iz hrvatske škole, s ljubavlju
TRANSCRIPT
From Croatian School, With Love
FRO
M C
RO
ATIAN
SCH
OO
L, W
ITH LO
VE – A
NTH
OLO
GY 2
01
4
Iz Hrvatske škole,
s ljubavlju
The Londonwordscape Project
www.thelondonwordscapeproject.com
Supported by Edited by
Sam Holmes and Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift Cover Design Branka Košak
An anthology of
bilingual creative writing
L I
The Londonwordscape Project
2
The Londonwordscape Project
Supported by
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Contents Page Ivan Kavelj-Buzuk Going Home 6 Navijač 7 Supporter
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Ivana Capps Zagreb 13 London 14 Haiku Poems 15 At Dusk
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Zara Capps Bromley 21 Dora's Adventure
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Luka Capps How to Make an Assassin
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Leo Šikman Day on the Water 34 Mandre
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Branka Košak Studeni 39 November 40 Tko si? 41 Dinnertime
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Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift The Green Pony 47 Zeleni pony 49 Life's Alright But 52 Jesi za kavicu?
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Luka Grbčić Jadranovo 57 Sox
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Luka Dumić The Usual Day When Selling Corn
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Slavica Šikman Bijela kuća 66
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Ivan Kavelj-Buzuk
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Going Home
By Ivan Kavelj-Buzuk
We will long live on and on
To the pendulum of time’s final swing
To some we are forgotten
But in your memories we never die
Remember the bells we rang
Our monastery that stood tall on an emerald bay
Our island, our perfect imperfection
That floated on this vast and endless sea
Remember all the songs we sang
Our prayers that fell upon deaf ears
We men of God, we recorded verse upon verse
That voices no longer share
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Now see our home so empty in the ocean
The church’s call long silent, its meaning lost
To blind eyes a blemish, but to us forever…
...a now imperfect shadow of imperfection
A beacon on cold and never ending waters
Now imagine our bastion in all its former glory
The tales and psalms the doors still hold
We men of god lay down our lives
So that you could share our wonderful story
We will long live on and on
To the pendulum of time’s final swing
To some we are forgotten
But in your memories we never die
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Navijač
By Ivan Kavelj-Buzuk
Danas sjedim na stranom stadionu.
Sve što sam ja gori za Hrvatsku.
“U boj, u boj za narod svoj”,
Idemo dečki, igra počinje.
Gol, gol, gol! Ali tko je zabio?
Je li to bio veliki Mandžukić?
Ili brzi Olić?
Ili tehničar Luka?
Ne, nitko od ovih legendi;
Novi momak Kramarić.
Gomila poludi.
Ovo će izgleda biti fantastičan dan
Za hrvatske Vatrene.
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Devedeseta minuta,
Još je jedan-nula za Hrvatsku.
Naša je obrana kao kameni zid.
I to je to!
Danas se ponosim što sam Hrvat.
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Supporter
By Ivan Kavelj-Buzuk
Today I sit in a foreign stadium
Everything that I am burns for Croatia
“Into battle, into battle for your people”
Let’s go boys, the game has begun
Goal, but who scored?
Was it the giant Mandzukic?
Was it the speedster Olic?
Or the technical genius Luka?
No, none of these legends;
The new boy Kramaric
The crowd goes wild
This looks like a fantastic day for the Croatian
“Vatreni”
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90th minute
Still 1-0 Croatia
Our defence is like a stone wall!
And it’s all over
This day I am one proud Croatian.
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Ivana Capps
13
Zagreb
By Ivana Capps
Zrinjevačke fontane žubore u prvom svjetlu dana,
Asfalt Ilice sjaji nakon iznenadnog ljetnog pljuska,
Gornjogradske ulice tonu u san prekrivene
snijegom,
Ritam užurbanog grada i vlakova koji bježe u
daljinu.....
Eh, sada je drugo vrijeme i novi sni, ali i dalje
mirišu
Božićni kolači u toplim sobama.
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London
By Ivana Capps
Liverpool Street or Leicester Square, bustling, busy,
almost bursting, full of life and noise,
Open spaces of Hampstead Heath, where you can
run and run (or take a dip if you are brave enough)
Notting Hill Carnival,
Dalston’s old cinema with plush velvet curtains and
all my favourite films,
Over the rolling, twinkling Thames, night air of
South Bank is heavy with delicious smells,
Never sleeping, never ending…
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Haiku Poems
By Ivana Capps
Zara
Zagreb u zoru
Zara juri Zrinjevcem
Zeleni se sve
Luca
Grički top puca
Luca lovi goluba
Pravi neuspjeh
Maya
Sunce nas prži
Studena voda Jaruna
I mala Maya
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At Dusk
By Ivana Capps
The door slammed shut for what could have been
the very last time. One day soon it will be. Time isn’t
on my side. Not anymore. There are decades, years,
hours, millions of minutes behind me, but when I
look ahead I can’t see all that much. When I look
back I can see almost too much; laughter,
celebrations, people, holidays, losses, tears, too
many tears… and now silence. Almost deafening.
Someone once said ‘there is no greater sorrow than
to recall happiness in times of misery’. And indeed
it pains me greatly to think of all the joy that I once
knew, now that all I can do is wait for the time to
pass.
My sight has faded over the years, I can hardly see
without my glasses now. From my chair I can just
about make out the outline of Medvednica standing
tall against the fading winter sky. Silently standing
there, almost hugging the northern stretches of the
old town. Not forbidding, like some mountains can
be. It gives me a great comfort to know that the
mountain was here before me and it will still be
here long after I am gone.
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I get the same sort of feeling when I think about
Sava, the river that runs through Zagreb. I think a
river is important in the life of a city. Like blood that
rushes through our veins, it brings excitement and
vibrancy into a city. But somehow I feel that Zagreb
doesn’t love its river. Not in the way London does.
Or Paris. Not that I have ever been there. That
would have been far too extravagant. But I have
seen photographs in magazines, I have seen films.
There are no twinkling lights on Sava’s banks, no
river cruises, no restaurants on water. Still, I quite
like that abandoned feel, the air of isolation.
Before I was this frail, before my back ached, before
my legs were weak, before crossing this room was
an effort, I used to take my old black bicycle and
cycle down to the river and sit there for hours.
Sometimes I would draw, for I was quite good at
drawing when my hands were steady, but
sometimes I would just sit there and watch the river
move, sometimes slowly almost dance-like,
sometimes urgently rushing, pushing onwards.
And it is only now that I see it, that perhaps Zagreb
is afraid of its river, maybe even begrudging and
that is why it keeps its distance.
I remember the terrible flood of 1964 very clearly.
For days water just kept coming, it just wouldn’t
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stop. Ten thousand people lost their homes forever.
I remember it clearly, standing in a room on the
maternity ward, in my local hospital, holding my
tiny newborn boy tightly and crying into his soft
neck, crying with helplessness at all the devastation,
loss and sorrow. Tragedies like that often bring out
the best in people, but they also highlight some
really uncomfortable truths. Several people lost
their lives in that flood, a couple of them old ladies
who drowned when their basement flats suddenly
filled with water. And one of the bodies nobody
came for. Nobody. There was not one person in this
world who missed her. Who cried for her. I cried for
days; for her, for her loneliness, for the silence that
must have been surrounding her, for the fear that
must have overwhelmed her at the end. Who could
have known that my own fate would so cruelly twist
the same way? I have outlived my entire family, and
most of my friends, the sole survivor in this battle
we call life. And the prize for getting this far isn’t all
that wonderful really.
The wind is picking up outside and it looks like it is
beginning to snow. Soft, gentle snowflakes are
swirling around, dancing madly with each other and
falling, falling, falling, covering the frozen ground
bellow with a delicate blanket. But something is
very strange tonight. It is early evening and I know
it’s dark outside, but there is this strange light
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seeping into my room, making everything seem so
exquisite and grand. And it is suddenly very warm,
the warmth is wrapping itself around me and it feels
just like it felt when my little boy used to wrap his
tiny arms around my neck. And it is so quiet and
peaceful.
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Zara Capps
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Bromley
By Zara Capps
Barking dogs on the way to school,
River Ravensbourne,
Opticians up the road,
Many Mayas live here,
Learning lots at school,
Evie over the bridge,
Yellow sun is not always shining.
22
Dora’s Adventure
By Zara Capps
As Dora walked through the glass flower garden she
brushed her gold, curly hair that reached down to
her hip. Her turquoise dress, with white and blue
flowers on it shone in the sun. She put on her green
headband to hold back her hair. Her bright yellow
pumps were the colour of the sun. She sometimes
wore a white cloak. Her green eyes were always
shining. Her pet puppy, Probs followed her around
everywhere.
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She heard her friend Iva shouting: “Dora dođi
bliže!”
“Dolazim!” Dora replied. And with a skip she was
over the fence.
“Gledaj tamo!” Iva said pointing at an amazing
eagle.
“Ooooh!” Dora beamed.
They went up the mountain with Probs. At the top
the eagle welcomed them with a smile. They jumped
on the eagle’s back. Her name was Tena. Tena took
them to Winter Wonderland. At Winter
Wonderland they had a snowball fight and made a
snowman. Suddenly some rides appeared in front of
them. There was a rollercoaster called The
Snowman and a teacup ride called Speed is Need.
First they went on The Snowman. It was so fast that
they kept on screaming. After that they went on
Speed is Need. They spun and spun and spun
around in a blur. Later on they went for a wander
and got lost. A bad witch saw them. As she prepared
to swoop in on them she got eaten by a deer.
“Baš si super!” exclaimed Iva and Dora together!
All of a sudden Iva checked her watch and said:
“Škola počinje za 20 minuta!”
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Suddenly everything began to fade….
“Dora probudi se! Škola počinje za 20 minuta!” she
heard her mum say and as she opened her eyes and
saw the end of her bed, she realised that it had all
been a dream.
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Luka Capps
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How to Make an Assassin
By Luka Capps
He walked around, staring at his left hand. It was
completely useless, as it was paralysed, unable to
feel, and brought back painful memories. And yet,
he couldn’t bear to bring down his knife, and cut off
the shrivelled, blackened husk. Why? He had no
idea. It was most likely because it was one of his
only memories of his family, the other being the
black knife he held. His hand.
It was crippled on the night of the fire. His father
had been drunk one night, and had sworn at a
town guard. It was in his native tongue, Croatian,
so he wasn’t gutted on the spot, but his family was
killed with him, when the knight found out. Rather,
they were meant to be killed. The boy was the sole
survivor, with just a blackened hand, knife and
clothes to show for it. The house had been filled
with gas at night, and there was iron melting, so
the furnace hadn’t been put out. The boy woke to
the smell of smoke, and the sound of screams. His
room was on the ground floor, and his parents’
room the floor above, with the smithy, so if it
caught fire, he had a higher chance of surviving.
He ran out of his room, and paid no mind to the
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fact that he was holding his knife. He could hear
crackling, now that the screams had been silenced,
and saw bright red tendrils poking through the
gaps in the door. As he ran, he tripped on an ingot,
and landed on the floor, his hand falling into a
puddle of molten metal that had burned through
the ceiling. His hand was fried instantly; the skin,
the flesh, the nerves. The frying created a great
deal of smoke, and he stared through it for a few
minutes, oblivious to the flames’ crackle growing
louder to his right. Suddenly, his saw a glint of
flames on the cellophane window, and crawled to
it, carefully evading any molten puddles. He
jumped up, slashed it with his knife and jumped
through, being thankful that he had gotten his
knife, and that the window hadn’t been replaced.
He looked at his burned hand, ash-covered clothes,
and blackened hand.
As he came out of the flash-back, he thought about
the blackened knife, an opposite memory to the
blackened hand stored within it.
He had gotten the knife on the morning of his
birthday, the day before the night of the fire. Well,
that has a bit of a lie. He had actually been given a
metal plate, with a message carved into it, ‘ako od
ovoga možeš napraviti nož, onda možeš biti kuhar.'
He was overjoyed, as he had always wanted to be
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a chef, but his father thought that it would be best
for him to follow in his footsteps, and become a
blacksmith. He had spent all day and night in the
smithy, heating the plate, hammering it, carving
extremely hot pieces off of the handle, and shaping
it into a rhino that fitted comfortably in his hand.
He showed it to his father, who had been
overjoyed, and asked him to help in the smithy,
because the kingdom was going to war, and this
was the only blacksmith’s in this town, so he
needed help with all the orders that the knights
were putting in. His father had said that he only
needed help for a week, and the boy, then called
Kane, could go off to be a chef.
He came back to reality, and looked at his scarred
and scratched wall. As he stared into his ‘mirror’, a
scrap of iron, he thought about the aftermath of the
fire, and how he’d felt.
He stared at the burning house, not thinking of
anything but trying to come to terms with the
facts. His parents were dead. He had one set of
ash-covered clothes, a useless hand, and a
blackened knife. And he was alone. But no matter
how hard he tried, he couldn’t accept the first fact.
“No! They aren’t dead Kane!” His Mind would say,
“But they are…” He would whisper out loud. And
his stubborn mind would say, “No! The screams
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stopped because they got out of a window, or
something!” And as the stubborn cycle of denial
went on, he stopped trying to comprehend it, and
just thought. He thought about how he had no
money, no job, no way out. He knew he’d have to
change his name, because as far as the knight
knew, the family were now dead or dying. Maybe
he could work in the Royal Kitchens since he was a
pretty decent chef, and he’d heard that they had a
vacancy.
After resurfacing from his memories, he returned
his vision to the knife he held, and thought about
the root of its dark and brutal path.
He lay on his bed and looked out of the window.
The moon was almost beyond sight, just peeking a
hair’s width over the upper rim, and he made it
near mid-night. He sat up, and rubbed his eyes,
which had been aching continuously since he had
seen the moon graze the bottom edge of the
window. He felt down the side of the bed for the
handle of his knife. Tonight, it would end. The
painful days, the beatings, the multitude of bruises
flowering across every visible part of his body.
There was no reason for it barring the fact that the
head-chef was a sadist, with a desire to see
children suffer. He crept out of the door, and along
the corridor into his abuser’s room. He stood over
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the chef, and held his knife, ready to slit the man’s
throat. But he found it impossible to bring his hand
down, and take the chef’s life. “Do it!” said the
‘Dark’ side of his mind. “No! He’s just misguided.”
Responded his ‘Light’ side. “Misguided my eye! He’s
a sadist and he’s beaten you enough for five
lifetimes! KILL HIM!” “No!! He was just raised
wrong.” “Would you rather spare him and let
others deal with him while you run, or kill him, and
stop any others having to endure his beatings as
well?!” Suddenly, the large man stirred. Knowing
he’d prolonged it too long, he slid his knife across
the chef’s throat. The man let out a soft gurgle and
then fell silent forever, as Kane ran. No. He wasn’t
Kane. He was just Himself.
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Epilogue
He awoke with the sun blazing though the window,
onto his pale face. Quickly, he jumped up, and
muttered, “Damn!”, his voice hoarse from lack of
use in the night. He ran to his makeshift mirror, a
plate of iron from the old scrap yard, and looked at
himself, focusing on his dark eyes, and black hair,
and wondered if he would need to change anything.
He was an exile, of 13, living in a Black Market, and
was to be killed on sight, were he to enter the
kingdom. He was a tallish boy, but was fairly
inconspicuous in his dark clothes, the only things he
had to wear. He took out his knife, and polished it
until it shone with a dark glint, reminiscent of its
past. He then looked at the horn on the handle, and
bringing out another rhino, almost identical to the
one serving as a handle, started using the horns as
hooks to scale his wall, which was harder and
steeper than most, for the purpose of practice before
harder assassinations.
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Leo Šikman
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Day On The Water
By Leo Šikman
It has been four hours, four hours I have been
sitting here, partially wet and so bored. Then again,
it has been raining almost all day so I wouldn’t be
surprised if no one came. Nevertheless, I am still
bored and me and my friends can’t really do much,
instead we pass the time by counting the amount of
tourists walking on the bank. My friends and I have
always been wandering ‘how on earth do people get
used to dry land?’ The water is much better because
it is really refreshing and you can’t get lost easily.
Seriously though, where is our weekly 11 o’clock
group? They’re late but they are never this late. If I
have to wait here any longer I might actually start
collecting rust.
Finally after many, many hours the sailors have
arrived. I noticed on the boat a couple of new faces,
one in particular looks nervous. Once the kids set
foot on the island they went to their boats and oh, I
am with the nervous looking one. Well, looks like
I’m going to end up upside-down. While I just sit
there I observe how he is rigging, he seems to know
35
what he is doing. He wasn’t as fast as the others but
he still did it and now we have set sail.
It is a bit of a slow start but there is barely any wind
(lucky us). I might have underestimated this kid
because he knows how to move even when he is on
his own. Oh no, that is a big gust coming. Oh boy
I’m about to go over, lean kid lean, lean, lean, lean,
lean. Ok, we’re safe. That was a close one, how on
earth did he manage to pull that off? Never mind, at
least his friends got some good footage from that.
Now we just have to keep on cruising for the next
half hour, with nothing exciting happening but still
fun, everyone seems to be having a lot of fun. There
goes the whistle and my work here is done. We got
ourselves back on the island, they got all of us
unrigged, got back on their boat and left. It is
almost a shame he had to leave, he was pretty good.
Can’t wait till next time.
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37
Mandre
By Leo Šikman
Moving through the waves my boat and me,
Away from the rocky shore as far as I can see,
Nothing to stop my racing heartbeat,
Divine clear sky above my head, deep blue sea
below my feet,
Released into the wind like a flying kite,
Easily immersed in the rushing feeling, I can go day
and night.
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Branka Košak
39
Studeni
By Branka Košak
Košmar u glavi, drhtaj u grudima.
Osjeća se tišina.
Gluho je doba, a vrijeme, čini se, stalo.
Studeni je.
Pod uličnim svjetlima bjelasa se mraz
I nikoga više nema.
Ostali su nam samo mirisa zapis
I hodanje po sjećanjima.
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November
By Branka Košak
The mind in turmoil, the chest in tremor.
Silence is felt.
In the dead of night, time stops.
It’s November.
Under the streetlight the frost is glistening
And those once here no longer are.
All that remains for us is the recollection of aromas
and the wandering through memories.
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Tko si?
By Branka Košak
Vrisak, vrijesak, pijesak,
Pljusak, pljesak, bljesak.
Bìlo, čūlo, kormilo,
Kišnica, krijesnica, vijesnica.
Kuća, tuča, zrak, mrak,
Strka, zbrka, rad, hlad.
Gràd, glad, grožđe, gvožđe,
Smijeh, grijeh, riječ, mliječ.
Mladost, radost, drveće, cvijeće,
livade, ograde, obale, ostave.
Rasti, cvasti, cvrkutati…
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Depresija, opsesija, opresija,
Ključ, puč.
Čast, slast, plast, hrast.
Stroj, broj, samo svoj,
Olako, oteško, polako, preteško.
Trčati, stršati, prštati, praštati,
Krojiti, kuditi, kaditi, braniti.
Zvockati, zvrndati, zboriti, stvarati,
Spavati, pjevati, hraniti, davati.
Čigra, igra, gra, ra, a…
I…eto,
To sam ja!
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Dinnertime
By Branka Košak
“Yes, the males of the species are funny”, she
frowns.
“Of course, there are some out there you’d want to
run off with into the sunset, but most of the time
they just sniff around to say the least. It’s not that
we don’t, but only to learn what THEY are up to.
Only the other day, I spotted my neighbour
behaving oddly. To tell the truth, I think it’s the way
they are, but come on, with HER two doors down?!
Anyway, three lots of little ones for me were more
than enough. Not that I didn’t cherish them - on the
contrary, I swear! But I just didn’t want any more.
It’s about my wishes and needs, too.
Things have considerably changed for the better
now. My life is much more tranquil. I still go out for
energetic walks and stay there a great deal, but
without any agro. No more worrying what if. I
reckon it’s important to live one’s life to the full, but
there are still limits to observe and standards to
keep.
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Luckily, in this day and age, precautions can be
taken. In the days of our grans, you know, things
were much harsher. Thankfully, today, with
everything modern, anything can be done...so…I
was given a break, a permanent break at that. I
DESERVED IT!!
Because the fortunate thing is, in my house, some
things are done with tact. Not that they are prudish
or anything, but there is no need to discuss certain
subjects at length, if a snap decision can be made.
Hmm… Snap, snip, snip, snap, snipetty, snapetty,
snipetty, snap. Hah, hah, hah…that’s almost like a
nursery rhyme, isn’t it?!
Well, I DO like it when the children are playing…
They make the most beautiful noise, like throwing
pearls in the air. However, I do not like terrifying
sounds of any kind. It scares me to death -
especially the fireworks. The fear overwhelms me
and all I want to do is run and hide.
Luckily, it doesn’t happen too often and I practically
know when that time of year comes. I’ve only just
about survived Guy Fawkes and his lot the other
day, you know, but in a few weeks time, big bangs
again. Oh, dear, dear… Hopefully, after that, some
peace and quiet will reign for months to come.
Unless, of course, we get somebody too enthusiastic
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or a bit funny ‘up there’, you know what I mean…
We never know what humans might do.
Well, I must be going… Time for dinner. They’ll be
calling me any minute now. I can feel it in my
bones. Hah, hah, hah! Guess, when the stomach’s
empty, bones are rattling. But, it’d better be a good
meal or else – I’ll bite them!
The other day, I heard my humans saying that they
must really watch what they eat - so many chemicals
and hormones in food. ‘Not even the packaging is
safe anymore’, they said. They’d better check mine,
too.
I really DO wish we were fed like in olden
times…just home-cooked meals and nothing else…
Still get them, though, from time to time and don’t
even mind the leftovers – believe it or not!
Better be off… Just…please, please…I’m asking
YOU, in the Above, don’t let them make a dogs’
dinner out of my din-dins today. Just give me what I
like. Cheerio!”
46
Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift
47
The Green Pony By Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift
We are put together. All the screws are tightened. They are spray-painting us today. That will give us more character Our real identity. My neighbours are sprayed one by one, standing in a row. Big bottle spits and splatters RED. Another bottle spits and splatters BLUE. A small bottle spits and splatters GOLD. When they come to me, they stop and say Oh, we've run out of paint. Let's use this old stuff. The colour wasn't too popular with the kids last year but it needs using up. Oh, panic! What are they going to spray on me? Why not a lovely, predictable colour everyone likes? Red for girls, blue for boys, Gold or silver for the little princes and princesses... Splatter, splash, hick-up, shake the tin, Splatter, splash and I am covered! It's green. Light green. Grass green. It's not bad. Not bad at all. Someone will like me just the way I am. Not too shiny. Bright and light. Green's all right for BIKES. Green is good for bikes.
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I am the only green one on the shop floor. I suppose that makes me special. Will it be a girl or a boy? The red ones are going. Oh, they are popular. The blue ones are selling well. I’m not worried. I have faith and I know my worth. I know I’m beautiful. I will find my match. There she comes. With Mum and Granddad. I know she'll take me. I just feel it in my metal bones. She looks around, quick glance at my red friends, Quick glance at my blue friends. A longer glance at me.
She is 7 I reckon, brown ponytails, serious little face. She says This one. Are you sure, they say, Look at the lovely red one over there. You know I don't like red, Mum. This one is lovely I think. It's the only green one here. I'll have this GREEN “PONY” Oh, how exciting! I’m hers and she’s mine. My working life begins. Streets of Zagreb, here we come!
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Zeleni pony By Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift
Sastavljaju nas. Pritežu šarafe. Još nas samo treba ofarbati. Da ne bumo svi isti. Da bu svak bar donekle svoj. Moje kolege stoje u redu ko vojnici I čekaju kantu sa špricom; Iz jedne kante šprica crvena, iz druge plava, Iz manje kante šprica zlatna. I na mene dođe red. Stanu i vele “O joj, kante su prazne. Da postružemo ovu od lani? Nije baš neka boja al nema veze, treba ju potrošit’” O moj Bože, kakva bu to farba? Zakaj ne obična neka koja se svima sviđa? Crvena za curice, plava za dečke. Zlatna ili srebrna za razmažence. Špricne, štucne, protresu kantu, Farba krene… I evo, gotov sam!
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Zelenim se ko travica Pa ni to tak loša farba… Nekom bu se svidila. Svijetlo zelena. Ne presjajna ali svježa. Tko kaže da zelena nije dobra za BICIKLE!? Jedini sam zelenko u Nami na Kvatriću. Zato sam baš nekaj posebno. Ko će me kupiti – curica ili dečko? Crveni se dobro prodaju. I plavi su traženi. Niš se ja ne brinem. Znam ja kol’ko vrijedim. Znam da sam zgodan. Našel bum ja sebi par. Evo je! S mamom i dedom. To bi mogla bit moja gazdarica, Tak mi šapće moje željezno srce. Obilazi nas, Pogleda crvene, pa onda plave. Zastane kraj mene. Ima možda nekih sedam godina, Ozbiljno lice i smeđu kosu u repićima. Veli “Ovaj mi se sviđa” Mama veli “Jesi sigurna? Pogle crvene” “Znaš da ne volim crvenu, mama. Ovaj je nekak usamljen. Vidiš da je jedini zeleni među njima svima. Ja bi baš njega.”
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Joj, kak sam uzbuđen! Sad sam njen i samo njen. Počinje moj radni staž. Lepi ti je Maksimir, Maksimir, vu njem raste zelen žir, zelen žir. La, la, la, la, la-la-la, la-la-la…..♫♫♫♫
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Life's Alright But...
By Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift
My neighbours do drive me mad sometimes. Take this morning, quite an ordinary morning, suddenly I hear this screeching outside. I race to the window to have a look but I am too late. It must have been Gilbert looking for trouble again. Such a bully. Young, strong, not the brightest, bless him. Not a bad character, just doesn't know what to do with his young energy. He should be more independent by now and not hold onto his mummy's skirt any more. About time he grew up! I don't know who got the upper hand this time. I somehow doubt it was Freddy. He lives two doors down but always hangs around my garden. Looking for company, hoping to make friends. At least he's not aggressive like some. He used to follow me around, expecting me to teach him things, guide him since I'm older. Don't know. He's not my type. Thin, lanky, insecure, feeling a bit sorry for himself. I just ignore him these days. All I want is a peaceful life. And good food. It irritates me when my neighbours are trying too hard to make friends. Friendship’s overrated if you ask me. I like to keep myself to myself. Nothing wrong in that.
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When Zimzum moved in next door, I was a bit curious, that's all. She grew up quickly and had her own family. But in a way she never really grew up. Still shooting up telegraph poles, even concrete ones that hurt your paws! Very quick, very clever but such an eccentric, my goodness! You just never know with her. No sense of boundaries. Mad, unpredictable, some days too chatty, following me around, some days can't even say hello. Sometimes she just comes in uninvited. How am I supposed to react to that!? Where are her manners? Honestly! Maybe they all see me as a grumpy old lady. I am not old, just slightly older than them. They should all show a bit more respect. I was here before them, that's all.
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Jesi za kavicu? By Hrvojka Kostelić-Swift*
Jesi za kavicu?
Ma ‘ajmo na kavicu.
Te čarobne riječi
Ravnaju bore na svačijem licu.
Ma nema veze što svi kradu,
Što se firme raspadaju,
Jedno je svima jasno –
Kafići i dalje dobro posluju.
U nogometu skandali,
Prostaci na vlasti,
Svi se žale na besparicu,
No netko te uvijek s kavom počasti.
Cappuccino, macchiato?
Ma dajte mi dupli espresso
I može jednu rakijicu tanku.
*Inspired by ‘Alternative Anthem’ by John Agard
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Zašto svi nemamo dionice u Francku?
Živjela kava, živjeli kafići,
Nek’ ih financijska policija mazi
Jer to su odmorišta i utočišta
Na grbavoj životnoj stazi.
Vremena se mijenjaju,
Džezve su zastarjele,
Sad aparati za kavu pište i vriju,
To su naše nove lokomotive!
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Luka Grbčić
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Jadranovo
By Luka Grbčić
Jadranovo is my home.
Aeroplanes I hear from Krk
Days I spend lying in bed
Rule of mine is no early waking
Annoying vans go past shouting “FISH”
Night is a great time for swimming
O, how my eyes hurt from the salt
Very hot weather during the day
Other worries are non-existent
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Jadranovo
By Luka Grbčić
Jadranovo je moj dom
Avioni se čuju s Krka
Dane provodim ležeći u krevetu
Ranog dizanja kod mene nema
Ali kamioni viču “ribe”
Noć je odlično vrijeme za kupanje
Oči peku od soli
Vani sunce grije svaki dan
Ovdje nema brige
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Sox
By Luka Grbčić
The second the puppy had stepped in to the corridor
my heart melted. Not only was he cuter than I could
have imagined, he was here to stay. After receiving
information that we shared the same birthday, I had
the feeling of a special bond. And to seal the deal he
slept in my lap all night.
He was out now, he had been introduced to the
outside quite recently and “poof” he was gone. His
swift little legs were sure to outrun my father’s. The
things that could go so wrong started swarming my
head: he could get run over, get lost or escape my
dad. I felt betrayed even though I knew he was only
a dog. But all these doubts were gone as soon as he
was placed back in my lap.
The car had narrowly missed him, but the tug that
saved him from the impact was making him choke.
Waiting at the vet’s as our dog is gasping for air. I
was guilty. I was the reason that my dog was in this
state. The doctor played with his instruments as my
dog squealed in frustration at itself. The news was
better than imagined as we walked out the house
with a harness.
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The morning of spring truly is great, especially
rolling in the flowers with my loyal friend. The smell
of flowers and nature radiates from my dog. It starts
playfully but ends in the bath washing off the mud
from my regretful pooch. Yet he still makes the
same mistake daily, I wish these days would never
end as each day brings another hilarious situation.
Sox being curious about how many times he can
stick his nose in nettles to stop it stinging or how
many times he had to bark at the postman to stop
him ever coming again.
A white explosion as Sox jumps into a snowman
that doesn’t last seconds against him. His brown,
black and white fur becomes powdery white. He
dodges snowballs skilfully, we play until water starts
to seep into my jacket and go home to find some hot
cocoa on the table.
A puppy which is homeless stays for the night, but I
remain loyal to my best bud by petting him more.
Sox notices that the visitor is only a boy so he
doesn’t act dominantly. He is gentle toward the
visitor, but the visit was only temporary.
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A vibrating bundle of nervousness is the state of my
dog, but when we reach the coasts of Croatia
suddenly all that tension has been dropped as he
leaps into the sea. Running to and fro across the
lawn, as this is a place where it’s impossible to be
bored.
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Luka Dumić
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The Usual Day
When Selling Corn
By Luka Dumić
My eyes abruptly light up as I gaze at the sun
ascending over the horizon. A cool salty breeze
latches onto my nose as I take a deep breath. I catch
a glimpse of the first few people as they take their
first few steps onto the beach. One boy says,
“Mama, kad mogu kupiti kukuruz?” This is when
my day begins.
I capture my cool box which is jam packed with
corn, and then lay the strap on my shoulder. Even
though it’s early in the morning, I can already feel
the sun rays beaming down onto my forehead. I
take a seat in the shade which is conveniently under
a massive pine tree, while lingering around waiting
for my first customer.
It’s lunch time, and there he is, the chosen one, the
one that will buy the first batch of corn from me.
“Jedan kukuruz za 15 kuna i tri za 40 kuna.” I shout.
The boy approaches me and buys three. Finally, a
sale.
The late afternoon has approached me and I seem
to have sold all my corn. I ponder to myself, is this
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really what I want to do throughout the whole of the
summer holidays? Well, I haven’t really got
anything better to do with my time and I really quite
enjoy it. I grab my cool box and go home to prepare
for the same process tomorrow.
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Slavica Šikman
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Bijela kuća
By Slavica Šikman
Koraci niz ulicu postaju sve glasniji i glasniji što su bliži. I evo vidim je. Baka. Približava se polako s pogledom priljepljenim za mene. Ima samo tašnu preko ramena i to mi izmami osmijeh. Moji dolaze uskoro. Zatvori kapiju za sobom i kao i obično prošeta polako po dvorištu oko mene zagledajući pažljivo svaki cvjetić, biljku i travku prije nego otvori vrata i uđe.
Odjek potpetica na drvenom podu prekine debelu tišinu, koja se nakupila proteklih par mjeseci. Sutra će se taj odjek izgubiti u graji i metežu koji Moji uvijek donesu sa sobom i sve će biti kao nekad prije. Prije nego su me ranili i ogolili. Sve će biti kao nekad, kad sam bila dom. Probudit će me miris svježe kave i toplih uštipaka.
Zidovi mi zadrhte kad pomislim na dane kad sam jedva održavala klimavi krov da se ne uruši u prazninu u meni. Priželjkivala sam da se ona dva bora, koja su stršila ispred mene i nekad me tako nervirala, vrate i sakriju od pogleda prolaznika u kojima sam samo izazivala strah. Da me sakriju od susjeda kojima sam bila ruglo u ulici.
A onda sam jednog dana ugledala neke, meni strane, ljude kako me zagledaju s ulice i među njima prepoznala Moje. Prebrojim godine na njihovim
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tužnim licima. Zvuk meni poznatih glasova razbije teški muk upleten u moje ogoljene zidove i probudi u meni rijeku uspomena. Slavlja i pjesme, vika i svađe, smijeh, lupa vrata i razbijeni prozor, svadba, plač bebe, miris pokipjelog mlijeka, pite, sarme i pečenih kolača. Pucketanje vatre, mjauk mačke, lavež psa, muzika i ljudi, puno ljudi.
Izgubljena u vrtlogu uspomena nisam ni bila svjesna što se događa, ali već sutradan sve je bilo jasno. Lupa čekića, nove cigle, prozori, vrata! Dan za danom i moje rane su napokon zacijelile. Oni strani ljudi ugasili su tamu u meni i ponovo sam bila cijela. Izvana sam još uvijek išarana starim ožiljcima, ali vjetar više neće zujati kroz mene, niti će snijeg prostirati bijeli tepih po mojem podu. Mačke i psi lutalice morat će naći novo sklonište, a ljudi novo smetlište.
Odjenom sve se utiša. Slatka bol svakog uboda čavla nestade. Posljednji zvuk ključa u bravi. U osmjesima Mojih na odlasku vidim da ćemo se uskoro ponovo vidjeti.
S prvim toplim proljetnim danima stigli su i Moji. Moji stari i s njima neki novi. Brzo sam shvatila da su svi moji, i oni mali i oni malo veći. Sa svakom posjetom stizali su i darovi. Nije prošlo dugo i dobila sam novi bijeli kaput, a moji prozori i vrata dobilu su svježu boju. Sa svakom novom stvarčicom jeka u meni polako je jenjavala.
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Posjete su postale sve češće, a s ljetnim danima i sve duže. Polako se sve budilo u meni i oko mene. U starom cvjetnjaku nicali su novi pupovi zumbula, narcisa, tulipana. U vrtu se zazelenila salata, mladi luk i rikula. Ruže su okitile ogradu, a miris božura proširio se svuda oko mene. Stol je na dvorištu, a klupe uz njega uvijek pune. Opet se čuje “Dobar dan”, “Ajte na kafu”, “Do kad ste tu?”
Neće dugo, znam to. Tako je i ovaj put. Miris roštilja polako se gubi, stol i klupe pospremljene su u garažu, užurbane stope gore - dole niz stepenice, torbe u auto i posljednji zvuk- ključ u bravi. Još par riječi sa susjedima ispred kapije: “Sretan put i vidimo se uskoro”. Zvuk auta niz ulicu polako se gubi.
Tika-taka, tika-taka, muzika sata s kuhinjskog zida jedino je što sad čujem. Miris opranog veša širi se kroz mene, a na stolu pupoljak ruže u vazi. Pogled mi odluta do mog prvog poklona, šalicu na kojoj piše “Kuća se gradi od zidova i krova, a dom se gradi od ljubavi i snova”.
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