EN / SLO

Pamela Uschuk

USA

Of Russian / Czech / Tartar / English descent. Pamela Uschuk's work has appeared in over 200 journals and antholgies worldwide, including Poetry, Parnassus Review, Ploughshares, Nimrod, Agni Review, Calyx, and others. Her work has been translated into nearly a dozen languages, including Spanish, Russian, Czech, Swedish, Albanian, and Korean. She published two collections of poems: Finding Peaches in the Desert and Scattered Risks and which won the American Book Award (Sept. 2010). Among her other awards are the Dorothy Daniels Writing Award from the National League of American PEN Women, the Struga International Poetry Prize, and the ASCENT, IRIS and King's English prizes. In 2005 she gave up her position as Director of the Salem College Center for Women Writers in North Carolina to become Editor In Chief of Cutthroat, A Journal of the Arts and to conduct poetry workshops at the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She makes her home in Tucson, Arizona, and outside of Bayfield, Colorado, with her husband, poet William Root.

CRAZY LOVE

Chickadees are most themselves, bravest of birds,
Blackfeet Indians say, with the heart of a grizzly
booming inside their thin ribs.
My grandmother said,
Watch out for small women,
the violin of joy that flexes inside their wrists,
their talent for making themselves
huge as Amazons.  

Like all adolescents, I promised
myself  happiness, an adoring mate.  Got
clay guitars instead.
Thunder reigned and lips tore
from the thousand masks
in dreams.  Lovers slipped away
like silk lilies lying to the wind,
and I dreamed I watched a dwarf build
an intricate toothpick pagoda at the end of a pier
jutting over the forehead of a black tossing sea.
The sky was the color of the wet grapes
he slipped between his teeth.
Just as the dwarf set the pagoda
on fire, blazing the pier to my feet,
two giant turtles swam up
and carried me on their backs
across the burning tide.

On the opposite shore, a chickadee buzzed, carrying
the wrist bones of a dwarf in its beak,
and I knew love couldn’t be
far behind those small Amazon wings. 


V SLOVENŠČINI:

Nora ljubezen

Črnoglave sinice so najsamozavestnejše, najpogumnejše od pticami
pravijo Indijanci plemena Črna noga, srce grizlija
jim cvete med drobnimi rebri.
Moja stara mati je reklam
pazi se majhnih žensk,
violine veselja, ki se jim pregiba v zapestjih
njihove nadarjenosti, da se naredijo
velike kot Amazonka.

  Kot vsa odraščajoča dekleta sem si obljubila,
da bom srečna, si poiskala občudovanja vrednega partnerja. Namesto
tega sem dobila glinaste kitare.
Vladal je grom in ustnice so se trgale
iz tisočerih mask
v sanjah. Ljubimci so zdrseli mimo
kot svilene lilije, ki lažejo vetru,
sanjala sem, da opazujem pritlikavca na koncu
pomola iznad čela črnega morja, ki se premetava,
Gradil je zapleteno pagodo iz zobotrebcev.
Nebo je bilo obarvano z mokrim grozdjem,
ki se mu je zataknilo med zobmi.
V trenutku ko je pritlikavec zažgal pagodo,
razsvetlil pomol pri mojih nogah,
sta priplavali dve velikanski želvi
in me na svojem hrbtu
odpeljali čez gorečo plimo.

Na nasprotnem bregu je poskakovala črnoglava sinica,
s pritlikavčevimi zapestnimi kostmi v kljunu,
in jasno mi je bilo, da ljubezen ne more biti
daleč zadaj za tistimi amazonskimi perutmi.

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik.


NORA LJUBEZEN

Črnoglave sinice so najbolj samosvoje, najbolj neustrašne med pticami,
pravijo Črnonogi Indijanci, grizlijevo srce
jim bobni med tenkimi rebri.
Moja stara mama je rekla:
Pazi se majhnih žensk,
violine veselja, ki se upogiba v njihovih zapestjih,
njihovega daru, da postanejo
ogromne kot Amazonke.

  Kot vse mladostnice sem si obljubila
srečo, tovariša, ki me bo oboževal. Dobila
sem glinaste kitare.
Zavladal je grom in ustnice so se v sanjah
strgale s tisočerih
mask. Ljubimca sta se zmuznila proč
kot svilene lilije, ki lažejo vetru,
in jaz sem sanjala, gledala sem palčka, kako iz
zobotrebcev gradi zapleteno pagodo na koncu pomola,
ki štrli prek čela črnega razburkanega morja.
Nebo je imelo barvo mokrega grozdja,
zmuznil se je med njegove zobe.
Brž ko je palček v pagodi zanetil
požar, ki je razplamtel pomol tja do mojih nog,
sta priplavali dve orjaški želvi
in me na svojih hrbtih odnesli
čez goreče valovje.

Na nasprotni obali so čirikale črnoglave sinice, v kljunu
so nesle palčkove zapestne kosti,
in vedela sem, da ljubezen ne more biti
daleč stran od teh drobnih amazonskih peruti.

Prevedla Tatjana Jamnik.


    “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”        

                                            Mahatma Ghandi

SEASON OF HEAT

I
I dream that, two by two,
a company of soldiers patrol
a river through a desert to the sea.
Gliding downstream, they navigate
crocodile-like, completely
submerged, but for their helmet tops.
They breathe water.  I can’t see their eyes
or the enemy they seek.

Waking to BBC news, I confuse
them with another two US soldiers beheaded
in Iraq, retaliation dealt
from an endless deck of cards
in a game that’s overstayed the table.

Revenge hisses the thousand names of hatred,
relentless as this season of heat
that tamps bear grass into a prickly yellow cot.


V SLOVENŠČINI:

    »Oko za oko in cel svet postane slep.«
      Mahatma Gandhi

ČAS VROČINE

I
Sanjam, da četa vojakov
po dva in dva straži
reko prek puščave do morja.
Drsijo z vodnim tokom, plovejo
kot krokodili, čisto
potopljeni, le čelade jim kukajo ven.
Dihajo vodo. Ne vidim njihovih oči
ali sovražnika, ki ga iščejo.

Ko se zbudim v BBC-jeve novice, jih zmedem
z drugima dvema ameriškima vojakoma, obglavljenima
v Iraku, povračilo, razdeljeno
z neskončnim nizom kart
v igri, ki je že predolgo na mizi.

Maščevanje sika tisoč imen sovraštva
neizprosno kot ta čas vročine,
ki tepta medvedjo travo v špikajočo rumeno poljsko posteljo.

Prevedla Tatjana Jamnik.


II
For weeks now I’ve turned to gardening
instead of war, even though
I can’t stop dreaming sweaty fatigues
and assault rifles, grim blue
barrels so hot from desert sun, they sizzle

fingerprints to angry welts. 

I ache to bring them all home
but I know that, like my father and brother
after him, their passports have changed
nationality to the land of permanent damage,
one foot jerking from the adrenaline flash
of explosives, the other trying
to walk through the front door. 
Next month my nephew leaves for Iraq.
His pregnant young wife writes 
newsletters for Army wives,
each story upslanted as her beautiful smile,
despite shadows that deepen her son’s
eyes, already missing his dad, who 
waits at Fort Hood where mid-July steams,
humidity crackling with blue thunder, where
horizons are mirages shimmering like Humvees
patrolling the wreckage of Basra streets.


V SLOVENŠČINI:

II
Že tedne se ukvarjam z vrtnarjenjem
namesto z vojno, pa čeprav
ne morem nehati sanjati preznojenih uniform
in jurišnih pušk, temno modrih
sodčkov, tako vročih od puščavskega peska, cvrčijo
prste odtise v jezne žulje.

Rada bi jih vse pripeljala domov,
a vem, tako kot moj oče in brat
za njim, da so njihovi potni listi spremenili
narodnost v deželo trajne škode,
ena noga trza zaradi adrenalinskega izbruha
eksploziva, druga poskuša
stopiti skozi vhodna vrata.
Naslednji mesec moj nečak odhaja v Irak.
Njegova noseča, mlada žena piše
biltene za vojaške žene,
vsaka zgodba prirejena kot njen lep nasmeh,
kljub sencam, ki poglabljajo oči njenega
sina, ki že zdaj pogreša očeta, ta pa
čaka pri Fort Hoodu, kjer izpareva sreda julija,
vlaga šelesti z modrim gromom, kjer
so obzorja prividi kot Humvees,
ki patruljira po razrušenih ulicah Basre.

Prevedla Tatjana Jamnik.


III
My dreams burn off with coffee, elusive
as fog exposed to sun.  I can’t erase
the ruined smiles of those handsome dead GIs
or my nephew’s wild profile
from my heart’s album.

On the porch grasshoppers 
assail pots of broccoli, sweet peppers,
cilantro and dill. 
What was supposed to feed us 
this winter is stripped by swarms
that chew everything as mindless
and methodical as insurgents
blowing up their own cousins
in Baghdad’s broiling markets.

I soak the tomato plants, pack
new soil around their tough stems, then
switch the dial to classical music,
Vivaldi, hoping that,with enough water and
love, some of them will survive.


V SLOVENŠČINI:

II
Moje sanje ugasnejo s kavo, neoprijemljive
kot megla, izpostavljena soncu. Ne morem izbrisati
uničenih nasmehov tistih postavnih mrtvih vojakov
ali nečakovega divjega profila
iz mojega srčnega albuma.

Na verandi so se kobilice
lotile posod z brokolijem, sladko papriko,
koriandrom in koprom.
Kar bi nas moralo nahraniti
to zimo, so opustošili roji,
ki zgrizejo vse, tako brezobzirno
in metodično, kot uporniki
razstreljujejo lastne sorodnike
na razbeljenih bagdadskih tržnicah.

Namakam sadike paradižnika, tlačim
novo prst okoli njihovih trdih stebel, potem
obrnem gumb na klasično glasbo,
Vivaldi, upam, da bodo z dovolj vode in
ljubezni nekateri od njih preživeli.

(Prevedla Tatjana Jamnik.)


ANOTHER WIFE SEES HER LOVE OFF TO WAR

I’m not surprised I sliced my finger
after you left this afternoon.
The moon rises in its full fog of longing,
and I hear a vibrato of goodbyes like grenades
going off under my skin.  In my purse
your cell phone takes messages
you won’t hear for months.

My words walk into dreams
rattling their ankle cocoons that recall
the sweet tremble of wet wings
before they learned to fly.  Now you fly
thousands of miles from my heart
that flutters off from the stench of its duties
to keep blood and bone alive, swollen
by an ache as acute as winter stars
driven under my fingernails.

Some cosmic joke this passion that strips
my skin to flap like prayer flags
in the complete loneliness of snow. 
What can melt ice when men drum
for revenge, and I am stuck again
in the swamp of their rhetoric, their need
to maim the long arms of desire? 
A compass needle spun in the palm of history,
battles come true in grief’s key of screams.  

What skirmish do I need when my heart is set
to leap into the pyre of its longing, dreaming
fat as the moon that remembers the skin tent
flapping like hawk wings in desert wind,
the spin of me dancing before you ride off
with your warriors, the last tattoo
of your fingers, text message on my cheek?


V SLOVENŠČINI:

Še ena žena pospremi svojega ljubega v vojno

Ne čudi me, da sem se vrezala v prst,
potem ko si popoldne odšel.
Luna je vzšla z gosto kopreno hrepenenja
in drhtenje poslovilnih pozdravov slišim zadevati kot granate,
ki jih nekaj strelja izpod moje kože. V moji torbici
tvoj mobilni telefon dobiva sporočila,
ki jih več mesecev ne boš slišal.

Moje besede hodijo v sanje,
klopotajoče z zapredki okoli gležnjev, ki spominjajo
na sladko podrhtavanje mokril peruti, preden
se naučijo leteti. Zdaj ti letiš
tisoč milj daleč od mojega srca,
ki frfota proč od neprijetnega vonja obveznosti
ohranjajoč kri in kosti pri življenju, nabreklem
od bolečine, ostre kakor zimske zvezde,
zadrte pod nohte na rokah.

Nekakšna kozmična šala je ta strast, ki mi
odira kožo, da plahuta kot molilne zastavice
v popolni snežni samoti.
Kaj lahko stali sneg, ko moški začnejo z bobni pozivati
k maščevanju, jaz pa sem spet obtičala
v močvirju njihovega govorništva, njihove nuje,
da pohabijo dolge roke hrepenenja?
Na dlani zgodovine se obrača igla kompasa,
pod kričečimi ključi gorja bitke postanejo resne.

Kakšne vojaške praske potrebujem, ko pa je moje srce
pripravljeno skočiti na pogrebno grmado hrepenenja v sanjah
debelih kotluna, ki se spominjajo šotora
kože, plahutajočega kot sokol na puščavskem vetru,
mojega plesa, preden si s svojimi
bojevniki odjahal proč, s poslednjo tetovažo
tvojih prstov na koži, z sms-om na mojih licih.

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik.


ŠE ENA ŽENA SPREMLJA SVOJO LJUBEZEN, KO SE ODHAJA BORIT
 
Nisem presenečena, da sem se urezala v prst,
potem ko si danes popoldne odpotoval.
Luna vzhaja v svoji polni megli hrepenenja,
in slišim vibrato sloves, kot granate,
ki mi jih raznese pod kožo. V moji torbici
tvoj mobitel sprejema sporočila,
ki jih ne boš slišal več mesecev.

Moje besede vstopijo v sanje,
rožljajo z zapredki gležnjev, ki se spominjajo
sladkega trepeta mokrih kril,
preden so se naučila leteti. Zdaj letiš
tisoče milj stran od mojega srca,
ki odprhuta od zadaha svojih dolžnosti,
da bi ohranilo kri in kosti žive, otekle
od bolečine, akutne kot zimske zvezde,
ki jih žene pod mojimi nohti.

Kakšna kozmična šala, ta strast, ki slači
mojo kožo, da obvisi kot molilne zastavice
v popolni samoti snega.
Kaj lahko stali led, ko moški bobnajo
za maščevanje, jaz pa že spet obtičim
v močvirju njihove retorike, njihove potrebe
pohabljati dolge roke poželenja?
Igla kompasa se je vrtela na dlani zgodovine,
bitke postajajo resnične v žalovalnem ključu krikov.

Kakšen spopad rabim, ko je moje srce pripravljeno
skočiti na grmado svojega hrepenenja, sanjarjenja,
debelega kot luna, ki se spomni kožnatega šotora,
ki prhuta kot sokolje peruti v puščavskem vetru,
vrtenje mene, ki plešem, preden ti odjahaš
s svojimi vojščaki, zadnja tetovaža
tvojih prstov, besedilno sporočilo na mojem licu?

Prevedla Tatjana Jamnik.

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