Miroslav Sekulic-Struja

subota, 24. svibnja 2025.

ČEKANJE NA AUTOBUS

Bilo ih je puno rasutih po stanici - kao slučajne misli, svatko sa svojom šutnjom i razlogom. "Valjda će se pojaviti," rekao je tip bez brkova, u izlizanom crnom kaputu, gledajući niz cestu kojom se vukla magla, kao da nešto odgađa. Brkati sa šeširom samo se nasmijao, tiho, kao da zna više nego što kaže, osmijeh mu je bio blijed kao sjena nekadašnjeg smijeha. Dječak je kopao nos, mirno, bez srama, kao da ne postoji ništa osim tog trenutka. Žena s plavom maramom, onom što je imala uzorak žutih ptica, spavala je na klupi. Njena kosa bila je zalijepljena za obraz, a vjetar joj je povremeno povlačio suknju preko koljena, otkrivajući modrice i pokoju ranu od hodanja kroz trnje. Jedan krezubi čovječuljak, naslonjen na izlizani kišobran s drškom koja se ljuštila, znao je da je dječak njezin sin iz trećeg braka. Znao je, jer joj je on bio prvi muž. I tad je stao govoriti: O da, da. Često se pitam. O da, da. A ne znam zašto. A ne znam zašto. U srijedu sve teče. U petak me rana peče. Ma, da. A ne znam zašto. Zašto sunce opet grije? Opet grije, kao prije. Ona mala, žena plava, sada opet negdje spava. Čekamo, čekamo, čekamo, čekamo, negdje spava. Čekamo kišu. Ponoć tu je. I nove oluje dolaze i prolaze, kao ljudi, puni čudi. O da, da. Mala nestašna djevojčica trčala je za bijelim psom sa crnim repom, vičući, smijući se. Pas je imao jedno uho spušteno, drugo uspravno, i njušku kao da ju je netko nacrtao kredom. Negdje u daljini pukao je prozor, zvuk stakla po asfaltu bio je tanak i oštar. Svi su znali šofera. Volio je duže stati po selima. U svakom mu netko nešto tutne: komad pite, jabuku, šaku kestena, šaku u glavu. Uvijek kasni. "Kasnit će i svojoj mami na sprovod," rekao je čovjek u crnom. Brkati se opet nasmijao, ali oči su mu gledale u staru izlizanu cipelu, ona se ljuljala lagano, kao da više ne zna gdje pripada. Žena na klupi sanjala je dvoranu, ogromnu, sa sivim zidovima i blijedim svjetlom kao da dolazi ispod vode. Na velikom platnu prikazivao se film: Čekanje na autobus. Probudila se naglo, s okusom metala u ustima. "Prošlo je već dva sata," reče čovjek u crnom, kao da to znači nešto više od same rečenice. Brkati se još jednom nasmijao, ali sada više sebi u bradu, tiho, starački, pomalo bočno, kao da se s nekim iza leđa dogovara. Dječak pokraj žene prestao je kopati nos i počeo fućkati neku dječju pjesmicu, loše, ali uporno, kao da doziva nešto. Žute ptice na ženinoj marami, pod nekom nevidljivom sjenom, pozelenile su, kao listovi koje jesen još nije dohvatila. Krezubi starac je odalamio djevojčicu po guzici kišobranom. Pas je zalajao i pobjegao, ostavljajući za sobom male, mokre tragove, nalik skicama. "Evo, stigao je napokon," izusti čovjek u crnom. Autobus je bio star, zahrđao, i mirisao je na vlagu, benzin i smrt. Brkati je ostao bez osmijeha.

SKELETON OF SMOKE

This is a poem I recently wrote for my painting. The painting itself was created over 15 years

SKELETON OF SMOKE

A boy stretches his neck toward the sky.

His eyes glisten like oil on a puddle.

The skeleton of a whale sways above him.

It flies and drifts.

"Do you see it?" the boy asks,

His voice thin, easily carried by the wind,

Which carries the scent of algae and rust.

A woman clutches a bag in her right hand.

Her hands tremble, but not from the cold.

Inside the bag are letters that never reached their destination:

One letter for a son,

One for a daughter,

And one for no one special,

For no one important.

A man with a cane limps forward.

Old shoes creak,

And the ground beneath them murmurs,

Murmurs without end.

"Are there any more trains?" he asks.

But there is no answer,

No one to hear him.

The train behind the house is silent.

It only watches.

The rusty cabin looks at the sea—

Eyes empty, pupils made of glass and steel.

The tracks lead nowhere.

Far away, a ship’s horn wails,

A lament that spreads out.

Behind the house, behind them, behind the half-open window,

Someone who once waited for the train,

Someone who still waits,

Waits for it to come.

Now they only look at the deep sea.

Look and smoke a large pipe.

Maybe they own a wooden car.

Maybe buildings.

Maybe even the skeleton of the whale in the sky that still sways in place.

Everything is frozen.

Even the smoke from the pipe.

The old man, woman, and boy—all frozen.

Why? Why?

The chimney behind the building releases thick smoke,

And it too is frozen.

Like the smoke from the pipe we don’t see,

But feel,

For some strange reason.

Where are the workers?

Are they at work?

Are they okay?

Are they hungry?

Where are their children?

Where? Where?

Why does the whale skeleton hang frozen in flight?

Where is it flying?

What is its fate?

Why is it frozen?

Why? Why?

ANGOULÊME 2025

nedjelja, 11. svibnja 2025.

Edgar, koji je šaptao mraku

Edgar, koji je šaptao mraku

Nekad sam bio majstor samoće, zalutala sjenka među tužnim golubovima, s licem od stakla u kaputu od magle, u parkovima od kartona i slame. Ispod zvijezda, ispod sebe, sanjao sam plastične snove, a umjesto mača, nosio sam tupe rogove s mirisom plavičaste tuge. Svoj krevet dijelio sam sa živima i ponekim mrtvacem. Moje cipele bile su od kiše i blata, kao otvorena groblja usred oluja. Ljudi su nosili maske, a ja sebe, preko pruge, oko starih vagona, s drvenom žlicom, umivao sam ranjenog miša od srebra u noći, ispod slatkog snijega, na kamenu od požutjelog nemira. Ja sam bio Edgar, za neke gospodin iz nasmijanog smeća, koji se ruga oštroj sreći u sjajnim kutijama, a za druge pločnik koji plače ispod dubokih koraka koji žure. Samo jedno plavo oko i jedna torba, u njoj krikovi rasutih snova, vruće zime i ledena proljeća, kao popucalo vrijeme na zidu od staklenih suza. Bio sam tih i s tajnama. Čuvao sam ih ispod kape koja je pričala više od mene, ponekad istine, ponekad laži. Ali brodovi su teški, brodovi su stari. Ulice grada, znao sam njihova krhka imena od jeftinog kostura, njihove neuhvatljive kraste. Vidio sam mjesta gdje djeca rastu u špricama s okusima gorkih bombona. Gutao sam miris svojih umornih koraka. Znao sam, a znao sam ništa. Bio sam Edgar, šaptao sam mraku u parkovima, daleko od žmirkavih svjetiljki. Noge su me vodile prema vratima koja govore: "Uđi ili ostani." Negdje, nigdje...

Angoulême, 2025.

petak, 9. svibnja 2025.

MEMORY OF THE FOURTH LETTER

It’s the weekend... The dogs are frozen, everything is silent, and the pigeons are frozen above the trees in the park, in Montsouris Park. People sit on the grass like wooden statues, sitting around a tablecloth. On it are apples. People make the sounds of old trains. Instead of eyes, they have clocks.The park is like a bed, the city is a story, the people are sentences. It’s beautiful... Everything is quiet. Is the first letter G? No. Is the first letter D? No. It’s beautiful... It’s quiet in the park... In Montsouris Park. The sand is cold, the lake is green. And the travelers on bicycles are green... The sky is green. Only the grass is yellow. The grass... It’s beautiful... It’s warm, everything is quiet again. She comes without words. An old lady. Who is she? She remembers her first three letters. It’s a gift. It’s effort. A struggle. Her fingers are a cure. These are moments without fear. It’s beautiful... Beautiful... It’s warm... The walls are no longer painted with shame. Trash has become art. Thirty-seven pigeons play on the rooftops, jumping, singing, in Montsouris Park. Everything is calm. The scent of croissants spreads from the newspapers, the smell of Turkish coffee and lemon, the smell of Chinese food, the smell of muffins. It’s beautiful... It’s quiet... Time is no longer time, space is no longer space. Squares are no longer squares. Factories aren’t factories. But it’s beautiful... Quiet... Calm... Shadows walk without bodies, curtains dance without wind. In Montsouris Park, everything is slowed down through the cracks. A white rose dreams the music that doesn’t exist. A little girl sits on a bench. In her hands, she holds a plastic bottle, spins it, and laughs. She just laughs. Her laughter is a whisper of the past. The sky is cloudless. Cats turn, spinning in circles, looking for something, looking for a new sky. All the windows are closed, but flowers hang from their edges. A song can be heard, maybe a prayer. It’s beautiful... Quiet... Time has stopped again, spilled across the road like wine on a tablecloth. The old lady remembered. She remembered the fourth letter. She remembered the smell of mandarins and the ink. She remembered a glass full of sunlight on the childhood table. Everything is quiet... again... It’s beautiful... It’s beautiful... It’s silent in Montsouris Park.

Paris, 2023.