EN / SLO

Glorjana Veber

1981, Slovenia

Glorjana Veber (1981) graduated from political science at Faculty of Social Sciences, University of Ljubljana, where she is now also finishing her MA in sociology (The influence of lifestyles on book purchases) and at the same time doing a PhD in literature (Poetry as an element of social changes) at Faculty of Arts, University of Ljubljana. She publishes her poetry in main Slovene as well as foreign literary magazines and journals. She received a few Slovene and foreign poetry awards, among others she won the first place at an international competition for young poets from Bosna and Herzegovina and Slovenia (2008) as well as third place at the Slovene competition for poetry held by The Association of Primorska Literary Authors (Združenje primorskih književnikov). In 2009, after being chosen in a competition, she represented Slovenia in poetry as one of the 700 artists from 48 countries at the Biennial of Young Artists from Europe and the Mediterranean. In the same year she was invited to Serbia by the international competition for young poets from the area of former Yugoslavia (Anthology Rukopisi) as the one poet chosen from Slovenia. In 2011 she was chosen for the final selection of the international competition Devinski grad from 1200 poets from the whole world. She is the founder and director of the Institute for Innovative Arts Research (IRIU) and director of Youth Center Celje. At IRIU Institute she is mostly engaged in developing experimental and innovative projects from the area of arts, mostly literature.

photo by Peter Giodani

V slovenščini:
Vesolje

Slišim glasbo in nobene druge potrebe ne čutim
v kotu vidim deklico – z mojimi prsti igra dedkov klavir
vsi se bomo ponovno srečali
in molk nam bo razložil smisel vesolja

so revolucionarne ulice ki jih mnogi spregledajo
kot ubežniki v vse smeri naših novih mest
hočem stati na zemlji ki se širi
hočem nasmeh ki nam bo razložil

kot na obrazu neke druge dežele
se moja bit zjoče prav tam kjer se prebujajo drugi
v stradanju in bedi brez pasje priložnosti
v nekem drugem kraju visoko nad nami

nas skrbi lastna majhnost
v naval v tolažbo za nekaj časa
moram poslušati krike
včasih je to vse kar potrebujem


English draft:
Universe

I hear music and feel no other need
I see a girl in the corner playing my grandfather's piano with my fingers
we shall all meet again
and the silence will reveal the meaning of the universe

there are revolutionary roads overlooked by many
as fugitives in all directions of our new cities
I want to stand on the expanding land
I want a smile with an explanation

as on the face of some other land
my essence weeps just where others awake
in famish in misery without a dog's opportunity
in another place high above us

concerned with our own smallness
a temporary rush a consolation
I need to listen to the screams
sometimes that's all I need


Deutsch
Der Kosmos

Ich höre Musik und verspüre kein weiteres Bedürfnis
in der Ecke sehe ich ein Mädchen – mit meinen Fingern spielt sie auf Opas Klavier
wir alle treffen uns irgendwann mal wieder
und das Schweigen erklärt uns den Sinn des Kosmos‘

es gibt revolutionäre Straßen die von Vielen übersehen werden
wie die Flüchtenden in alle Richtungen unserer neuen Städte
ich will auf dem Boden stehen der sich weitet
ich will ein Lächeln das uns erklärt

wie im Gesicht eines anderen Landes
weint mein Sein sich aus just dort wo andere erwachen
in Hungersnot und Miserie ohne jegliche Hundschance
in einem anderen Ort hoch über uns

bangen wir um unsere eigene Kleinheit
im Andrang für eine Weile vertrost
müsse ich mir Schreie anhören
manchmal ist das alles was ich brauche

Übersetzt von Urška P. Černe


Po polsku:
Wszechświat

Słyszę muzykę i nie czuję żadnych innych potrzeb
w rogu widzę dziewczynkę – moimi palcami gra na fortepianie dziadka
kiedyś ponownie wszyscy się spotkamy
i w milczeniu objawi nam się sens wszechświata

są ścieżki rewolucji które łatwo nam przeoczyć
jak uchodźcom gnanym we wszystkie strony nowych miast
chcę stanąć na ziemi która się rozszerza
chcę wyjaśnienia oraz uśmiechu

na twarzy innej ziemi
mój duch rozpłacze się właśnie tam gdzie budzą się inni
w głodzie i biedzie bez pieskiej okazji
w jakimś innym miejscu wysoko nad nami

martwi nas własna małość
w natłoku chwilowych uciech
ja muszę słuchać krzyków
czasami to jest wszystko czego potrzebuję

Przekład: Marta Podgórnik


V slovenščini:
Imena

Včeraj se mi je sanjalo da je na zemlji izbruhnil virus
ki je izbrisal imena ... Tudi tisto jutro v mojih sanjah
so ljudje vstali zatipali svoja telesa spili kavo ...
Lahko bi bil to katerikoli kraj na svetu Ljubljana Tokio Kairo
bil je pač kraj v moji glavi popolnoma identičen temu tukaj
enakih cest stavb omejitev možnosti
enakega sonca enako poln s čustvi a tudi enako prazen
Tudi v tem kraju so ljudje zjutraj odprli časopise
prižgali mobitele radio internet pokazali policajem dokumente
zdravnikom zdravstvene izkaznice ... Spomnim se
kako so ljudje zmedeno pogledovali drug k drugemu
se iskali pogovarjali naenkrat so se potrebovali
dotiki pogovori in mnenja so postali valute in delnice
Iskali so občutke nebo in veter
prometni znaki so bili prazni potrebno je bilo najti smer
Naenkrat so se začeli spraševati od kod ta strah
zakaj se jim tresejo roke zakaj se jim rosijo oči – kdo so
Vse je bilo na las enako a vendar drugačno
izginila so njihova imena korenine nazivi
ostal je le občutek da so jih imeli
da so nekoč obstajali napisi poimenovanja oznake puščice ...
Kot da bi nekdo z oken odstranil stekla
in postalo bi jasno zakaj se zunaj upogibajo drevesa


English draft:
Names

Yesterday I dreamt of a virus erupting on earth
which deleted names… That morning in my dreams as well
people got up felt their bodies drank their coffee…
It could be any place in the world Ljubljana Tokyo Cairo
It was but a place in my head absolutely identical to this one here
of the same roads buildings limitations options
of the same sun equally filled with emotions and yet equally empty
In this place as well people opened the newspapers in the morning
turned on their cell phones radio internet show the documents to the police
the health insurance cards to doctors … I remember
how people looked at each other confused
search for each other talked suddenly they needed each other
touches conversations and opinions became currencies and shares
They were searching for feelings sky and wind
traffic signs were empty a direction needed to be found
Suddenly they started asking each other where this fear comes from
why their hands are shaking their eyes are wet
Everything was totally the same and yet different
their names roots titles disappeared
only the feeling that they once had them left
that once signs names marks arrows existed …
As if someone removed the glass from the windows
and it would become clear why the trees outside are bending


V slovenščini:
V bližini boga

V mrliško vežico na pripeljejo boga
točno ob štirih
se tudi duhovnik obesi
in je vsepovsod zemlja
nikogar da ju spove
in njuni telesi prekrijejo hrošči
nikogar da ju pokoplje
kako v mrliško vežico pripeljati boga
Stephen Hawking
točno takrat ko zapišeš
Bog ne obstaja

Stephen ob štirih sem izračunala
da je na eni strani knjige tri tisoč črk
v knjigi s tisoč stranmi tri milijone črk
da smo do danes izdali sto petdeset milijonov knjig
kar je približno petsto bilijonov črk
in da ima vesolje sto petdeset bilijonov več zvezd
kot imamo vseh črk v knjigah

Stephen kako lahko kdorkoli v kalkulator ujame boga
in zaupljivo pozabi na Chopinovo balado v f-molu
in brez groze pretvarja odstotke življenja v odstotke smrti
gospod Hawking ko sem bila majhna
sem na pokopališče nosila rjav kovček z rokavčki in brisačo
asociacijo besed z idealno težo

Ne vem ne vem gospod kako je umreti do konca
a ko na moj plašč pred mrliško vežico prileti hrošč se mi zdi
da bog ni tako trapast da bi se dokazal


English draft:
In God’s proximity

They bring God to the funeral parlour
precisely at four
the minister hangs himself as well
and there’s dirt everywhere
no one to hear their confessions
and their bodies get covered with bugs
no one to bury them
how to bring god to a funeral parlour
Stephen Hawking
just when you write down
God does not exist

Stephen, at four I counted
3000 letters on one book page
in a book with thousand pages
that till today we published one hundred and fifty million books
which makes approximately five hundred billion letters
and that the universe has one hundred fifty billion stars more
than the number of all letters in books we do

Stephen how can anyone capture god into a calculator
and trustingly forgets of Chopin’s ballad in f minor
and converts life percentage into death percentage without dread
mister Hawking when I was little
I used to carry a brown suitcase with arm bands and a towel to the cemetery
an association of words with the ideal weight

I don’t know I don’t know Sir how it is to die till the end
but when a bug lands on my coat in front of the funeral parlour it seems to me
that god isn’t so silly that he’d prove himself


V slovenščini:
Pesem

Lahko bi bilo težje
to je vedel že Martin Luther King
ceste so ponoči v eno smer rdeče
in v drugo bele

kot to noč ko se bližamo Nemčiji
ali takrat ko smo se bližali Franciji
ne glede na to iz katere smeri prihajamo vidimo enako
črno in v njej dve barvi

pišem pesem nekdo pred nami posluša radio
bere italijansko knjigo
pošilja sporočila v španščini
spi ameriške sanje

in zunaj se menjavajo luči
bele in rdeče rdeče in bele
kot mravlje na pohodu vedno enake
kot televizijski program ali holivudski filmi

in samo včasih se prižgejo tudi modre
in vsi obstanemo
samo takrat
in potem dolgo nič več


English draft:
Poem

It could have been harder
as Martin Luther King already knew
the roads at night
are red in one direction
and white in the other

as this night as we are approaching Germany
or the one we were approaching France
no matter where we come from we see the same
blackness and in it two colours

I'm writing a poem someone in the front is listening to the radio
reading an italian book
sending messages in spanish
sleeping an american dream

and outside the lights are changing
white and red red and white
like ants on an expedition always the same
like a TV program or Hollywood movies

and only sometimes the blue ones appear
and we all halt
only then
and then for a while
nothing


Po polsku:
Wiersz

Mogło być trudniej
to wiedział już Martin Luter King
nocami drogi biegną w dwóch kierunkach
czerwonym i białym

jak w tę noc gdy zbliżamy się do Niemiec
lub wtedy gdy zbliżaliśmy się do Francji
niezależnie kierunku widzimy to samo
ciemność w obu kolorach

piszę wiersz ktoś z przodu słucha radia
czyta włoską książkę
przesyła wiadomości w języku hiszpańskim
śpni amerykański sen

i na zewnątrz zmieniają się światła
białe i czerwone czerwone i białe
tak jak mrówki w pochodzie zawsze takie same
jak program telewizyjny lub hollywoodzkie filmy

i tylko czasami zapalają się także niebieskie
i wszyscy zatrzymujemy się
tylko wtedy
i potem długo nic
 
Przekład: Marta Podgórnik


V slovenščini:
V bližini strahu

Govorim ti o tistem avtomobilu
ki sem ga kupila za spomin na zadnji pogovor z očetom
o avtomobilu ki so mi ga ukradli na Metelkovi tisto noč
ko sva se midva prvič pogovarjala
in sem ga naslednji dan ukradla nazaj
in tisti strah da pred neznanim blokom kradem svoj avto
da me lahko nekje zasači tat mojega avtomobila ki ni več moj
in strah da nimam ključev ker tudi ključi niso več moji
tisti strah ko čakam policijo kot sem jo čakala nekaj ur pred tem
in čeprav vem da bo prišel isti policaj to ne bo več on
in jaz ne bom več jaz in najin pogovor ne bo enak
in bodo iste besede nove besede
in pogledi iz istih oči bodo pogledi dveh neznancev
ki se srečata prvič

med čakanjem se zavem da ne smem stati ob avtomobilu
čeprav poznam to vozilo še vedno ni policaja ki bi potrdil
da je res moje in jaz ki nisem več jaz nisem dovolj
ker jaz ki iščem in jaz ki čakam nimava ključev
in do takrat sem jaz tat in tat je jaz in on je lastnik mojih spominov
spominov za katere ne ve da obstajajo
zaradi česar tudi spomini niso več spomini
in sem jaz kdorkoli in nihče hkrati
in ker je on lastnik mojega strahu to ni več isti strah
to je strah ki ne bi smel biti moj strah
strah da bo avto spet moj ker če ga bom spet imela
to ne bo več isti avto ampak avto ki so ga ukradli
strah ki so mi ga vzeli in strah ki mi je bil vrnjen za ceno kraje

če se ga med čakanjem dotaknem lahko moji odtisi prekrijejo odtise tatu
in se najini senci pomešata in sva oba tatova in oba lastnika
najin odtis postane nova oseba ki ni niti policaj niti moj oče
in se pomešajo vsi ljudje ki me obkrožajo
fant ki bo šel mimo ne bo več samo fant z ulice
in zavesa ki se bo premaknila nekaj nadstropij više
ne bo več samo kos blaga niti moje noge ne bodo več moje
prestopale bodo tisto česar ni potrebno prestopiti
in skušala bom drugače prižgati cigareto
da ne bi nastal tisti dim ki ne bi bil podoben običajnemu dimu
in skušala bom gledati običajno
čeprav ne vem kako izgleda običajen pogled
je to najbolj pogost pogled najbolj pravilen pogled pričakovan pogled?
je to pogled prodajalke slikarja mesarja pilota?
pogled ki ne sme kazati mojega stanja strahu?
ne nori kam naj dam strah za tisti čas ko želim da ga nihče ne opazi?
v prst? v las? v list na drevesu in kako naj splezam tja gor
ko sem vsa živčna? ampak kamorkoli ga bom dala bom vedela kje je
in ga bom našla

govorim ti o tisti tableti
ki bo strah brez moje vednosti skrila
in ga ne bom našla dokler ne pride nov strah
o tisti tableti v katero bom preselila vse
vanjo bom parkirala svoj avto prestavila to ulico to noč
policaja kradljivca sebe svoje misli
in naposled bo v mojem požiralniku izginila tudi tableta
in okus ki bo ostal med zobmi bi lahko bil okus ptice morja leta
ali zgolj okus te pesmi

in danes ko se ni obrnilo niti leto od tistega dogodka
gledam iz kavarne kako mehaniki odpirajo pokrov tistega avtomobila
kako segajo v motor umazane roke in jaz srknem kavo ki ni tisto vino
ki sem ga pila s tabo tisto noč na Metelkovi
in se s tabo pogovarjam preko interneta
medtem ko oni na pločnik položijo motor
in jaz pokličem natakarja ker ekran ne izpisuje kar napišem
in se na tleh znajde tudi oljno korito
in ti skušam razložiti da vendarle misliva isto
menjalnik glava bat ojnica in pločnik se širijo
v kavarni je vedno manj prostora
stena stol dlaka ujeta v reži na tipkovnici
in kar naprej moram klicati natakarja
in ti pišem vedno hitreje
in čeprav vem da avto praznijo
da bom vendarle še nekaj časa ostala tu
se mi zdi da bi morali že davno končati
se mi zdi da z avtomobilom v bistvu ni bilo nič narobe

govorim ti
da nisem menjala ključavnice
sem pa dobila enak ključ kot ga ima tat
on ki ne ve da je lastnik lahko odklene vrata
on pozna okus te pesmi


English draft:
In proximity of fear

I'm telling you about that car
that I bought in memory of the last conversation with my father
about the car that was stolen at Metelkova that night
when we first talked
and which I stole back the next day
and the fear of stealing my own car in front of an unknown building
of getting caught somewhere by the thief of my car which isn't mine anymore
and the fear of having no keys since the keys as well aren't mine anymore
the fear of waiting for the police just as I waited for them a few hours ago
and although I know the same policeman will come it won't be him anymore
and I won't be me anymore and our conversation won't be the same
and the same words will be new words
and the looks from the same eyes will be the looks of two strangers
who meet for the first time

while waiting I realise that I shouldn't be standing next to the car
although I know the vehicle there is still no policeman to confirm
that it is really mine and me who isn't me anymore isn't enough
because the searching I and the waiting I we don't have keys
and till then I'm the thief and the thief is I and he is the owner of my memories
the memories which he doesn't know exist
and that's why memories aren't memories anymore either
and I'm anyone and no one at the same time
and since he owns my fear it's not the same fear anymore
it's the fear that shouldn't be my fear
the fear of this car being mine again because if it will be mine again
it won't be the same car anymore but the car that got stolen
the fear they took from me and the fear that was returned to me as the price of the theft
if I touch it while waiting my fingerprints can cover the thief's fingerprints
and our shadows blend and we're both thieves and both owners
our fingerprint becomes a new person who is neither the policeman and neither my father
and all the people surrounding me blend
the boy passing by won't be just a boy from the street
and the curtain moving a few storeys above
won't be just a piece of cloth even my legs won't be mine anymore
they will cross what doesn't need crossing
and I will try to lit the cigarette in another way
so that it wouldn't create that smoke which wouldn't be similar to my usual smoke
and I'll try to look normally
although I don't know how a normal look looks like
is it the most often look the most correct look the expected look?
is it the look of a saleswoman a painter a butcher a pilot?
the look that mustn't show my state of fear?
don't be crazy where should I put fear for the time when I don't want anyone to notice it?
into a finger? into a hair? into a leaf on the tree and how am I supposed to climb up there
when I'm all nervous? but wherever I put it I'll know where it is
and I'll find it

I'm telling you about that pill
that will hide the fear without my knowing
and I won't find it until new fear comes
about the pill into which I will move everything
I'll park my car move this street this night into it
the policeman the thief myself my thoughts
and finally the pill will disappear down my throat as well
and the taste stuck between my teeth could be the taste of birds sea year
or simply the taste of this poem

and today when not a year has passed since that event
and I talk to you over the internet
while they put the engine on the pavement
and I call the waiter because the screen doesn't write out what I type
and the sump finds its place on the floor as well
and I try to explain to you that we do think the same after all
gearbox head piston shaft and pavement are widening
there's less and less space in the cafe
wall chair hair stuck in the rift of the keyboard
and I have to call the waiter again and again
and I write faster and faster   
and although I know they're emptying the car
that I'll have to stay some more time here
it seems that they should be long finished
it seems to me that there's actually nothing wrong with the car

I'm telling you
that I never changed the lock
but I got the same key as the thief has
he who doesn't know that he's the owner and can unlock the door
he knows the taste of this poem


V slovenščini:
Emšo

Kaj misliš da čakamo?
tebi je umrl brat njemu je umrlo življenje
kateremu od vaju je ostalo več?

Na facebooku sem videla nekaj ur starega otroka
morda matična številka tvoje in moje pesmi ni prava
nima pravega imena sorodnikov stanovanja kjer spi
morda je njen datum ustanovitve prepozen
njen emšo premlad

Morebiti moja pesem ne hodi po tujih kontinentih
na drage večerje nima zastopnika
morda ta pesem nima več besed
si lahko privoščim svoje korake?
kdo si je zaslužil tvoje?

Do leta 2014 bodo zgorele vse ulice v Ljubljani
zastave pod ogljem bodo proste
trava ne bo pohojena kdo bo postal moja pot?

Kaj čakamo?
mrtve v grobovih ne bo zbudila pesem
nas ki smo mrtvi
bo


English draft:
PIN

What do you think we’re waiting for?
you lost your brother he lost his life
which one of you two is left with more?

I saw a few hours old baby on facebook
perhaps the identification number of your poem and my poem isn’t correct
it has no real name relatives apartment to sleep in
perhaps the date of its creation was too late
her PIN too young

It may be that my poem doesn’t go to expensive dinners
on foreign continents has no representative
perhaps this poem has no more words
can I afford my own steps?
who deserved yours?

Until the year 2014 all of the streets in Ljubljana will burn down
The flags under the coal will be free
the grass won’t be tramped down who will become my path?

What are we waiting for?
the dead in the graves won’t be awaken by a poem
but us the dead
will


Suomi:
Henkilötunnus   

Mitä me sinun mielestäsi odotamme?
sinä menetit veljesi hän menetti henkensä
kummalle teistä jäi jäljelle enemmän?

Näin facebookissa muutaman tunnin ikäisen vauvan
ehkä sinun runosi ja minun runoni henkilötunnus eivät täsmää
sillä ei ole oikeaa nimeä sukulaisia asuntoa jossa nukkua
ehkä sen luomisen päivä oli liian myöhään
hänen henkilötunnuksensa liian nuori

Voi olla ettei runoni käy kalliilla päivällisillä
vierailla mantereilla sillä ei ole edustajaa
ehkä tällä runolla ei ole enempää sanoja
onko minulla varaa askeliini?
kuka ansaitsee sinun?

Vuoteen 2014 mennessä kaikki Ljubljanan kadut ovat palaneet
Liput vapautuvat hiilen alta
ruohoa ei tallata kenestä tulee minun polkuni?

Mitä me odotamme?
eivät kuolleet haudoissaan herää runoon
mutta me kuolleet
kyllä

Suomennos Pauliina Haasjoki & Julija Potrč


V slovenščini:
Ženska

Vidim žensko
samo njenih oči ne vidim
njena roka je rahla in spolzka
kot vrečka ki jo vleče k tlom
v mestu v mraku
pod odejo

vidim žensko
večkrat spi na rdečem kavču
zagotovo je prekratek zanjo
mora se zviti
in kup knjig na polici
ji služi za zaveso

Vidim to skrito žensko
vneto me zasleduje
kot mraz
kot nekaj kar je potrebno postoriti
česar se moram spomniti
ker ta prekleta ženska teče

in njen tek se giblje s hitrostjo mojih dejanj
in se pri tem nikoli ne zmoti
ker razmišlja z mojim spominom
in stoji tam kjer so moja stopala
povej mi ker jaz ne vidim njenih oči
kakšne so
ali vidijo tudi tebe?


English draft:
Woman

I see a woman
only her eyes I cannot see
her hand is delicate and slippery
like a plastic bag drawn to the ground
in the city in the twilight
under a blanket

I see a woman
often sleeping on the red sofa
surely it's too short for her
she needs to curl
the pile of books on the shelf
is her curtain

I see this hidden woman
pursuing me persistently
just as cold
as something that needs to be done
something that I must remember
because this damn woman is running

and her running is in motion with the speed of my actions
and she never gets it wrong
for she thinks with my memory
and stands where my feet are
I can't see her eyes
tell me what are they like
can they see you too?


Nihongo:
ある女

ある女を見かけた
ただ、女の目だけが私には見えない
彼女の手は弱々しく、滑りやすい
地面に残されたビニル袋のように
街の中で黄昏の中で
毛布の下で
ある女を見かけた
たいていは赤いソファーの上で眠っている
彼女の身長にはもちろんちょっと足りない
女は身体を丸めるしかない
本棚に積み重なった本が
カーテンがわりになっている
ある女、隠れているつもりの女を見かけた
彼女は私をしつこく追いかけてくる
やらなくてはいけないこと、のように執拗に
私が思い出さなくてはいけないこと、のように
このとんでもない女はそのために走っている
そして女の走る速さは私の動く速さと同じだ
女の動きに間違いはない
女は私の記憶と共に考え
私の両足のある場所に立っている
女の目だけが私には見えない
教えてほしい、それがどんな目なのかを
その目はあなたのことも見ている?

Nihongo-yaku: Hiroshi Hasebe


V slovenščini:
Nespregovorjeni

Spomnim se literarnih večerov ko ostajamo nespregovorjeni
pridemo in odidemo kot lutke
nihče nas ni poizkusil nihče se nas ni dotaknil
če pa že tega nismo pokazali

Spomnim se literarnih pojedin ko sem od daleč
štela kolačke sire in školjke
jih pretvarjala v denarno valuto in si predstavljala
da z njimi delam umetniške projekte
 
Spomnim se knjig ki sem jih nehala brati
ker iz njih ne rastejo roke niti objemi niti pesti
knjig iz katerih nič ne pade in ki so grobovi besed in verzov
sedaj s težavo kaj preberem

Potem se spomnim literarnih srečanj ko sem še kadila
in opazovala kako ljudje lahko ure in ure stojijo na bregu
kjer ima nekdo privezano ladjo in se jim cedijo sline
a nič ne rečejo kapitan pa jih ne opazi –

ker je kapitanu vseeno kdo pride in kdo gre in kakšno je vreme
Spomnim se ko ljudje samo gledajo kot da za njimi ni ničesar
kot da so oči samo organ vida ki ne nosi vsebine ki ne nosi verzov besed ...
a zunaj piha veter ...  skoraj proseče ...


English draft:
Unspoken

I remember literary evenings when we remain unspoken
we come and leave as puppets
no one tasted us no one touched us
if we haven’t showed it

I remember literary feasts when I was counting
pastries cheeses and mussels from afar
converted them into monetary currency and imagined
making art projects with it

I remember books I stopped reading
since there are no arms or hugs or fists growing out of them
books out of which nothing falls and which are graves of words and lines
now I have troubles reading something

Then I remember literary events when I still smoked
and observed how people can stand on the shore for hours and hours
where someone’s ship is moored and their mouths water
but they don’t say anything and the captain doesn’t notice them –

because the captain doesn’t care who comes and who goes and what’s the weather like
I remember when people just look as if there’s nothing behind them
as if the eyes are just the organ of sight that doesn’t carry content that doesn’t carry lines words

but outside the wind is blowing… almost begging…


Suomi:
Puhumattomina       

Muistan kirjallisia iltamia joissa pysyimme puhumattomina
tulimme ja menimme kuin nuket
kukaan ei maistanut meitä kukaan ei koskenut meitä
tai jos niin kävi, emme näyttäneet sitä               

Muistan kirjallisia juhlia joissa laskeskelin
leivoksia juustoja ja simpukoita kaukaa
muunsin ne valuutaksi ja kuvittelin
sillä tehtäviä taideprojekteja

Muistan kirjoja jotka jätin kesken
koska niistä ei kasvanut käsivarsia halauksia ei nyrkkejä
kirjoja joista ei putoa mitään, sanojen ja rivien hautoja
nyt minun on vaikea lukea mitään

Sitten muistan kirjallisia tapahtumia silloin kun vielä poltin
ja panin merkille kuinka ihmiset voivat seistä tuntikausia rannalla
missä jonkun laiva on ankkurissa ja he ovat vesi kielellä
mutta eivät sano mitään eikä kapteeni huomaa heitä –

koska kapteenia ei kiinnosta kuka tulee ja kuka menee ja millainen sää on
muistan kuinka ihmiset vain katsovat ikään kuin takana ei olisi mitään
kuin silmät olisivat vain näkemisen elin joka ei kanna sisältöä ei rivejä sanoja ...
mutta ulkona tuuli puhaltaa... melkein anelee...

Suomennos Pauliina Haasjoki & Julija Potrč


V slovenščini:
Kaplja

Ste videli zemlja gori!
vzdigujejo se stebri in padajo
peruti gorijo in se zatekajo v jame
stopnišča se trgajo
vrhovi gora se lomijo in pokajo
vse pokošeno vse obrabljeno sveže
gorijo zamolčane zgodbe
potni listi brez imen ideje obljube misli
še vse nedoživeto gori
stavbe papirji deklice starci ceste v plamenih
pod gladino
v zakloniščih
v besedah in med njimi
nebo kot kamen morje kot bakla
dim
in zemlja dviga in spušča ostarela pljuča
ni naroda ni zraka ni kraja ni pojma ni tišine ki ne gori
vsepovsod ogenj vsepovsod prah a hiše so vlažne
ljudje pripovedujejo
ljudje v množicah in množica v eni sami točki
še praznina gori
in v tem ognju živi kaplja


English draft:
Drop

Did you see the earth burning!
pillars raising and falling
staircases tearing apart
mountain peaks breaking and cracking
everything mown everything worn out fresh
untold stories burn
passports without names ideas promises thoughts
everything yet unlived burns
buildings papers little girls old men roads in flames
under the surface
in shelters
in words and between them
sky as a rock sea as a torch
smoke
and the earth lifts and drops its aged lungs
no nation no air no place no concept no silence that wouldn't burn
fire everywhere dust everywhere and yet the buildings are damp
people tell stories
people in crowds and crowd in one single point
even vacancy burns
and in this fire a drop lives

Literary association IA

The 12th Golden Boat Poetry Translation Workshop 2014

IN MEDIA

MUSIC & POETRY IMPROVISATIONS (Hiroshi Hasebe & Andraž Polič) at MySpace and YouTube

PROGRAM

Sunday, 24 August - arrivals
19:00 – Welcome dinner

Monday, 25  August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Public conference
19:00 – Dinner

Tuesday, 26  August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Excursion (Škocjan Caves)
19:00 – Dinner

Wednesday, 27  August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Walking excursion
19:00 – Dinner

Thursday,  28 August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
18:30 – Dinner
20:00 – The Golden Boat reading in Škocjan

Friday, 29 August
9:00 – Departure for Ljubljana
11:00 – The Golden Boat Reading at the Trubar Literary House in Ljubljana
18:00 – Departure for Škocjan
19:00 – Dinner

Saturday, 30  August
9:30 – Session on translating poetry
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Excursion to Tomaj or Vremščica
20:00 – Farewell Dinner

Sunday, 31  August
Departure after breakfast

Participants: Iztok Osojnik, Glorjana Veber, Gregor Podlogar, Andraž Polič, Tatjana Jamnik, Goran Potočnik Černe, Urška Černe Potočnik (all Slovenia), Ciaran O'Driscoll (Ireland), Marta Podgórnik (Poland), Fiona Sampson (UK), Francisco Larios (Nicaragua), Pauliina Haasjoki (Finland), Hiroshi Hasebe (Japan)

Zlati Čoln 2010