EN / SLO

Marjan Strojan

1949, Slovenia

Born 1949 in Ljubljana. He is a poet, translator, film critic; raised on his uncle's farm in the fifties; studied philosophy and comparative literature in the seventies; in 1979 joined the BBC’s Yugoslav Section in London. In 1996 he took a part at the Modern British Literature Seminar, Cambridge;  2005 a fellow of IWP at the Iowa University and a resident writer at the Sitka Institute, Alaska; in 2008 resident writer at The Baptist University in Hong Kong. Currently he is with the Cultural program of Radio Slovenia in Ljubljana. Strojan published six books of poetry and many translations, among them a selection from The Canterbury Tales and the selections of Robert Frost’s, James Joyce’s, Lavinia Greenlaw’s and Sydney Lea’s poetry. He edited and for the most part translated the first comprehensive Anthology of English Poetry in Slovenian; for his translations of Beowulf and of Milton’s Paradise Lost he received the Sovrè Translation Award for the year 1996 and 2004 respectively. Marjan Strojan was made an honorary fellow of University of Iowa and of Hong Kong Baptist University and is the current president of the Slovenian PEN.

(Iz zbirke Vreme kamni krave, 2010)


Kamni

Neke noči ali v poznem večeru, ko sem se vračal
domov, sem v temi, na njenem drugem koncu
precej stran od poti, v rosni travi zagledal grm
ali majhno drevo, polno utripajočih kresnic –
prikazen, ki je obstala v zraku temè. Strmel sem
v tisto, kar bi se kdaj drugič izkazalo za visoko
osamljeno praprot in česar kljub prepričljivosti
zgradbe ne morem imenovati drugače kakor
privid, in se nazadnje umaknil nazaj na pot
v strahu, da bi je ne zgrešil. Ko sem čez čas
spet prikorakal na plan in se je na nebu že risala

svetloba človeške bližine, me je v pričakovanju
še nečesa, kar sem vedel, da prihaja, razdalja
do ovinka, kjer se je odprl pogled, brez upora
posrkala vase. Pod mano je ležalo razsvetljeno
srce mesta s tihimi potoki avtomobilskih luči,
ki so se zlivale vanj, ponikale in se spet nizale
v nepredvidljivi ravnini izza nevidnih obronkov.
To je to! To sem prej videl v zraku, kresničje drevo,
hkrati položeno k nogam in segajoče do zvezd –
trenutek, ločen od drugih, zvezan v dogodek
s pozabljenimi potmi, s katerimi nas ne veže nič

razen časa – samo neki prej in potem, ki se pred
njim umikata v vse smeri, kakor v morje zarezana
brazda. Prej, ko smo bili še vsi skupaj, ko sva še
bila takšna in takšna, preden smo … Ko se zareza
zgodi, in ni nujno, da jo takoj imamo za mejo –
morda šele kasneje iz kakor nož nabrušene daljave
razločimo vzorce, našo edino obrambo pred časom,
ki jih ni več mogoče sestaviti v življenje. To se je
zgodilo, vse drugo pa … Obrnil sem se in  krenil
v dolino in slap, ki je za ovinkom šumel v črno
tišino, mi je še dolgo potrjeval resničnost prizora.

Leta potem (a tudi tega je že dolgo) sem na drugem
koncu sveta, na mrzli obali Pacifika prelagal kamne
kakor imam navado. Rad gledam, kako se po padcu
razklani odprejo kot knjiga, zloženi po slojih. Stikal
sem v cedrovem gozdu, ki je segal prav do obale
k skladom granita in skrila, zbranega v koreninah
spodjedenih ceder. Zgrabil sem večji, starejši
kamen, ga dvignil, spustil in presenečen odskočil,
zbegan nad svojo močjo. Nisem mogel verjeti,
razklal se je scela, kot na ukaz. Spomnil sem se,
ali pa se zdaj spominjam, kako me je v sunkih

ledenega vetra zaskelel občutek, da se bo zdaj,
razkrito in v šoku, v roju srebrnih kristalov in
mokro od pršca, v kamnu odprlo kresničje drevo,
izoblikovano v ozvezdje mojega mesta. Spustil
sem se na kolena, da se prepričam, če se ne
motim. Takrat sem opazil, da krvavim. Puščal
sem pikčasto sled kakor majhen moker glodavec.
Šele zdaj sem začutil tudi udarec. Ne, nič ni bilo.
Samo to: odprl se je zapečaten letopis prihodnosti
in neka prežeča, zdavnaj pripravljena sedanjost
je dočakala svoj trenutek, da skoči vame iz teme.


ENGLISH:

Stones

One night, or late in the evening when on my way home,
I spotted in the dark – on the other side of darkness,
some distance away from the path in the dewy grass –
a shape like limbs of a bush or a small tree alive with
flashing fireflies – an apparition standing out against
the night air. I stared at the thing, which at some other
time would have turned out to be nothing but a lonely
young fern and which in spite of its palpable structure
I could not believe to be other than a mirage, a delusion
of sight to do nothing about but to retrace my steps
to the path in fear I don’t miss it. Later when I was

back on the road and the sky was beginning to light up
in the face of human proximity, in anticipation of what
was to come at the end of the turn where the view opened
the distance to the spot irresistibly sucked me in. Beneath
was laid the illuminated heart of the city traversed by
streams of headlights silently flowing out or diving in
and reappearing at random from under an invisible rise.
This is it! This I have seen at the top – a firefly tree
put up in the night air, at once reaching up to the stars
and stretching out below my feet – in a moment distinct
from all others, bound into an event by blurred pathways

with which nothing binds us but time – an indiscriminate
before and after, retreating in all directions like a wave-
furrow cut into the sea. When we were still all together;
when we were such and such; before we …When the cut
happens and we, not knowing it for the boundary, may
not until later, from a blade sharp distance, make out
the patterns – our only defense against time that can no
longer be put together to make up for our lives. This is
what happened, all else …I hit the road to the valley
with the sounding cataract in the black silence behind me
bearing witness to the truth of the scene for the way …

Years after – and even that seems now a long time ago –
on the other side, by the cold coast of the Pacific, I was
hunting for stones. I like splitting them open like leaves
of a book or seeing them hit harder rock of the ground.
I searched below cedar wood going down to the shore
to the barren strata of flint stone and slate supporting roots
of sapped trunks. There on top of a volcanic plateau I saw
a small hefty boulder, inviting but hard. I weighted it up
against my chest, pushed and let drop. I recoiled perplexed
at my strength and could not believe my luck as it bounced
back and then split clean into two as if made to by a spell.

I remember, or I remembered just now, how on a stroke
of icy wind I was struck by a shooting sensation that there,
naked and in shock, in a swarm of silvery crystals, wet
from a drizzle at its heart glimmered boughs of a firefly tree
shaped into a constellation of my home city. I bent down to
look when I saw I was bleeding, leaving behind a speckled
trail like a small soaking rodent. (Then, too, I have suddenly
felt the cut from the blow.) Nothing happened, and there was
nothing to see, only this: sealed annals of time have opened
up to the future, and a piece of  my own present, long ready
and lying in wait, was freed to pounce on me from the dark.


ITALIANO:

Pietre

Una notte, o tarda sera, sulla via di casa,
scorsi nel buio - dall'altra parte del buio,
a una certa distanza dal sentiero nell'erba umida-
una forma come di un cespuglio o d'un piccolo albero,
lampeggiante di lucciole, un'apparizione nell'aria della notte.
Guardai quella cosa, che in un altro momento sarebbe
risultato essere nient'altro che una giovane felce isolata
e che invece della sua palpabile struttura non potevo credere
essere altro che un miraggio, un'illusione della vista che non
mi permetteva altro che tornare sui miei passi per non perderla.

Più tardi quando stavo tornando indietro e il cielo cominciava
a rischiarare di fronte al consesso umano, anticipando quanto
stava per giungere alla fine della curva dove la vista si apriva,
la distanza da quel luogo mi attirò irresistibilmente. Sotto di me
si stendeva il cuore illuminato della città attraversata da flussi
di luci d'auto in silenzioso ingresso o uscita che riapparivano poi
inaspettate, da sotto un invisibile poggio. Ecco cos'era! Questo
avevo visto là in cima – un albero di lucciole svettante nella notte,
contemporaneamente su fino alle stelle e giù ai miei piedi - per un attimo
distinto da tutto il resto, volto in un evento da percorsi intricati
al quale nulla ci lega tranne il tempo – un indiscriminato
prima e dopo, sfuggente come un'onda – un solco tracciato nel mare.
Quando siamo ancora tutti insieme; quando siamo così ; prima che...
Quando il solco si dà e noi, senza sapere che è un confine, non possiamo
se non solo più tardi, alla distanza di una lama, distinguerne il profilo –
la nostra unica difesa contro il tempo che non possiamo
fermare per venire a capo della nostra vita. Questo è quello che è accaduto, nient'altro...
Presi la strada verso la valle con lo scroscio fragoroso nel silenzio buio alle mie spalle
portando con me la testimonianza della verità della scena...

Anni dopo – e ora mi sembra tanto tempo fa- dall'altra parte
sulla fredda costa del Pacifico, stavo raccogliendo pietre. Mi piace
spaccarle in due, aperte come pagine di un libro o guardarle colpire
rocce più dure, a terra. Cercavo in un bosco di cedri, lungo il margine della costa
verso le falde aride di selce e ardesia che sostengono le radici di tronchi svuotati.
Là in cima a un plateau vulcanico vidi un piccolo solido masso, invitante ma pesante.
Lo sollevai contro il petto, poi lo lasciai cadere. Perplesso della mia forza,
la fortuna volle che il masso, rimbalzando, si spaccasse in due perfette metà.

Ricordo, o mi torna in mente ora, come con una raffica
di vento gelido mi colpì la sensazione precisa che là,
messo a nudo dal colpo, in uno sciame di cristalli argentei, umido
di pioggia nel suo centro brillassero i rami di un albero di lucciole
fatto in forma di costellazione luminosa della mia città. Mi curvai per
guardare meglio e vidi che sanguinavo, lasciando dietro di me
una scia picchiettata come di un piccolo roditore fradicio. (Allora
percepii all'improvviso il taglio provocato dal colpo). Non successe niente,
e non c'era nemmeno niente da vedere, solo questo:
cronache sigillate dal tempo erano state aperte
al futuro, e un pezzo del mio presente, da tempo
pronto e in attesa, era stato liberato
per piombare su di me dall'oscurità.

Traduzione di Isabella Panfido.


 
Beli delfini

Lep dan, razgled od Levje Skale do Viktorijinega Vrha –
brez meglic. Vmes pet milijonov ljudi, samih neznancev.
Zmenjen sem, grem. Z njim prvič po tridesetih letih: 'Čif
polis, Kawloon Station, vsi me poznajo, ne moreš zgrešit.'
Zgrešit je najlažje. Pograbim Agfo in zemljevid, svojo
dvojno Ariadnino nit: slikaš, primerjaš, vidiš od kod si
prišel. Nobenih neumnosti – landmarks, pogled s strani
ali z vrha, kakor z letala v morje. Višje ko si, bolj je videti
mirno. Zmenjena sva v Mongkoku. Gledam morje z vrha
doubledeckerja. Tudi promet ima znana imena: Waterloo
Road, Prince Edward Road, Duke Street, Essex Crescent,
Dorset Gardens … Eno je izvirno, Boundry Street – stara
demarkacijska črta med mestom in polotokom, ki so ga
morali dati nazaj, čeprav so potem vrnili tudi vse drugo.
V mojem primeru: Cvetlični trg, Ribji trg, Kitajske cmoke,
Angleško pecivo, Črto neba, Draguljarne, Dnevne hotele.

Malo zamujam. Rdeč avtobus pridivja z Argyle Streeta.
Stoji pri izhodu, maha že od daleč. Izstopi z bolno nogo
naprej. Visok, raven kot sveča, belih las, v beli obleki
in srajci, suh kakor poper pri 95 F in 90 odstotni vlagi.
Stopim mu naproti. Predstavljam vam dijaka I. gimnazije,
sekcija Beli delfini, ki je 8. maja 45 ('Mogoče dan prej?')
jedel potico pri Čadu in z avtomatom streljal z Rožnika
na Grad. Preživel je svojo osvoboditev, ker se na smrt
pijan dva dni ni ganil iz jarka. Čif polis Kawloon Tong.
Oči me pečejo od znoja. Zaudarjam kot kuga. Bela kuga.
Za silo se objameva in potrepljava. Ne spusti me, podrži
me pred sabo: 'Še zmeraj kot slika.' 'Smrdim kakor kuga.'
Pogleda kot da ne vem, kaj govorim, nakar me v taksiju
prime še srat … 'Lucky you, jaz že dvajset let ne morem.'
Medtem, ko me tišči, recitirava Ovida in vpijeva 'Sedite,
nezadostno!' To traja … Še vedno sva v taksiju: gneča

na Nathan Roadu. 'Tsim Sha Tsui,' reče. 'Nič, greva peš!'
Ko se rineva čez prehod, si govorim, da kar se tiče potreb,
se na Kitajce lahko zaneseš. Samo, da mogoče ne tukaj:
nobenih javnih površin, trgovine in banke zaprte, lokali
nabasani do stropa. Ura kosila. WC na podzemni zgleda
kot klet iz Trnuljčice. 'Lahko še minuto?' reče. S perona
se z dvigalom vzpneva v tretje nadstropje. Hvaležno se
spomnim mestnega parka v Sham Shui Poju, terasastih
parkov v Macau – v vsakem stranišče, vsaj eno, zastonj.
Ustaviva se na hodniku. Na steni litografija osamljene
ženske s čudovitimi prsmi, ki jih na ozadju pomola gole
nastavlja vetru. Storite korak v pravo smer, odločite se
za mamografijo. 'Dvomim, da sva prišla prav,'  rečem.
'Počakaj!' Nekam izgine in se čez čas vrne s ključem.
'Na koncu hodnika, zadnja vrata desno …' Potem sediva
v čakalnici, vsaki dve minuti naju strese oddaljen potres,

govoriva šepetaje, vrneva ključ … Začel je pihati veter.
Zunaj postaja znosno. Z ladjo se peljeva gledat Glavno
policijsko postajo v bližini Kluba dopisnikov, ki je zaprt
kot vse drugo. Ne veva, kaj bi. Odprta sta samo tempelj
in bolšji trg – stojnice s fotografijami kitajskih prostitutk.
Ena, črno bela, s kratkimi lasmi, pozorno zazrta v svoje
mednožje, se zdi še zdaj lepa. Belle epoque. 'Si jo poznal?'
'Me ni počakala. Tu je na vrhuncu, petnajst, šestnajst let.
Nato sifilis, TBC, koze, karkoli … Opij in kratka vožnja
v pekel … Škoda za tako lepe noge! Denar je šel družini,
ki jo je prodala. Badlak, rečejo Kitajci.' 'Bad luck ni škoda,'
ugovarjam. 'Slaba karma,' se popravi. '– Poglej!' Voziva se
s tramvajem v hrib: 'Betonirajo drevesa, da jim ne padejo
v morje.' Imajo oddelek, ki tu betonira pobočja po parkih …
'Nad gozdno mejo,' pokaže proti goram v zalivu, 'se topijo
kot sladkor. Slaba karma. Če si jo slikal, jo neseš domov.'

Kako ve, kaj sem slikal? 'Šli smo gledat delfine,' rečem.
'Niso beli, večina je roza, petdeset dolarjev, da jih ne vidiš.'
'Teh dolgo nobeden ni videl, razen na sliki. Slike so stare.
Slab znak,' se strinja. On ve, enkrat polis, zmeraj polis!
Potem se spomni, da sem že lačen. Predlaga Jockey Club.
Dolgo čakava tramvaj, a za razliko od delfinov se splača.
Čez pol ure sediva z jasminovim čajem na poštirkanem
prtu in dim sumom na vrtljivi plošči. Za stekli s pogledom
na stadion jeva ribe s cmoki in kuhano zelenjavo. Zunaj
z vodometi pršijo negovano travo, a je vseeno polno ljudi.
Gledalci sedijo zagledani v južno tribuno, kjer prenašajo
dirke od drugod. Skačejo v zrak, mahajo s hrenovkami
in stavnimi listki. 'Ampak tvoji Delfini,' mu rečem, 'so bili
popolnoma beli?' 'Še najbolj beli so bili, ko so jih posuli
z apnom. Sedemnajst let. Kakor kurbe, a zdravi kot dren.'
Vstane in plača. 'Če hočeš, čez cesto je tramvaj na britof.'

Hodiva pod cvetočimi cimetovci in palmami; za hrbtom,
med bambusom šumi veter. Korenine tiho drobijo flote
spečih mornarjev. 'Ne verjemi vsega, kar piše, večino so
pojedle ribe. To je samo za spomin. Na imperij. Enkrat
na leto imajo proslavo. Tu so pa Rusi.' Med keltskimi
križi zagledam nekaj betonskih, pravoslavnih, z napisi
v cirilici. 'Natalija Bronštajn,' mu preberem. Bolničarka.
In z angleško pisavo: 1875 †1911. Much missed by all.
'Manjkala je, to je važno – njim tukaj, meni v Londonu.
Ti si šel domov, kadar si hotel, midva ne. Tole je bilo še
najbolj podobno nečemu. Škoda, da tu ne pokopavajo več.'
Da mi roko, stisnem jo in je ne izpustim: 'Zakaj so beli
delfini slab znak?' Oslini prst, načečka nekaj po zraku:
'Wu Gei Bak Gei, si predstavljaš? Kateri hudič si nas je
izmislil: ista beseda, isti znak za oboje … Vse so vrnili.
Nisem vedel, dokler se nisem naučil kantonsko. Badlak.'

The Cantonese has a slang expression "Wu Gei Bak Gei" (often written as 烏忌白忌, lit. "black taboo white taboo") which means someone being a bad omen or a nuisance etc. The phrase originates from the Cantonese fisher people, because they claim that the dolphins eat the fish in their nets. In proper Chinese, it should be written as 烏鱀白鱀, where the "Gei" originally in olden Chinese, means dolphins. The "Wu" referring to the finless porpoises, which are black, and the "bak", white, referring to Chinese River Dolphins. These two species often interrupt and ruin the fishermen's catch. As years passed, because "dolphin" sounds the same as "bad luck", the meaning of the phrase changed. However, in Cantonese, the "wu" refers to the calves of Chinese White Dolphin and "bak" refers to the adults. Note that River Dolphins (Baiji) do not exist in Hong Kong. Nowadays, dolphins are not called "gei" anymore, but 海豚 (Hoi tuen), literally meaning "Sea pig".
• 1637: The Chinese White Dolphin was first discovered in Hong Kong by an adventurer Peter Mundy near the Pearl River. The species are attracted to the Pearl River Estuary because of its brackish waters. Late 1980s: Environmentalists started to pay attention to the Chinese White Dolphin population. Early 1990: The Hong Kong public started to become aware of the Chinese White Dolphin. This was due to the side effects of the construction of the Chek Lap Kok Airport. It was one of the world's largest single reclamation projects: the reclamation of nine square kilometers of the seabed near Northern Lantau, which was one of the major habitats of the dolphins. Early 1993: Re-evaluation of the environmental effects of the construction of Chek Lap Kok Airport. This alerted eco-activists such as those from the World Wide Fund for Nature in Hong Kong, in turn bringing media attention on the matter. Soon enough, the Hong Kong Government began getting involved by funding projects to esearch on the Chinese White Dolphins Late 1993: The Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department was founded. 1996: Dr. Thomas Jefferson began to conduct research on the Chinese White Dolphin's in hope of discovering more about them. 1997: The Chinese White Dolphin became the official mascot of the 1997 sovereignty changing ceremonies in Hong Kong. 1998: The research results of Dr. Thomas Jefferson was published in "Wildlife Monographs". 1998: The Hong Kong Dolphinwatch was organized and began to run dolphin watching tours for the general public to raise the public's awareness of the species. 2000: The Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department started to conduct long-term observation of the Chinese White Dolphins in Hong Kong. 2000: The population of Chinese White Dolphins has reached around only 80-140 dolphins in the Pearl River waters.


 
Zobje

− Poglej, beli zobje, mi v marini pokaže fanta,
ki s skupino mornarjev koraka od dokov proti
privezom za jahte. Nisem ga uspel pogledati.
Slišal sem glasen smeh, pri katerem je vsakič
vrgel glavo nazaj; videl črno postavo v sprani
majici s temnimi sragami znoja, z mornarsko
vrečo čez ramo; opazil bliskanje ure s kovinskim
pasom, ki mu jo je iz čistega veselja, zgleda,
nekdo skušal sneti z zapestja. Zgoraj nad njim
                      je krožil galeb.
Zobje so ji bili všeč; še ves večer je govorila
s polnimi usti in se ni nehala smejati kakor 
potok čez kamen. Zdaj je skupina na privezu
obstala, si segala v roke, se trepljala in se
v nekem poljubnem trenutku na hitro razšla …
Gledal sem ga v hrbet, ki se je v hupajočem
prometu med nakupovalci prebijal čez cesto –
v vrečo, ki mu je opletala z ramen, in v galeba,
ki se je, naveličan, s krikom pognal navzgor
                  švignit čez strehe.


ENGLISH:

Teeth

− Look, white teeth! In the marina she pointed out
a young man marching down from the dockyards
to the yacht pier, in a party of sailors. I never caught
a good sight of him. I heard bursts of laughter at which
he would throw his head backwards; I saw a black
figure in a bleached out tee-shirt with dark streaks
of sweat and a sack over his shoulder; next, I saw
a flashing of his metal watch strap which, for the laughs
of it one of them was trying to pull off from his wrist;
                     above him circled a seagull.
She liked the teeth; throughout the evening she talked
with her mouth full and never stopped laughing like
a stream splashing over the pebbles. Then the party
on the pier stopped, shaking hands, tapping shoulders,
indeterminately breaking apart in no time. I watched
his back as it was pressing on through the hooting
traffic to cross the road in a crowd of shoppers; the sack
swaying each way from his shoulder; and the seagull,
which, exasperated, pulled up and flew off with a cry
                     shooting across the rooftops.


 
Temna zvezda

Živiva na dvorišču za infekcijsko kliniko,
v petdesetih. Hiša je pritlična, rumena.
Vanjo se pride od zadaj, mimo ometane
drvarnice, spremenjene v barako. Dvorišče
je posuto s peskom in lešem; vanj je vrisan
ristanc ali zemljo krast. Pred straniščem
sta bel umivalnik in zelena medeninasta pipa
ter zamaščen, nevozen motor. Ob ograji
se suši perilo in plapolajo kariraste kapne.
Vse se sliši. Sonce zahaja. Tepeva se.
Priletiš skozi vrata, bele zavese na vratih

zatrepetajo. Pljusneš si vodo v obraz …
Nobenega ni. Ljudje se nočejo vtikat.
Malo manjka, pa bo prišla policija. Čisto
mogoče je, da delam pri policiji. Na mizi
je službena kapa, na tleh odrinjen stol,
pod njim rjava kokoš in prevrnjena džezva.
Obrišeš si vrat v kombinežo. Ne vem,
kje sem, za vrati me ni. Tako sem se skril,
da se ne najdem. Zgleda, da je tam naprej
še en prostor … Mogoče se samo delam,
da me ni; mogoče računam, da si ljudje

predstavljajo, da se pretepaš kar sama –
vsi vejo, da izzivaš. Iz barake pride otrok
z roko na opasaču, v drugi ima baterijo
za kolo. Zagrozi s pasom. Takoj vem,
da sem to jaz. Zakričiš, stečeš, se zapreš
v kuhinjo. Še prej vržeš službeno kapo
skoz vrata. Pride kokoš in jo začne kljuvat.
Zdiš se lepa, vitka, z dolgim tilnikom,
z umitimi očmi. V prah se prikotali rdeča
zvezda velikanka iz ugaslega vesolja.
Zbrcam jo v ristanc in se zatopim v igro.


ENGLISH:

The Dark Star

We live behind the Hospital for Contagious Diseases,
back in the fifties. Ours is a ground floor house,
low down and yellow. To enter you go to the backdoor
past the woodsheds coated with mortar and turned
into homes. Next to them stand a latrine, a sink with
a brass tap and a leaky motorbike in an unlikely state
of repair. The backyard is laid with gravel and slag
with a hopscotch left drawn in the sand from the summer.
Along the railings gray linen and chequered bed-
covers flutter from the rope to dry. You can hear
everything. No one is out. The sun is setting. We fight.

You rush through the door, leaving the curtains and
glass on the door-window shuddering. You splash
water onto your face. No one comes to your side as if
the police may arrive any minute. It is likely I am
the police. There’s an officers’ hat on a table and a chair
pulled down on the floor with a brown chicken perched
underneath and a djezva coffee pot turned sideways.
You wipe your neck with a side of your slip. I lay low.
I can’t see where I am and I’m not behind the barracks
door either. I’m hidden so deep I can’t make myself out.
It seems there’s another room farther back; maybe

I play at not being there; maybe I reckon they’ll think
you beat yourself up; they know you like to provoke.
Then out into the yard walks a child resting its hand on
its officers’ belt. In its other hand it carries a bicycle
torch. I know at once it is me. It threatens you with the belt.
You scream. You start back to lock yourself up. Next,
you throw the police hat out into the yard. A chicken
comes to peck at it. You look good, slender, with a long
neck and washed up eyes. I see an eclipsed red star rolling
down from the invisible universe come to the ground.
I kick it towards the playfield, then fall for the game.


Zvezde

Zvezde, ta komedija zmešnjav, pretiravajo.
Vleče me skozi oči, selim se tja gor, komaj
čakam, kako bo, ko se ozrem dol na poseko
z galaktičnim gozdom, z negotovim žarenjem,
z zavitim pasom nebesnega jezera za njim,
ki se zgošča … ki se zgošča bolj kot ga redči
daljava. Vanj, posamič – z oranžnimi očmi –
pozorna, prihajajo sklonjena bitja, dvigajo
glave, vohajo v veter, strižejo z ušesi, pijejo
roso, stegujejo vratove v zanosu potešitve.
Jasen znak, da me ni več – pasejo se, plašne
                 zvezde pod gozdom.


ENGLISH:

Stars
 
Stars – that comedy of errors – exaggerate. They
pull me up through my eyes, I’m moving up there,
I can hardly wait to see how it will turn out to be
when I look down on the clearing with its galactic
forest, with its shuddering glow, with its bent belt
of heavenly lake behind it – turning solid, solidifying
faster than it is diluted by distance. Into the open
one by one – with orange eyes – come stooping
creatures, alert, raising up their heads, sniffing
the air, pricking ears, drinking dew, stretching their
necks in the ecstasy of gratification. A clear sign
I am gone – they graze, the timid stars under the forest.


Stars
 
Stars – that comedy of errors – multiply. They
haul me up through my eyes, I’m floating up there,
I can hardly wait to see how it turns out to be
when I look down on the clearing and its galactic
forest, with its incandescent glow, its milky way,
that heavenly lake across it – intensifies more
clusters as it dilutes distance. Into the open
one by one – with orange eyes – come browsing
creatures, alert, raising up their heads, they sniff
the wind, prick ears, drink dew, stretch their necks
in satisfaction. A clear sign I am not there –
they graze, these timid stars among the trees.

Translated by Catherine Phil MacCarthy.


SUOMEKSI:

Tähdet

Tähdet - tuo virheiden komedia - ylinäytelty. Ne vetävät
minut silmieni lävitse luokseen, siirryn sinne ylös,
tuskin maltan odottaa näkeväni millaista on katsoa
alas galaktisen metsäaukion reunalta, sen värisevä
hehku, jonka takana taivaallisten järvien taipuisa
vyö - kiinteytyy, jähmettyy nopeammin kuin haihtuu
kaukaisuuteen. Kumarat olennot tulevat, oranssit silmät
avautuvat yksi kerrallaan, hälytys, ne nostavat päänsä
pystyyn, haistelevat ilmaa, lävistävät korvansa, juovat
kastetta , venyttelevät niskojaan nautinnon ekstaasissa.
Selvä merkki. Olen mennyttä - ne raapaisevat ujoja
                        tähtiä metsän alla.

Kääntänyt Esa Hirvonen.

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