Givers of Bread

The following are poems by Milan Rúfus, the unofficial poet laureate of Slovakia, translated by Allan Stevo. Rúfus's 60 years of writing span an important segment in the life of the Slovak nation. Correspondingly, Rúfus has a special place in the heart of many Slovaks, far surpassing the warmth felt toward any other contemporary poet.
 
The Slovak concept of chlebodarca figures prominently in these poems.  Chelbodarca is a Slovak word that can literally be translated as “the giver of bread.” The Latinate “provider” is used in English to mean something similar to chlebodarca, but has a different literal meaning – “he who looks ahead.” The English “breadwinner” is perhaps a closer translation to chlebodarca, but does not carry the same cultural value. The concept of providing basic material needs for a person figures prominently in Rúfus’s final book, Ako Stopy v Snehu (Like Footprints in the Snow), from which these poems were taken, and in a society that has seen long periods of poverty. This last book was published last spring, shortly after Rúfus’s death. 
 

Ante Scriptum


What is it that I’ve already lost?
And of those that already passed through our home,
which do I meet again?

Always still here
but not yet there

I fly low over mother earth, a touch away
like a swallow before the rain.



Ante scriptum

Čo som to stratil už?
A čo vždy ešte stretám
z toho, čo prešlo cez náš dom?

Vždy ešte tu
a stále ešte nie Tam –

nad matkou Zemou na dotyk nízko lietam
jak lastovičky pred dažďom.



The quiet miracle of motherhood


Nothing new comes out of the workshop of God:
Just as always, love makes a man vulnerable.

Out of his spirit is made such a great holiday, (such a holiday),
that the pain is worth it.

Love – it’s not a child of the moment.
Love is long, life is short.

Do you not understand that hidden power?
Then ask your mother about it.

Mom is a well you are a bucket.
A well full of living water.

That you could draw from for a thousand years,
And not exhaust.

So get down on your knees before her.

And only after may you get up to leave.



Tichý zázrak materstva

Nič nového niet v Božej dielni:
láskou je človek zraniteľný.

No z duše spraví taký sviatok,
že jej tá rana stála za to.

Láska – to nie je dieťa chvíle.
Láska je dlhá, život krátky.

Nerozumieš tej skrytej sile?
Pýtaj sa na ňu svojej matky.

Matka je studňa, ty si okov.
Je studňa plná živej vody.

Čo by si čerpal tisíc rokov,
nevyčerpáš ju.

Nuž si kľakni.

Až potom vstaň a odíď.




A poem and a child

The world of childhood.
Everything melts in its brightness.
And shines humanity over tired bones.

The world of childhood – a poem lived by children.
Reality in this world is a miracle
and miracle here a reality.

If you can’t figure out what here is being served,
bow down to her
and ask the Muse.

The Muse will tell you,
with a little thrill:

A poem and a child,
are twins hand in hand.



Báseň a dieťa

Krajina detstva.
Celá sa topí v jase.
A svieti ľudstvu nad unavenou kosťou.

Krajina detstva – deťmi žitá báseň.
Skutočnosť je tu zázrakom
a zázrak skutočnosťou.

Ak neuhádneš, čo tu čomu slúži,
pokloň sa jej
a opýtaj sa Múzy.

Múza ti povie,
trochu dojatá:

– Báseň a dieťa?
To sú dvojčatá. –



The little great ones

Once there was a cemetery here.

Its nostalgic fame forgotten
already for centuries.
And the depressions left by the graves
testify that even a hill
can be curly.

Hidden by mother nature
in her combinations of mountain moss
and slender blades of meadow grass.

At the top of this hill,
unknown, from where she could have gotten them,
as if to make a point,
she built two cliffs.

Into one of the two,
we, the little great ones
(a few years after we’d left nursery school)
into one of the cliffs, at that time, we’d installed
a memorial document alleging to be “from the cultural society.”

We sang an anthem there.
To which a pretty folk song lent her tune.
That little group of little greats
stood next to her at attention.

Mind your kids
you bigguns.
They are gathering your pollen
those little bees from God.
They will seal it into their little bodies.
They imitate you.
They are the most exact living
little mirrors of you.

Their shape is from your anvils.
They live from your bread.

One day they will be exactly like you.
So be humane to each other.


Malí velikáni

Kedysi bol tu cintorín.

No storočia už zabudli
čas jeho clivej slávy.
A priehlbinky po hroboch
svedčia len o tom, že aj kopec
môže byť kučeravý.

Mať príroda to zakryla
kombináciou machu z hôr
a štíhlej lúčnej trávy.

Na vrchol toho kopčeka
– nevedno, kde ich vzala –
akoby jeho pointu
postavila dve bralá.

Do jedného z nich
my, velikáni malí,
(pár rokov, čo sme opustili škôlku),
do jedného z tých brál sme vtedy zamúrali
Pamätnú listinu vraj Kultúrneho spolku.

Aj hymna pri tom zaznela.
Sobotienka ide jej nápev požičala.
Tá hŕstka malých velikánov
v pozore pri nej stála.

Dajte si pozor na deti,
vy veľkí.
To zbierajú váš peľ
tie drobné Božie včielky.
Zaviečkujú si ho do zvedavého tielka.
Napodobňujú vás.
Sú to o vás tie najpresnejšie
žijúce zrkadielka.

Ich tvar je z vašej nákovy.
Žijú na vašom chlebe.

Raz budú také ako vy.
Tak buďte ľudskí k sebe.



My first city clothes

An autumn day,
day – a treasure from God’s workshop.
The sky was within easy reach,
close.

Like an unrealistic dream
a carpet of cranberries in the grass of Opalisko Hill.

We collected them the entire day.

And with the coins given us for that find, those oval pearls of the forest
Mom bought the white suit in town.

To this day her voice,
to this day in me lives,
as sacred as the old hymns that she sang:
“You sure ain’t going to that city school
in those tattered village rags…”

“Burn fire burn!”
sang the mountain men of old,
“Even when I had to leave home for the city
it was the mountains that still clothed me.
Burn fire burn!”


Môj prvý mestský oblek

Jesenný deň,
deň – klenot z Božej dielne.
Obloha bola na dosah ruky,
blízka.

Vyzeral ako neskutočný sen
koberec brusníc v tráve Opaliska.

Zbierali sme ich celý deň.

A za ten úlovok, tie lesné perly oblé,
kúpila mama v meste biely oblek.

Dodnes jej hlas,
dodneska vo mne žije,
priam posvätný jak liturgický švabach:
„Nemóžeš chodiť do tej gymnázie
v dedinských starých hábach...“

Ej, horí ohník, horí...
Aj do mesta ma vystrojili hory.



The road to school through the fields

I write math problems,
turned in late:

I marched eight miles a day, each day.
Four to school, four home.
The entire eight years.

How many steps did I take
through snow, through clay,
into murmuring thunder?

The road was trudged along not only by my feet,
but next to her beat each pounding of my heart.
That little road was there and is there
and holds firm under us even today.

Holds firm in my grateful soul.

Poľná cesta do gymnázia

Píšem si počty,
počty opozdené:

Kráčal som dvanásť kilometrov denne.
Šesť do školy, šesť domov.
Po celých osem rokov.

Koľko to bolo krokov
do snehu, do hliny,
do mrmlajúcich hromov...

Šliapaná nielen nohami
(aj srdce do nej búši),
je tam tá cestička
a drží pod nami.

I v mojej vďačnej duši.

 

Allan Stevo (1979- ) is a writer from Chicago.  He is currently working on a book-length translation of the final work of Milan Rufus _Ako stopy v snehu_ (_Like Footprints in the Snow_).

Milan Rúfus (1928-2009), who passed away in January 2010, a month and a day after he turned 80, is often described as the unofficial poet laureate of Slovakia. A poet of the nostalgic, he is a Christian who refuses to see his surroundings in black and white.  Rufus has the uncommon distinction of being a poet whose work competes in sales with mass market and trade paper in Slovakia.