EN / SLO

Catherine Phil MacCarthy

1954, Ireland

Catherine Phil MacCarthy’s collections include This Hour of the Tide, Salmon Publishing (1994); the blue globe (1998), Suntrap, (2007), and a novel, One Room an Everywhere (2003), published by Blackstaff Press, Belfast. Her next collection, The Invisible Threshold is due for publication. She won The Fish Poetry Prize, in 2010, and is a former editor of Poetry Ireland Review. Anthology publication includes Opening Eyes, Cambridge University Press (2009), Women Poets Writing in English, Seren UK, (2008), and The Field Day Anthology of Irish Literature V (2002).

Pesem o Škocjanu / A poem about Škocjan

Skojcan Journey

Crossing the bleached stepping stones,
river down to a soundless trickle, lazy pools
lukewarm in the shade, we speak of the rains
that flooded the canyon last summer,
first days of September trace the high water-mark
by driftwood sticks high up above our heads,
a tangle in branches of a linden like the nest
of some great bird – an eagle perhaps,
or the peregrine falcon we’ve seen riding thermals
in pairs, above the cliffs, four, skyward,
circling into the blue further than the eye could see,
or maybe the crane, last glimpsed with fox
in the frescoe of a tiny church –
limestone walls stained black, cut a magnesium line
way up so that already a tumult rages where
a dozen waterfalls converge, and we are walking
the Reka river-bed, suspended in the calm
of a deep rush, our hair standing on end,
our hands loosening our boots so that we float  
free amist a melée of drowned debris – branches
of morello and plum, berries of wild fruit,
stalks of flowering cyclamen, lizard, snake and wolf,
all swept past the broken mill-wheel,
through the gorge mouth, where only this river flows,
down and down through the Skojcan caves,
opening like the insides of a cathedral,
past limestone bowls and sculptures
of the damned, coursing into the underworld. 

 

----------------


THE FIRST ROD:
MACKEREL AT INIS OÍRR 

Cast the line off the pier,
summer nights
into black stillness,
read the dusk blind,
Atlantic waters at full tide.
Wrist so deft and light
arching the throw
high and wide now,
all six flies kiss
the slick surface like stars
shooting without trace

where a shoal
in its own sweet hour
clots and ripples a current
to the hands, charged
at the least quiver
to reel in the bowed line
amid whoops and cries,
at pains to land,
the weight of this prize,
wriggling and twitching
with silvery light.

(from Suntrap, 2007)


FUGIT AMOR 

At the Musée Rodin I looked for us
among the lovers. We were never that
fierce, a couple twinned in flight,
white marble bodies all delicate curve

back to back lying across air.  And yet.
How those arms reach over his head,
seize her shoulder,  her breast,
how she strains beyond his hands,

free and fleet as a bird. They were
once a world lost, abandoned flesh,
and in that searing rush, how could they
not fall apart? Look at mouths,

averted, bodies caught in space.
He is cast over her, facing the heavens,
She is facing earth. Stretched
on that rack, desire holds them

still, governs her tongue, consumes
him. Here, see how love fares
beyond death, tender as hell,
transports like doves’ wings.

(from Suntrap, 2007)

 
ITALIANO:

Fugit amor


Ho cercato di noi tra gli amanti
al Museé Rodin. Mai stati noi
così appassionati, una coppia congiunta in volo,
corpi bianchi di marmo lievi, sinuosi

schiena contro schiena stesi nell'aria. Eppure.
Come quelle braccia si protendono oltre la testa,
perfette per le spalle, il petto di lei,
come lei si tende oltre quelle mani,

libera e agile come un uccello. Erano allora
perduti al mondo carne abbandonata,
e in quella foga bruciante, come han potuto
non precipitare? Guarda le bocche,

separate, corpi rapiti nello spazio.
Lui fuso su lei, di fronte al cielo,
lei volta alla terra. Protèsi
nel tormento, il desiderio li possiede

ancora, comanda in lei la lingua, consuma
lui. Vedi, l'amore porta
oltre la morte, tenero come l'inferno,
alto come le ali di una tortora.

Traduzione di Isabella Panfido.


SUOMEKSI:

FUGIT AMOR


Rodin museossa etsin meitä rakastavaisten
joukosta. Emme olleet koskaan niin hurjia,
lennossa yhtynyt pari, valkoiset marmoriset
vartalot kaikkine hienostuneine kurveineen

selät vastakkain ilmassa maaten. Ja silti.
Miten nuo kädet ylettyvätkään hänen päänsä yli,
tarttuvat naisen olkapäihin, rintoihin,
miten nainen kurottaakaan hänen käsiensä taakse,

vapaana ja ketteränä kuin lintu. He olivat
joskus kadonnut maailma, hylätty liha,
ja tässä polttavassa syöksyssään, miten he
voisivatkaan välttää hajoamisen? Katso suita,

poiskääntyneitä, ilmaan vangittuja vartaloita.
Mies on muotti naisen yllä, kasvot taivasta kohden,
naisen kasvot maata kohden. venytettynä
tuohon kehikkoon, halu pitää heitä

paikallaan, hallitsee naisen kieltä, kuluttaa
miestä. Tässä, huomaa miten rakkaus selviää
kuoleman tuolla puolen, hellänä kuin helvetti,
kuljettaa heitä kyyhkysen siivillä.

Kääntänyt Esa Hirvonen.


V SLOVENŠČINI:

FUGIT AMOR

V Musée Rodin sem naju iskala
med zaljubljenci. Midva nisva bila nikoli tako
silovita, par, prepleten med letenjem,
telesi iz belega marmorja nežnih krivulj

s hrbtom drugo ob drugem, iztegnjeni v zrak.
In vendar. Kako jo z rokami prime čez glavo,
stisne za ramo, se dotakne prsi,
kako se ona usloči iz njegovega objema,

svobodna in hitra kot ptica. Nekoč sta bila
svet, izgubljen, opuščeno meso,
in v tisti usihajoči naglici, le kako naj se ne
bi razšla? Poglej usta,

odvrnjena proč, telesi, ujeti v prostoru.
On se steguje čez njo, obrnjen v nebesa.
Ona k zemlji. Stegnjena na
polici, poželenje ju vklenilo,

vlada njenemu jeziku, požira
njega. Glej, tukaj, ljubezen seže
onkraj smrti, nežna kot pekel,
nosi ju kot na krilih golobice.

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik. 


LOGAN

When the plane rose into the night
trailing from its great wing
Nantucket, the Cape, and farther in
a massive web of light,
the pilot prompted us to look left
and find the moon in eclipse,
charting our route north and east
along the coast of Maine.

I wondered where you were
and gazed through the porthole
at a star in darkness
and the earth a shadow penny
stuck motionless on the moon’s face,
and you down there unknown
to me and vanished in a constellation,
Boston at the edge of ocean.

(from The Blue Globe, 1998)

 

ITALIANO:

Logan

Quando l'aereo guadagnò la notte
seguendo dalla sua grande ala
Nantucket, il Capo, e oltre
in una enorme rete di luce,
il pilota ci suggerì di guardare
a sinistra l'eclissi di luna,
facendo rotta a nord est
lungo la costa del Maine.

Mi chiedevo dove eri
e guardavo attraverso l'oblò
una stella nel buio
e la terra, un centesimo d'ombra,
immota impassibile sulla faccia della luna,
e tu in un laggiù sconosciuto
e svanito in una costellazione,
Boston sul bordo dell'oceano.

Traduzione di Isabella Panfido.


V SLOVENŠČINI:

LOGAN

Ko je letalo poletelo v noč,
in sta pod krili počasi drsela
Nantucket, Cape Cod, in dalje
v ogromno pajčevino svetlobe,
nas je pilot, med našim poletom na severovzhod
opozoril, da naj si na levi pogledamo lunin mrk,
sledeč črti obale države Maine.

Spraševala sem se, kje si,
in skozi lino
gledala svetlo piko v temi
in za kovanec veliko senco zemlje
negibno spečo na obrazu lune,
in ti, tam spodaj, neznan,
pogreznjen v ozvezdje,
Boston na robu oceana

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik.


ACTS OF GOD

When thunder crashed on the roof
like heavy furniture

I felt the way blind
downstairs in the dark,

found everyone
round the kitchen table

counting seconds.
Lightning lit the tap,

cracked the floor like a whip,
made me jump out of my skin.

The unconcerned outline
of my father’s shoulders,

my mother somewhere
foraging for matches,

the pitch of my sisters‘
voices,  the baby upstairs

sleeping– small things
that hold us.

Then in the hush,
a downpour.

(from The Blue Globe, 1998)

 

V SLOVENŠČINI:

BOŽJA DEJANJA

Ko je udarilo v streho
kakor težak kos pohištva,

sem se v temi na slepo
pretipala po stopnicah,

in druge našla
okoli mize v kuhinji

preštevajoč sekunde.
Strela je ožgala pipo,

razklala tla kakor z bičem
in povzročila, da sem skočila iz kože.

Obris ramen
mojega očeta, ki se ni vznemirjal,

moja mati je nekje brskala
za vžigalicami,

vreščeči glasovi moje
sestre, zgoraj je spal

dojenček – majhne stvari
ki nas držijo pri sebi

Potem v tišini
naliv kot iz škafa

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik.


IRISH ELK

Giant antlers shine at night
diamond, sapphire, branch

in a neighbour’s garden, light
up the moonless dark

for children going to bed
as if the Irish elk,

extinct seven thousand years,
turned in his grave 

beneath the lake at Lough Gur
and bellowing rose

from the bog, trailing peat
from his hinds, to roam

the hills and woods of Ireland,
ghost at large, and twice

as tall as Man, come back to
haunt us, at this time:

snow general all over
the land, he drops his

sovereign head to nibble
tufts of frozen grass.

(from Shine On, Dedalus Press, 2011)

 

BROWN BREAD

From a worn silvery tin
I peel dough
to rub between my palm
into rats tails or worms,

while you knead and turn
on a base smooth as a rink
what sleeps between your fingers
pliant as a child’s limbs.

You sprinkle an oven plate,
dip the knife in water,
then slice across twice.
Dough sags in lifting hands,

the oven door closes.
I learnt to tell time
by that baking swell of heat,
forgotten at the last minute,

we rush for a cloth
and whose fault if it’s burnt
as you rap the crust?
In a waking city,

a child at my breast,
I look at the face of a clock,
for soda bread wrapped in linen,
and the window fogged up.

(from This Hour of the Tide, 1994)


V SLOVENŠČINI:

RJAV KRUH

Iz obrabljene kovinske posode
odlepim testo,
med dlanmi ga bom povaljala
v podganje repke in črve

ti ta čas pleteš in se
obrneš na tleh, zglajenih kot prstan,
to, kar spi med tvojimi prsti,
voljno kot otroške ročice.

Poškropiš notranjost pekača,
nož potopiš v vodo,
potem z njim zarežeš dvakrat počez.
Testo se povesi v vzdignjenih rokah,

vrata peči se zaprejo.
Naučila sem, da čas presodim
iz nabrekline v vročem pekaču,
v zadnjem hipu še stečeva po

pozabljeno krpo
in kdo je kriv, da je skorja
ožgana, ko potolčeš po njej?
V mestu, ki se prebuja,

otrok mi pije na prsih.
Pogledam na urno številčnico,
na s sodo posoljen kruh, zavit v blago,
in proti zarošenemu oknu.

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik.

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