EN / SLO

Alja Adam

1976, Slovenia

She holds degrees in Comparative Literature and Sociology of Culture and the Ph.D. in Women’s Studies and Feminist Theory from the Faculty of Arts in Ljubljana. Her poetry has been included in most important Slovenian literary magazines, international publications and anthologies – her poetry was translated into Italian, English, German, Croatian, Irish, Serbian, Turkish and Spanish language. In 2003 she published first book of poems entitled Zaobljenost (Roundness.) In 2008 she published the book of poetry with title Zakaj bi omenjala Ahila (Why mention Achilles) and the book of collected poems: La danza del mandorlo/Ples mandljevca. She often represents her poetry together with other art forms – with dance, video and electronic music. She is working as a researcher at the Institute for developmental and strategic analysis (IRSA) in Ljubljana.

Gola Afrodita

kako zelo plastična sem, narejena po meri,
besede me zasledujejo kot obupane grške Harite
in me poskušajo obleči,
pa jim zmanjkuje tkanin in rožnatih vzorcev, zato ostajam
navidez gola.
velika sem, čutim, da sem velika,
a ne rastem skozi besede, temveč skozi vzdihe:
o, kako rada tečem po trgovinah, kako rada izbiram,
pomerjam in razkazujem svojo podobo,
Playboy zajčica sem, skozi mojo ritno odprtino lahko vidiš
podvodni svet,
moje bradavičke, rdeče nabrekle morske češnje,
že tisočletja vložene v morju, okusne in brez konzervansov,
prodajajo po najnižji ceni.
Uranovi potomci pa se oprijemajo mojega slonokoščenega vratu
kot rešilne bilke
in trepetajo, ko se v njihovih modih drstijo majhne,
vse bolj umrljive ribe.


ENGLISH:

NAKED APHRODITE

how very plastic I am, custom-made,
words pursue me like desperate Charites
and try to dress me up
but they are running short of the fabric and the floral pattern, so I remain seemingly naked.

I am great, I feel how great I am,
although I do not grow by words but by sighs:
O, how I love to shop, how I love to pick and choose,
try things on and flaunt my image,
I am a Playboy bunny, through my ass's hole you can see the underwater world,
my nipples, the red swelling sea-cherries
preserved in the ocean for millennia, delicious, without conservation agents,
sell at the lowest price

and Uranus's offspring, grasping at my ivory neck
as if clutching at a straw
tremble, while tiny, ever more perishable fish
spawn inside their testicles.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.


SUOMEKSI:

Alaston Afrodite

Miten joustava minä olenkaan, tilaustyönä tehty,
sanat ajavat minua takaa kuin epätoivoinen Harite
yrittäen pukea minua
mutta niiden teolliset ja kukalliset kuviot loppuvat kesken,
joten minä jään nähtävästi alasti.

Olen upea, tunnen miten upea minä olen,
vaikken kasvakaan sanoista vaan huokauksista:
Oi miten rakastankaan ostamista, miten rakastankaan poimimista ja valikoimista, sovittamista  ja pöyhkeilevää kuvaani,
Olen Playboy-pupu, persereikäni lävitse näkyy vedenalainen maailma,
nännini, punaisiksi paisuneet merikirsikat,
jotka ovat säilyneet valtameressä vuosituhansia, herkullisina,
ilman säilöntäaineita, myydään halvimpaan hintaan

ja Uranuksen jälkeläiset tarttuvat norsunluukaulaani
kuin hukkuvat oljenkorteen,
vavisten, samaan aikaan kun pieni, alati pilaantuva kala
kutee heidän kiveksissään.

Kääntänyt Esa Hirvonen.


Ponovitev


rdeča barva ruja se raztaplja
ob poti ni nikogar razen naju
dež širi polten vonj mokrih rastlin
vse je tako preprosto ko odpenjava zadrgi
na hlačah ko jemljeva drug drugega z usti
ne moreva odnehati
povej mi kako okušaš jesen
vsako leto znova sediva v avtu
in pokrajina se počasi vozi mimo
na velikem platnu opazujeva veter
ki se vzpenja po steblih dreves
in ekstatično brizganje listja.

 

ENGLISH:

GOING OVER IT AGAIN

the red of the smoke tree dissolves
there is no one at the wayside but us
rain spreads the sensuous smell of wet plants
everything is so simple as we unzip
our pants as we take each other with our mouths
unable to stop
tell me how you taste the autumn
year after year we sit in the car
and the landscape slowly drives past us
we observe the wind on the large screen
as it climbs the tree trunks
and the ecstatic spurts of foliage

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.

 

Larpurlartistična pesem

s tako lahkoto piše, kot da bi prižigala
vžigalice ob vroč asfalt sredi julija.
najraje to počne ob večerih, ko sedi na stopnišču
pred vhodom v hišo, ki ni njena
in posluša, kako v železnih ceveh klokota voda.
ko se skozi drobovje ustaljenih navad
pretakajo zadnji ostanki dneva,
jo prešine, da je nekje prebrala, da se je treba najbolj
bati ljudi, ki nikoli ne dvomijo, ki zaradi strahu
pred neredom loščijo svoje spomine in v dezinfekcijskih
tekočinah namakajo svoje sanje.
nato opazuje mrak, ki se spušča na zdolgočaseno ulico
ter tuhta, katero metaforo bi morala uporabiti,
da bi vse skupaj postavila na glavo.
in ker se ne spomni nič pametnega, si prisvoji
trebuhe hiš, ki so odznotraj osvetljeni kot lampijoni,

ENGLISH:

L'ART POUR L'ART POEM

she writes with such ease as if striking 
matches against hot asphalt in June.
she prefers doing it in the evening, sitting on the stairs
in front of the house she does not own
and she listens to water gurgling in the pipes.

as remains of the day
flow through the intestines of steady habits,
she suddenly realises she had read somewhere that people
to be feared most are those who never doubt, whose fear
of disorder makes them polish their memories
and soak their dreams in disinfectants.

then she watches twilight descend on the bored street
and ponders which metaphor she should use
to turn everything upside down.
and, unable to think of something smart, she appropriates
the bellies of houses whose insides are lit up like Chinese lanterns
to adorn the treetop of her poem.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.


Punktiranje strahu

besede, ki nekontrolirano padajo,
so podobne prosojnim stvarem.
tako kot stavki, ki se gibljejo med odprtimi jezovi vejic
in zaradi erupcije nejasnih pomenov
ostajajo samo napol izrečeni.
prisluškuješ vodi, ki se sesipa z neba,
in razmišljaš o tem, da postaja svet vse bolj ranljiv.
ko dežuje, se sesedajo hribi,
rušijo se hiše in umirajo nedolžni ljudje.
blato in voda odnašata ceste.
zemlja bruha strah.
spomniš se na pravljico
o čudežnem lončku, ki je iz prgišča prosa skuhal toliko kaše,
da je nasitil vsa lačna usta na svetu.
nekega dne so si lonček prisvojili pohlepni meščani.
od takrat naprej je kuhal samo še na njihove ukaze, oni so bogateli,
tisti, ki so bili prej lačni, pa so spet postali lačni.
ker pohlepneži lončka niso znali ustaviti, je vrela kaša preplavila
gozdove, polja in mesta.
prisluškuješ vodi, ki se sesipa z neba
in se sprašuješ, kdaj se bo končalo brutalno uničevanje zemeljske kože,
kdaj se bodo tisti, ki si iz rok v roke podajajo pretežke lonce oblasti,
premaknili od besed k dejanju,
ustavili ploske udarce neizpolnjenih obljub
in postavili pike k svojim odločitvam.


ENGLISH:

PIERCING THE FEAR

words which fall uncontrollably 
are like translucent things.
just like sentences which move between the open dams of commas
and remain half-pronounced,
due to eruptions of unclear meanings.
.
you listen to water gushing from the sky
and ponder how the world is becoming ever more vulnerable.
when it rains, hills sag,
houses fall and innocent people die.
mud and water sweep away roads.
the earth spews fear.

you recall the story about
the pot which cooked so much porridge from a fistful of millet
that it fed every hungry mouth in the world.
one day it was seized by close-fisted townsfolk.
from then on the pot cooked only at their behest, and as they grew rich,
those who were hungry before went hungry again.
but the pot-grabbers did not know how to turn off the pot and the boiling porridge  swelled and flooded the forests, fields and towns.

you listen to water gushing from the sky
and wonder when will this brutal destruction of the earth's skin stop,
when will they who pass these unwieldy pots of power from hand to hand
step from words to action,
put an end to the flat slaps of their unkept promises
and add full stops to their decisions.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.


Bar Pikado
          Sonce je vse, kar ostane od gorečih stvari. 
          Cesare Pavese

v obcestnem baru, v katerega sem se zatekla
sredi nevihte,
se mi je med žvenketanjem kozarcev, med glasnim
prepletom glasov in gibanjem prstov, ki so vlekli cigarete iz škatlic,
zazdelo, da trenutki, ki prižigajo vžigalice
ne ugašajo nič hitreje kot desetletja, ki požigajo
trenutke.
morda je bil okrogel obraz natakarice,
ki je drsel nad tlemi kakor luna
ali pa veličastna brezvoljnost ljudi, ki so se
spajali z okoljem kot predmeti iz stalne galerijske zbirke,
morda sta bili starki, ki sta pili pivo in klepetali
o urejanju rož na pokopališču, o blatu, ki sta ga morali pregaziti,
da sta se dokopali do grobov, in o letih,
ki sta jih kot delavki preživeli v Litostrojski tovarni,
krivi za to,
da sem, po tem, ko je prenehalo deževati,
obstala na vhodu
ter opazovala žarke, tanke in nabrušene kot nože,
kako luknjajo vlago
in mečejo svetlobo ogorkov na moker gramoz pred barom.


ENGLISH:

PIKADO BAR
             Delle cose che bruciano non rimane che il sole.
             (From the things which burn only the sun remains)
             Pavese


at the roadside bar where I sought shelter
during a storm,
amidst the clanking of glasses, the loud mingling
of voices and intertwining fingers taking cigarettes from packs
I felt that moments which light up matches
die no quicker than decades which burn down
moments

perhaps the waitress's round face
floating above the ground like the moon 
or the people's magnificent apathy blending in
with the surroundings, like pieces of a permanent exhibition

perhaps the two old women who were drinking beer and chatting
about arranging flowers in the cemetery, the mud they had to trudge through
to make it to the graves, the years
they worked at the Litostroj factory,

were to blame
that after the rain had ceased
I halted on the doorstep
to watch the sun rays, slight and sharp as knives,
pierce the damp
and throw the light of cigarette ends on the wet gravel outside.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.

 

Hiša
      Za A., z ljubeznijo

celo noč ne spim, ker poskušam
preplezati mejo med nama, ki je visoka kot hiša.
prislonjena na hladno površino,
prisluškujem šumom v notranjosti,
ritmu, ki ga ustvarjajo podrsavajoči copati, ljudje,
ki z zlepljenimi očmi iščejo že tisočkrat prehojeno
pot do kopalnice, otroci, ki luščijo sence z negibnih
sten in jih spreminjajo v prikazni,
radiatorji, ki zamolklo brnijo, in nemirno dihanje tistih,
ki tako kot jaz, sanjajo o odprtih prostorih.
celo noč ne spim, ker poskušam
napisati pesem o hiši, ki se prilega
telesu kot prosojen kokon in se
z vsakim vdihom najine ljubezni razširi,
ki zakrvavi, ko nama med jutranjim pogovorom
kuhinjski nož pade iz rok in naju ureže na najbolj skritem mestu,
ki se giblje v ritmu najinih podrsavajočih besed
in dotikov, ki vsake toliko izpod kože potegnejo
majhno, utripajočo prikazen.
ker oba veva:
da je takrat, ko se poskušava drug pred drugim
obvarovati s tišino,
ko v strahu zakitava vse špranje v steni,
rušilna misel buldožerja edina, ki naju rešuje.


ENGLISH:

THE HOUSE
                            For A., with affection

I do not sleep through the night, I try
to climb the boundary between us, high as a house.
leaning against the cold surface
I listen to noises within, 
the rhythm of the shuffling slippers, humans
with eyes glued together as they fumble to the bathroom
for the thousandth time, children who peel shadows off the still
walls and transform them into phantoms,
the monotonous humming of radiators and the restless breathing of those
who, like myself, dream of open spaces.

I do not sleep through the night, I try
to write a poem about a house which fits
the body like a transparent cocoon
and expands with each breathing in of our love
which bleeds when during our morning conversation
we drop the kitchen knife and it cuts us in the inmost place
which moves with the rhythm of our shuffling words
and touches which every now and then pull from under our skin
a tiny pulsating phantom.

because we both know:
when we try to protect ourselves from each other
with silence,
when we fearfully seal all the cracks in the wall,
the force of the bulldozer is the only thing that saves us.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.


THE HOUSE
                            For A., with affection

I do not sleep through the night, I try
to climb the border between us, high as a house.
leaning against the cold surface
I eavesdrop on sounds inside, 
the rhythm of advancing shoes, people
with eyes glued together as they fumble to the bathroom
for the thousandth time, peel off the shadow children on motionless
walls and transform them into shades,
to the monotonous humming of radiators and the troubled breathing of those
who, like myself, dream of open spaces.

I do not sleep through the night, I try
to write a poem about a house which fits
the body like a transparent cocoon
and expands with each breathing in of our love
which bleeds when during our morning conversation
we drop the kitchen knife and it cuts us in the inmost place
which moves with the rhythm of our supporting words,
and contact, that every so often pulls from under our skin
a tiny pulsating ghost.

because we both know:
when we try to protect ourselves from each other
with silence,
when we fearfully seal all the cracks in the wall,
the thought of the bulldozer is the only thing that saves us.

Translated by Catherine Phil MacCarthy and Mia Dintinjana.


Dve zimski pokrajini

stojiš na balkonu, prisluškuješ dežju
in gledaš v belo pokrajino, ki se razpušča,
razblinja kot urok, ki je zjutraj na debelo obložil ulice,
ustavil čas in avtomobile.
dež postaja vedno glasnejši,
kot tujec, ki je vdrl na posvečeno ozemlje,
se s svojimi tatinskimi prsti lepi na vse, česar se dotakne
in odnaša trdno zaprte spominske škatle,
majhne zaklade, ki si jih kot otrok zakopala v zemljo,
da bi z njimi preizkušala vsevednost odraslih.
takrat si se ob zimskih večer tihotapila po hiši,
na skrivaj odpirala predale
in tipala za predmeti, ki so živeli ločeno življenje,
porumenele beležnice, stare verižice in obeski,
so oddajali hlad in veličino,
spreletaval te je srh, ko si se jih dotikala,
ko si čakala, da te odrasli zasačijo,
da se na njihovih čelih zariše guba začudenja,
tanka sled, podobna tisti, ki razpolavlja
s svežim snegom prekrito pokrajino
in te vabi kot malo vohunko,
ki mora razvozlati uganko, ujeti pošast,
preslišati klice staršev, izkopati rov in se skriti,
tam spodaj je ogromno, ledeno kraljestvo,
tvoja rit je že čisto mokra, a kaj, ko ima sneg tako dober okus.
sediš pred računalnikom, dež se umirja,
samo še prsti previdno kapljajo po tipkovnici.


ENGLISH:

TWO WINTER LANDSCAPES

you stand on the balcony, listen to the rain
and gaze at the white landscape which dissolves,
vanishes like a spell thickly laid on streets in the morning,
stopping time and automobiles.

the rain starts to sound louder,
like a stranger who has trespassed on sacred ground,
its thievish fingers stick to everything they touch
and snatch the firmly shut memorial boxes,
small treasures which you buried as a child
to test the omniscience of grown-ups.

in winter evenings you sneaked through the house,
opened drawers on the sly
and felt for objects which lived their separate lives,
the yellowed notebooks, old necklace chains and pendants
emanated coolness and grandeur,

you felt goosebumps as you touched them
waiting for grown-ups to catch you red-handed,
to see how how their brows furrowed in surprise
with a fine line very much like the one which halves
a landscape freshly covered with snow

and beckons you, little snoop,
needing to solve another mystery, catch a monster,
ignore your parents' calls, to burrow and hide,
what a vast icy realm exists down there,
your bottom is soaking wet, but the snow tastes so delicious.

you are at the computer now, the rain is quieting, 
there is but the careful trickling of fingertips tapping on the keyboard. 

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.

 

Zakaj bi omenjala Ahila

moja jeza
je jeza stark
ki spuščajo semena v zemljo
in čakajo da pokrajino razpre dež tako kot
njihova telesa mogoče še poslednjič
stojijo v vrsti pred blagajno majhne trepetajoče
preobložene s spomini in vrečkami
ki jim padajo iz rok
izvija se iz pete -
steblo trte ki se konča v grozdju mojih las
zraščena se upogibam nazaj
k svojemu otroštvu pred spanjem
si predstavljam smrt in ne morem
pogoltniti sline stisnjene pesti
prestrašijo tudi tiste največje
na šolskem dvorišču
kjer si dve dekleti kot v ringu
srepo zreta iz oči v oči.


ENGLISH:

WHY MENTION ACHILLES
                  
               my anger
is the anger of old women
who drop seeds in the earth
and wait for the rain to open up the land just as
their bodies perhaps for the last time
queue at the checkout small trembling
heavy-laden with memories and shopping bags
which fall from their grasp

it wrenches itself from the heel -
the vine stem which ends in the grapes of my hair
coadunate I bend back
to my childhood before falling asleep
I imagine death and am unable to
swallow the saliva, clenched fists
frighten even the tallest ones
                      in the school yard
where two girls, as if in a boxing ring,
stare one another in the eye.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.

 


***
verzi so izkustva in ne čustva pravi Rilke
zato je včasih bolje počakati dozoreti prespati
se zbuditi v nov dan v pomlad
se s kolesom peljati skozi Tivoli
in ne zgolj pri odprtih oknih prisluškovati zvokom cvetov
vonjati omamno zeleno travo se potopiti
v neko drugo telo opazovati otroke stare ljudi zaljubljene pare
dlani ki se dotikajo lopatic
lepo je ko zapustim svojo sobo kletko ki visi visoko v zraku
včasih skočim in priletim na trda tla se raztreščim
ali pa samo zažvenketam
izginem
življenje je vse bolj okroglo kotali se hitreje
ali pa se zvije v klobčič in dremlje
ta prijetna otopelost
nič več napetosti zavezovanja stavka k stavku
vse te pentlje miselni zavoji v laseh
črne črke so edine pike ki jih poznam ki me ponoči srbijo
že dolgo se nisem umila s ploho besed
sama zase
samo sebi lahko verjamem čeprav včasih zelena od zavisti
si oprostim ozkosrčnost je kot majhen košek
v katerem se gnetejo jagode in gnijejo ker jih nihče ni pojedel
zakaj ne vem
včasih se pač tako zgodi in drug dan je že drugače
vse bi razdala tudi svojo poslednjo besedo.


ENGLISH:

***
the lines of a poem are experience, not emotion, says Rilke
thus it is sometimes best to wait ripen sleep through things
to awaken to a new day in spring
                                    to ride a bike through Tivoli
and not just listen to the sounds of blossoms at open windows
smell the stunningly green grass dive
into some other body to observe the children the old ones couples in love
                                     palms touching shoulder blades
it is nice when I leave my room the cage which hangs high in the air
sometimes I jump and land on firm ground I shatter
or just rattle
                   I vanish
life is getting rounder it rolls faster
but also curls up in a ball and slumbers
                                             this pleasing numbness
no more of the tenseness of hitching a sentence to a sentence
all these ribbons mental turns in the hair
black letters are the only dots known to me that tickle me at night
       It has been a long time since I have last washed myself in a shower of words
                                   all by myself
I can trust only myself although sometimes I am green with envy
I forgive myself for being ungenerous it is like a small basket
 crowded with strawberries that rot because they have not been eaten
                                             I don't know why
sometimes it simply happens this way and the next day everything  is different
I would give everything away even my last word.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.


ITALIANO:

I versi di una poesia sono esperienze, non emozioni, dice Rilke
così a volte è meglio aspettare che il sonno maturi attraverso le cose
piuttosto che svegliarsi in un nuovo giorno a primavera
fare un giro in bicicletta al Tivoli
e non restare ad ascoltare i suoni della fioritura dalla finestra aperta
annusare storditi l'erba verde affondare
in qualche altro corpo per osservare i bambini le vecchie coppie innamorate
sfiorare con i palmi le scapole
è bello quando lascio la mia stanza la gabbia sospesa nell'aria
a volte salto, atterro, mi schianto
o faccio solo rumore
svanisco
la vita si disperde va sempre più veloce
oppure si arriccia a palla o sonnecchia
in questo piacevole torpore
niente più dello sforzo di collegare una frase all'altra
tutti questi nastri evoluzioni mentali tra i capelli
le lettere nere sono gli unici punti a me noti che mi solleticano di notte
era da tempo che non mi lavavo sotto una doccia di parole
tutta per me
posso fidarmi solo di me stessa anche se a volte sono verde d'invidia
perdono a me stessa di essere poco generosa è come un piccolo cesto
pieno di fragole che marciscono per non essere state mangiate
non so perchè
a volte accade semplicemente così e il giorno dopo è tutto diverso
e sarei pronta a dare ogni cosa perfino la mia ultima parola.

Traduzione di Isabella Panfido & Mia Dintinjana.


Srce čebule

naslednji dan, ko sva se usedla na kolo,
je bilo že vse drugače,
na začetku poti sem se še nekaj trenutkov nerodno oprijemala zavor,
v glavi mi je brnel prizor včerajšnjega prepira:
zazrla sem se v moškega in žensko,
ki se v medli svetlobi poskušata
dokopati do srca čebule,
opazovala sem ju, kako trgata bele plasti besed
in se zaradi pekoče bolečine v grlu ne moreta
sporazumeti.
nato sem pritisnila na pedala,
pod kolesi se je cesta razvaljala kot testo,
pokrajina se je odprla in tisto, kar se je vmešalo vanjo,
je bilo gladko kot surovo jajce,
sonce in modrina sta izpraznila vse kotičke,
mimo naju so bežala razlivajoča se polja,
avtomobili, vonj po morju in ljudje,
ki so se sončili na skalah.
v Izoli sva se ustavila,
jedla sva sladoled in pila kavo,
kot popotnika, ki sta namenjena v obljubljeno deželo,
zadovoljna, ker se predajata preprostim gibom popoldneva,
umirjenim kretnjam nosečnice, ki odmika brisačo
z vzhajajočega trebuha in zbranosti dečka,
ki šteje razgrete kovance za sosednjo mizo.


ENGLISH:

THE CORE OF THE ONION

the following day, when we sat on our bikes,
everything had already become different,
when we started out I hung awkwardly onto the brakes for a few moments,
the quarrel scene from the day before buzzed in my head:
I was looking at a man and a woman
in dim light striving  
to get to the core of the onion,
I watched them tear the white layers of words
while the smarting pain in their throats prevented them
from agreeing.

then I gave the pedals a push,
the road rolled out flat like dough under the wheels,
the landscape opened and what got mixed into it
was as smooth as a raw egg,
the sunshine and the blueness cleared every nook,
the spilling fields flying past us,
cars, the smell of the sea, and people
sunbathing on the rocks.

we stopped in Isola
where we had icecream and coffee
like travellers headed for the promised land,
content to indulge in the simple gestures of the afternoon,
the slow movements of a pregnant lady lifting a towel
from her rising belly, the composure of a boy
counting the sun-warmed coins at the table next to ours

at the top of the hill I rode close along a stony escarpement
and overheard a man's voice getting caught in the cell phone slots:
my niece has had an accident,
I froze, it felt as if the air had just turned brown,
I wished I could change something, ride
on the other side of the road, invent a new story…,
but the staccato voice went on
to death… run over by a car…
and crumbled between fingers like an onion peel.

On our way home I followed your back,
the t-shirt which fluttered along the mast of your vertebrae,
unable to let go of the accident, that man's
niece, death which cannot be stopped by the blueness of the afternoon
or by the smarting pain in the throat.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana.

Literary association IA

The 9th Golden Boat Poetry Translation Workshop 2011

The 9th Golden Boat International Translation Workshop 2011

IN MEDIA:

Primorske novice, 4. 9. 2011

Radio Slovenija, Program ARS, Kulturna panorama, 3. 9. 2011

This year's traditional 9th Golden Boat International Poetry Translation Workshop 2011 will be held from 28th August to 4th September in Škocjan in the Karst in Slovenia. This year's guests come from eight countries: Pamela Uschuk and William Root from USA, Martina Hefter and Jan Kuhlbrodt from Germany, Jonáš Hájek and Jana Šnytová from Czech Republic, Esa Hirvonen from Finland, Dražen Katunarić from Croatia, Amir Talić from Bosnia and Herzegovina, Isabella Panfido from Italy, Catherine MacCarthy from Ireland, Alja Adam, Tatjana T. Jamnik, Marjan Strojan, Špela Sevšek Šramel, Slavo Šerc from Slovenia. The workshop will be led by Iztok Osojnik. As every year, the workshop is dedicated to nurturing live contacts in the West European, Central European and Slavic triangle, linking towns and major European literatures of the east and the west, co-organizing festivals, symposia, meetings and workshops, the international recognition of Škocjan as a modern literary hub and the encouragement and dissemination of original poetry and translations in Slovenia and abroad. The successful promotion of Slovenian poet Srečko Kosovel in the UK and the USA will soon be followed by a new monograph on Kosovel in Polish and the international publication of a new wave of Slovenian classics (Cankar, Strniša, Detela). The Golden Boat participants will present their work on two free, public readings: 1st September at 8 p.m. in Škocjan in the Karst and 2nd September at 7.30 p.m. at the Trubar House of Literature in Ljubljana. For more information see www.ia-zlaticoln.org.

The Golden Boat Workshop is organized by the Literary Association of IA in collaboration with Cultural-Artistic Association of Polica Dubova, Tourist Association Škocjan, Cultural Association Vilenica, magazine Monitor ZSA, KUD France Preseren, Regional Community Alps-Adriatic and journals / publishing houses Apokalipsa and Poetikon.
The workshop is supported by Slovenian Book Agency, Krka, d. d., Škocjan Caves Park, publisher Pighog Press (England), FILI (Finland), Inn at Vncku, Cuisle Limerick  Festival (Ireland), SKD Sežana, Trubar House of Literature, Okarina, d. o. o., Association Triglav-Rysy (Poland).

PROGRAM
Sunday, 28th August - arrivals
19:00 – Welcome dinner

Monday, 29th August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
19:00 – Dinner

Tuesday, 30th August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
14:30 – Excursion (Škocjan caves)
19:00 – Dinner

Wednesday, 31st  August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Walking excursion
19:00 – Dinner

Thursday, 1st September
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
18:30 – Dinner
20:00 – The Golden Boat reading Škocjan

Friday, 2nd September
9:30 – Working session
12:30 – Lunch
14:00 – Departure for Ljubljana
19:30 – The Golden Boat Reading at the
 Trubarjeva hiša literature (Trubar’s House of Literature) in Ljubljana

Saturday, 3rd September
9:30 – Session on translating poetry
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Excursion to Tomaj
20:00 – Farewell Dinner

Sunday, 4th September
Departure after breakfast

Zlati Čoln 2010