CRNA GORA JE BOL
Crna Gora je
…bolna tradicija svih koji žive na njenome tlu. Sa znakovitom metaforom za rađanje. „Pao je čelom“, govorile su bake umjesto „rodio se“. Zvuk dolaska koji prati rođenog, do smrti, kao eho udara kamena o kamen. Kao jeka stijene što se survava s vrha litice i kotrlja kanjonom do potonjega smiraja u dnu rijeke. To je bol rađanja-pada. I čovjeka koji silazi niz strmine cio život, ostajući bez daha zbog ljepote surovih suprotnosti.
Crna Gora je
…bolna grimasa i krik nanesen četkicama Dada Đurića. Vrisak „petla“ Miodraga Bulatovića, što se uspinje ka Suncu, i postaje žar-ptica. Struganje stopalima o stijene, u crno ubrađenih žena, uhvaćenih u kadrovima Živka Nikolića. To je ćutnja Miladina Šobića, nakon što se oprostio sa sestrom.
Crna Gora je
…zapitanost Ksenije Petrović (jesu li zime na Cetinje i dalje onako studene?), to je posljednji gutljaj Jadrana u grlima crnogorskih putnika broda Brindizi, kojega so nagriza nedaleko od albanske obale. To je smrzlina u stopalima majki i žena koje se sa hranom i mecima probijaju do prvih linija fronta na Razvršju. To je trzaj japanerom, punim kamena, kojim moj đed Luka Mirov prevozi teret od tačke A do tačke B, nedaleko od Petrove rupe.
Crna Gora je
…i znoj seljaka koga prži Sunce sa trgova Mirka Kovača. Jarko Sunce Mediterana. To je neprodata korpa smokava i prosuti trop od ispečene rakije i otočenog vina. Puna šerpa babinih priganica, koje je unucima pržila jednom zdravom i jednom oduzetom rukom.
Crna Gora je
…bol majki, čija đeca ne uspijevaju da progovore. To je bol onkoloških pacijenata u redovima za ljekove kojih nema. To su plotuni suzavaca i jeka helikoptera, dok popovi slijeću na pir. Urlik je Crna Gora. Evviva!
Crna Gora je
…u želucu, dok se spuštaš s Njeguša u Kotor. Ili dok prolaziš kanjonom Morače i Pive. To je miris sladoleda na autobuskoj stanici u Titogradu, iz 1980-ineke. To je slatki krompir podgorički. Spržena trava u dvorištima blokova, i prašnjava igrališta, bez đece. Zvuk gumene lopte kad ubija u kamen, stativu imaginarnog gola.
Crna Gora je
…bol moga kuma koji, izbjegavajući snajpere u Sarajevu, u Ulcinju iznova počinje život, ne bi li bile ispisane neke od najljepših stranica naše književnosti. To je lupa milicionera po hercegnovskim vratima, iza kojih još dišu ukućani što će biti deportovani. Zveckanje granata, koje vojnik s petokrakom slaže u kutiju, i tovari na kamion koji odlazi za Ćilipe. To je vrat električne gitare iz priče Sreta Asanovića, gitare što su je iz kuće u Konavlima oteli crnogorski rezervisti.
Crna Gora je
…i bijes moje majke, kad shvati da joj starijeg sina vojnoj policiji potkazuje poštar s našim prezimenom. To su stećci u temeljima crkve na Pišču, nijemi spolijski čuvari vremena. I vjetar po okolnim brdima, prošaranim bravima i govedima. To je Durmitorov Prutaš što sve to gleda, i čuva tajnu vojvode Momčila, ujaka Marka Kraljevića.
Crna Gora je
…zebnja sestre, odive, za bratom. I amanet koji ostavlja svojoj đeci. „Dva sestrića, dva Vojinovića.“ To su snovi sa zduhačima, iz njenih priča. To je bol kovača koji čekićem pogodi prst dok kuje sablje za Petrovu vojsku na Krusima. Crna je Gora zveket čizama Milovana Đilasa dok stiže u Zavičaj, da podigne ustanak. To je pjesma na času muzičkog –„Marjane, Marjane, ća barjak ne viješ“ – zvonki glas učiteljice Dobrile, u najcrnjoj crnini za bratom. To je urin na bronzi spomenika Ljubu Čupiću.
Crna Gora je
…i zaleđeni pogled minera što je barutom cijepao stijene u Platijama, dok skliznuvši sa skele grabi dolje rijeci. To je škripa željezničkoga vagona što se kotrlja niz padine Bioča. Crvena utroba rumunskoga autobusa podno mosta u Međuriječju. To su suglasnici koje sriče prolaznik čitajući nazive sela i zaselaka od Nikšića do Foče (pročitati esej Marka Vešovića). Crna Gora su „planovi“ Aca Prijića, uhvaćeni pogledom sa puta iznad Dobrskoga sela.
Crna Gora je
…gnijev kapetana duge plovidbe, dok kormilari barkom, po zalivu, mrsko odgovarajući na pitanja turista. To je morska so u sinusima. Nevoljni plivačev gutljaj vode na pedesetak metara udaljenosti od obale, praćen aritmijom. Zadah kantariona sa spaljenih staračkih koža. Pisak gumenih dušeka. Slameni šeširi poviše pretilosti. Vrućica nakon trovanja špagetima sa morskim plodovima.
Crna Gora je
…i osip na koži Nikole Lopičiča, u logorima Klos, Kavaja, Kolfjorito. Njegov nijemi pogled na bivšega učenika koji ga prepozna na zagrebačkom trotoaru uz povik „ovaj je crven, ovaj je crven“. Crna Gora je Nikolin rukopis u škrinji šćeri Antuna Boglića. I jedan ručni sat – poklon freškom profesoru crnogorske književnosti što je na odbrani diplomskoga govorio o Punjinim pripovijetkama.
Crna Gora je
…san dječaka koji nikad nije dobio gitaru, onu s trećega rafa Robne kuće Nikšićanka. I laž u monografiji „Magija traje“ posvećenoj nikšićkom pozorištu. To je čaša zadovoljstva pjesnika-diletanta i neuroza pisca koji nijednom novom knjigom nije stigao uspjeh prve. Crna je Gora festival poezije osrednjih, teatar naručenih komada i izložba sa rasprodatim platnima.
Crna Gora je
…bol paloga. Čelom o kamen. I korijenje kojim se za kamen primio, da nikne novim padom i novim korijenom. Crna je Gora bolna tradicija pada. I eho udara kamena o kamen. I nicanja. I zvuk novoga nicanja iz kamenih žila. Urlik je Crna Gora – evviva…
MONTENEGRO IS PAIN
Translated by Tanja Radmilo
Montenegro is
…a painful tradition of people living in its territory. With a meaningful metaphor for being born. “He fell on his forehead”, old grannies used to say instead of, “he was born.” The sound that accompanies a newborn from arrival to his death, as an echo of stone hitting stone. Like an echo of a rock falling off the top of a cliff and rolling down the canyon until it finally finds its peace in the bottom of a river. It is a pain of being born-falling down. And of a man going down the slopes all his life, breathless because of the beauty of cruel contrasts.
Montenegro is
…a painful grimace and a cry caused by painting brushes of Dado Đurić. A scream of Miodrag Bulatović’ rooster, climbing towards the sun and becoming the fire-bird. Scraping of feet across the rocks, women with heads covered with black scarves, caught in film frames of Živko Nikolić. It is a silence of Miladin Šobić after he said goodbye to his sister.
Montenegro is
…wondering of Ksenija Petrović (are winters in Cetinje still freezing?), it is a last sip of the Adriatic in throats of Montenegrin passengers aboard Brindisi, corroded because of salt not far away from the Albanian coast. It is a frostbite on feet of mothers and women breaking through the first frontline in Razvršje, carrying food and bullets. It is a jolt of a construction cart full of stones, that was pushed by my grandpa Luka Mirov from point A to point B, not far from the Peter’s Hole.
Montenegro is
…sweat of peasant scorched by the sun in the squares of Mirko Kovač. Blazing Mediterranean sun. It is unsold basket of figs and dropped pomace from rakia and new vine.
Montenegro is
…pain of mothers, whose children never learned to speak. It is a pain of oncological patients waiting in lines for medications that are not there. Salves of tear gas and echo of helicopters while the priests land for the feast. Montenegro is a howl. Evviva!
Montenegro is
…in your gut as you descend from Njeguš to Kotor. Or as you pass through canyons of Morača and Piva. It is a smell of ice cream at the bus stop in Titograd, in 1980-something. It is a sweet potato from Podgorica. Scorched grass in the courtyard of city blocks, dusty playgrounds, with no children. The sound of rubber ball endlessly hitting stone, or bars of imaginary goal.
Montenegro is
…pain of my best man, who, in order to escape from snipers in Sarajevo, begins new life in Ulcinj and writes some of the most beautiful pages of our literature there. Policemen knocking on doors in Herceg Novi as people soon to be deported breath behind those same doors. Rattle of grenades, put in a box by a soldier with a red star to be loaded on a lorry for Ćilipi. It is a neck of electric guitar from the story of Sreto Asanović, the one that was looted from the house in Konavle by Montenegrin reservists.
Montenegro is
…my mother’s fury when she realized that the postman with the same surname as ours reported her son to the military police. Medieval tombstones in the foundations of church in Pišče, silent spolia watchmen of time. Wind in the surrounding hills, dotted by rams and cows. It is peak Prutaš on Durmitor mountain, overlooking it all while keeping secret of Duke Momčilo, uncle of Prince Marko.
Montenegro is
…anxiety of sister, married to another village, over brother. And a testament it leaves to its children. “Two cousins, both Vojinović.” Dreams with dragon men from its stories. It is a pain of blacksmith when he hits his own finger with a hammer while forging sabers for Peter’s army in Krusi. Montenegro is banging of Milovan Đilas’ boots as he arrives to his homeland to stage a mutiny. It is a song at the musical education class – Marjan, Marjan, why don’t you wear a flag barjak – resonant voice of teacher Dobrila, who was wearing the blackest black in mourning for her brother. It is urine on bronze of monument to Ljubo Čupić.
Montenegro is
…frozen look of a miner, who used black powder to split rocks in Platije, as he slides from the scaffold and walking towards the river in long strides. It is squeaking of a railway carriage as it rolls down the slopes of Bioč. Red insides of a Rumanian bus under the bridge in Međuriječje. Consonants spelled by a passer-by, who reads names of villages and hamlets from Nikšić to Foča (read essay written by Marko Vešović). Montenegro are “plans” of Aco Prijić, seen from the road above Dobrsko selo.
Montenegro is
…rage of overseas captain, as he steers a boat across the bay, hatefully replying to questions of tourists. It is a sea salt in sinuses. Unwilling swallow of water of a swimmer fifty meters away from the coast, accompanied by arrythmia. Smell of St. John’s wort from burned skin of old people. A whistle from beach beds. Straw hats above obesity. Fever after sea-fruit spaghetti poisoning.
Montenegro is
…rash on Nikola Lopičič’ skin, in prisoner camps Klos, Kavaja, Kolfjorito. His silent look to former pupil who recognized him on Zagreb sidewalk and yelled: “This one is red; this one is red”. Montenegro is Nikola’s manuscript in a chest that belongs to daughters of Antun Boglić. And a wristwatch – gift for a newly graduated professor of Montenegrin literature, who defended his thesis talking about Punja’s stories.
Montenegro is
…a dream of a boy that has never got a guitar, the one from the third rack of shelves of the Nikšićanka Shopping Centre. And a lie in monography Magic still goes on dedicated to the Nikšić Theatre. It is a glass filled with pleasure of a dilettante-poet and neurosis of a writer, who has not repeated the success of his first book with every succeeding one. Montenegro is a poetry festival of mediocrities, theatre of ordered plays and exhibition of sold canvasses.
Montenegro is
…pain of the fallen one. Forehead hitting stone. And roots grasping the stone, in order to spring with a new fall and new roots. Montenegro is a painful tradition of falling. And echo of stone hitting stone. And springing. Sound of new springing from veins made of stone. Montenegro is a howl – evviva…