D. H. Lawrence, NAR

Kažeš mi da griješim.
Tko si ti, tko je itko, da mi kaže da griješim?
Ne griješim.

U Sirakuzi, na stijeni ogoljenoj zlobom grčkih žena,
Zacijelo zaboravljaš rascvjetana stabla nara,
Oh, tako crvena, i u takvom obilju.

Dok u Veneciji,
Groznom, zelenom, skliskom gradu
Čiji su duždevi bili stari i imali pradavne oči,
U gustom lišću unutarnjeg vrta
Narovi kao sjajni zeleni kameni,
Bodljikavi k tome, bodljikavi krunom.
Oh, krunom od šiljatog zelenog metala
Koja upravo raste!

Sad, u Toskani,
Narovi na kojima možeš grijati ruke;
I krune, kraljevske, izdašne, naherene krune
Iznad lijeve obrve!

I, ako se usuđuješ, raspuklina!

Misliš mi reći da nećeš vidjeti raspuklinu?
Draže ti je gledati glatku stranu?

Kako god bilo, sunca se na zalasku otvaraju.
Kraj se kala u početak:
Ružičast, nježan, svjetlucav u raspuklini.

Misliš mi reći da ne bi trebalo biti raspukline?
Bez svjetlucavih, zbijenih kapi zore?
Misliš da je pogrešno kad se ta koža s opnom od zlata, taj ovoj
pokazuje raspuknut?

Što se mene tiče, više volim da mi je srce puklo.
Tako je lijepo, kaleidoskopski-jutarnje unutar raspukline.

POMEGRANATE

You tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.

In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek women,
No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate trees in flower,
Oh so red, and such a lot of them.

Whereas at Venice
Abhorrent, green, slippery city
Whose Doges were old, and had ancient eyes,
In the dense foliage of the inner garden
Pomegranates like bright green stone,
And barbed, barbed with a crown.
Oh, crown of spiked green metal
Actually growing!

Now, in Tuscany,
Pomegranates to warm your hands at;
And crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns
Over the left eyebrow.

And, if you dare, the fissure!

Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure?
Do you prefer to look on the plain side?

For all that, the setting suns are open.
The end cracks open with the beginning:
Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure.

Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure?
No glittering, compact drops of dawn?
Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument,
shown ruptured?

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.

(San Gervasio in Tuscany)

Birds, Beasts and Flowers! POEMS by D. H. Lawrence, 1923.