj nedopevanog, pa se od toga zagrcnem i gorko mi u grlu, jer moram da progutam.

Za mene nauka nije nešto već naučeno, nego mučenje učenja mimo gotovih znanja.
Kad se nagnem nad cveće, znam da to nije miris, već njegov zadihan pokušaj da razgovara sa mnom.

Kad se nagnem nad potok, znam da to nije pena, već njegov uspaničen pokušaj da me na nešto upozori.

Sve češće imam potrebu da menjam redosled zbivanja. Da desno premeštam levo.
Cedim boje iz belog. Vraćam mora u izvore. Pravim od vetra klikere kao od plastelina.
Uopšte, tako se ponašam kao da sam ja priroda. Ili da sam ja prirodi nekakva njena priroda.

IV

Krišom već usavršavam neka od tih umeća.

Mahnem, na primer, rukom i – preda mnom je more. Vidim da nije dobro. Onda izgužvam more, malo osušim, izmesim i ispečem na suncu.
Uveče dobijem planine. Ni to mi nije dobro. Ujutro oparam planine, pa od njih pletem oblake.

Držim u ruci oblutak kao beonjaču sunca. Držim pšenično zrno: zub-mlečnjak Mlečnog puta.
Menjam se od mene do mene i opet od mene do mene, i u svakoj toj promeni nekakav drugi ja prestaje iz začetka i začinje se iz prestanka, dok korača u gomili sa bezbroj svojih tajnovitih i neslućenih bića.

Onda se dižem u vazduh i lepršam nad prostorom. Presvlačim krljušt vetra.
U kakav kosmos da zurim, kad sam i ja taj kosmos?

V

Mnogo je tokova potrebno da se komadić kamena otkotrlja u more i sa njega se operu sve neravnine vremena, da bi se, zaobljeno, u žilicama vulkana shvatila misao, zgranuta što ni do danas nismo saznali obične stvari iz uspomena pra-munja, pra-okeana, pra-vazduha, i razgovora virusa, reptila ili paprati.

Ko misli glavom, taj ne misli, ako ne ide na rukama. Nije uzalud kazano: misli se uvek odozdo.
Misli se kao grana: od korena ka cvetu. Da su krošnje u zemlji, mislilo bi se krošnjama.
Misli se kao kuća: od temelja ka krovu. Misli se kao zemlja: od grobova ka pticama.

Držim list bele breze kao sluzokožu leta. Držim kap vode na dlanu kao molekul najdubljeg.
U kakav kosmos da zurim kad kosmos u mene zuri iz ispranoga suzama oblutka moje beonjače?

The Desert

I

More and more often I find myself noticing, around me, an abundance of something mediocre that’s being praised.
An abundance of insecure, concealed and damaged, but yet so esteemed.

Maybe I’m growing too suddenly. Though maybe this world around me is growing too suddenly and losing the sense of righteous and honour.
There’s something wrong.

Let’s say – I see the beginning. Everyone around me is admiring. But something starts to bother me. I feel it should be different.
I recognise antiquity of the new. Barrenness of rushed. I recognise where generosity and greed, and senselessness and complexity, and cooperation and dare, and giving and theft mix.

I wipe it all away with my sleeve and start all over again.

II

Or they tell me – this is what perfection looks like. But I see – doesn’t look like it.
And I’m sorry that I see it.

Even my grandfather used to tell me: “Everyone should be allowed to do as they do. And those who are thrilled with themselves, don’t spoil it for them.
The more of them is mistaken, the more you are right.”

But I can’t be like that. I lean my ear upon the ground and teach myself to listen. It worked for many.
I listen to what the Earth is saying. She’s worth trusting.
The Earth doesn’t speak without proof.

I roll up my sleeves. I waste days and nights. Neither is anyone asking me. Nor is anyone making me. Nor do they thank me.
I put in a great effort for someone else’s cause, I make my soul bleed, but peacefully and patiently I finish the completed…

III

I simply get embarrassed when I see, in a picture, something unpainted, but I don’t dare to admit it neither to others nor to myself, so that I wouldn’t look rather stupid.
Or, when I hear, in a song, a sip of unsung, which then chokes me up and I get a bitter taste in my mouth, because I have to swallow.

For me, science is not something already learned, but a torture of learning beyond ready-made knowledge.
When I lean over flowers, I know that’s not scent, but its panting attempt to speak with me.

When I lean over a brook, I know it’s not foam, but its panic attempt to warn me about something.

More and more often I feel the need to change the sequence of events. To move the right to the left.
I squeeze colours from white. I return seas to springs. I make marbles out of wind, like out of modelling clay.
In general, I act as if I’m the nature. Or as if I am to nature some kind of its nature.

IV

Secretly, I’m already perfectioning some of the skills.

I wave, for example, my hand – and there’s the sea before me. I see that it’s not right. Then I wrinkle the sea, dry it up a bit, knead it and roast it in the sun.
In the evening I get mountains. That’s also not good enough for me. In the morning I unknit the mountains, and then knit clouds out of them.
I hold a pebble in my hand, like the white of the sun’s eye. I hold a wheat kernel: a milk tooth of the Milky Way.
I change from myself to myself and then again from myself to myself, and in each of the changes some different me stops at birth and conceives out of cessation, while it walks with a crowd with an infinite number of its secretive and unimagined beings.

Then I rise up in the air and flutter over the space. I change the wind’s scales.
What kind of cosmos should I stare into, when I’m that cosmos too?

V

It takes many streams to roll a small piece of rock into the sea and to wash away all the traces of rough times, in order to, rounded off, in a volcano’s tiny sinews, comprehend the thought, astonished by the fact that until this very day we haven’t learned about the plain things from the memories of ancient lightning, ancient oceans, ancient air, and conversations between viruses, reptiles and fern.

He who thinks with his head, doesn’t think, unless if he’s walking on his hands. It’s not said for nothing: always get to the bottom of things*.
Thinking is done like a branch: from the root towards the flower. If treetops were in the ground, thinking would be done by treetops.
Thinking is done like a house: from the ground to the roof. Thinking is done like the earth: from graves towards birds.

I’m holding a white birch leaf like mucous membrane of the summer. I’m holding a drop of water in my palm like a molecule of the deepest.
What kind of cosmos should I stare into when the cosmos is staring at me out of the round white of my eye, washed out by tears?