EN / SLO

Warning: Use of undefined constant Ymd - assumed 'Ymd' (this will throw an Error in a future version of PHP) in /home/festiwal/domains/www.ia-zlaticoln.org/cv.php on line 42

Knute Skinner

Ireland, 1929

Knute Skinner is retired from his position as a professor of English at Western Washington University and living year round in Ireland, where he has had a home since 1964.  His most recent collection, Fifty Years: Poems 1957-2007, from Salmon Poetry (2007), contains new work collected along with work taken from 13 previous books.   His collection The Other Shoe won the 2004-2005 Pavement Saw Chapbook Award.  A memoir, Help Me to a Getaway, was published by Salmon in March 2010.  www.knuteskinner.com

A poem about Škocjan Caves

In the Škocjan Caves
by Knute Skinner

A drop of water.
On what was my nose.
In time I’ll be a stalagmite.

Voices above me–
faint, loud, faint–
move up and down
slippery footpaths.

Some whisper.  Some joke.  Some laugh.
As I did.
Some grip the iron railings.
As I did not.

The tour guide will shut off the lights.
I’ll be left with the flowing Reka
and the small, blind movements
of salamanders.

The day that voices fail
to come back again,
I’ll forget to remember myself.

By that time–it may be–
I will cease to care.

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

The Window Seat

I found Edna stretched out there,
absorbing the sun.

“You look just like a cat,” I announced
and put down my armload of books.
“Do you also purr?”

“I purr when I feel like purring,” she said,
and then she produced a deliberate,
slow, mouth-open yawn.

“That’s how we yawn,” she told me,
after turning her face to the window.
“Fetch me some mice,” she added,
“and maybe I’ll purr.”

“Will you purr if I pet you?” I asked,
leaning over the window seat
and touching her hair.

“Cats have to be in the mood.
Now go back to shelving your books
while I scratch my fleas.”


PO POLSKU:

Ława w wykuszu

Znalazłem tam rozciągniętą Ednę
pochłaniającą słońce.

„Wyglądasz jak kot,” oświadczyłem
i wypakowałem naręcze książek.
„Potrafisz też mruczeć?”

„Potrafię, gdy mam na to ochotę”, powiedziała,
po czym z jej ust wydobyło się powolne
szerokie i zdecydowane ziewnięcie.

„Tak właśnie ziewamy,” powiedziała
odwracając twarz do okna.
„Złap mi kilka myszek,” dodała,
„to może zamruczę.”

„Zamruczysz, gdy cię pogłaszczę?” zapytałem,
pochylając się nad ławą w wykuszu
i dotykając jej włosów.

„Koty muszą być w nastroju.
Wróć do układania książek,
ja tymczasem poiskam sobie pchły.”

Tłumaczenie: Agnieszka Będkowska-Kopczyk


V SLOVENŠČINI:

Sedež ob oknu

Našel sem Edno zleknjeno tam,
vpijati sonce.

»Zgledaš kot mačka,« sem naznanil
in odložil naročja polno knjig.
»A tudi predeš?«

»Predem, ko se mi prede,« je dejala
in potem je odprtih ust namerno
ustvarila počasen zehljaj.

»Tako zehamo,« mi je povedala,
potem ko se je z obrazom obrnila k oknu.
»Prinesi mi nekaj miši,« je dodala
»in mogoče bom zapredla.«

»Boš predla, če te bom pocartal?« sem vprašal,
ko sem se sklanjal k sedežu ob oknu
in božal njene lase.

»Mačke morajo biti razpoložene.
Pojdi zdaj nazaj k zlaganju svojih knjig,
medtem ko jaz obiram svoje bolhe.«

Prevedla Hana Kovač


The Cold Irish Earth

I shudder thinking
of the cold Irish earth.
The firelighter flares
in the kitchen range,
but a cold rain falls
all around Liscannor.
It scours the Hag’s face
on the Cliffs of Moher.
It runs through the bog
and seeps up into mounds
of abandoned turf.
My neighbour’s fields are chopped
by the feet of cattle
sinking down to the roots
of winter grass.
That coat hangs drying now
by the kitchen range,
but down at Healy’s cross
the Killaspuglonane graveyard
is wet to the bone.


PO POLSKU:

Zimna ziemia irlandzka

Wzdragam się na myśl
o zimnej ziemi irlandzkiej.
Podpałka migocze
w piecu kuchennym,
ale zimny deszcz zalewa
całe Liscannor.
Czyści twarz Haga
na Moherowych Klifach.
Biegnie przez bagna
i sączy się do kopców
porzuconych darni.
Pola sąsiadów poszatkowane
przez kopyta bydła  
tonącego w korzeniach
zimowej trawy.
Tamten płaszcz suszy się teraz,
wisząc przy piecu kuchennym,
a tam w Killaspuglonane cmentarz
przy krzyżu Healy’ego
przemoczony do suchej nitki.

Tłumaczenie: Agnieszka Będkowska-Kopczyk


V SLOVENŠČINI:

Mrzla irska zemlja

Drhtim v misli na mrzlo
irsko zemljo. V kuhinjski
peči plamti netivo, a po
celem Liscannorju pada
hladen dež. Na klifih
Moherja izmije obraz
skale Hag's head.
Pretaka se skozi barje,
pronicajoč navzgor v
zapuščene šotne gomile.
Polja mojega soseda so
razorana od kravjih kopit,
ki se pogrezajo vse do
korenin zimske trave.
Obešen ob kuhinjski peči
se tisti plašč zdaj že suši,
toda spodaj pri križu
Healyjevih je Killaspuglonansko
pokopališče premočeno do kosti.

Prevedla Radharani Pernarčič

 
Our Crab Apple Tree

For thirty-six years it stood there, a familiar presence,
at the front wall, just to the side of our gate.
It never enriched us with edible fruit,
but sticks from its cast-off limbs started many a fire.
Seen from the roadway, its topmost branches leaned
toward the opposite side to visit with our neighbour’s thorn tree.
They were serious women, heads together, on a village footpath.

Now that the tree is gone, I record these things,
but it’s pertinent, too, to recall how it limited our light
and how, over the years, its growth slowly but surely
dislodged stone after stone from the wall,
leaving a sprawl each time to be reassembled.

It took John Murphy no more than a few hours
to cut the tree down and shape it into useful pieces.
It will take us no more than a few months
to burn the small logs in our Stanley range.
But from now on there will be more light in the house,
and we’ll have a new view of Michael Healy’s meadow
with its wavelike rise to the high skyline.

 
PO POLSKU:

Nasza dzika jabłoń

Stała tam przez trzydzieści sześć lat, znajomo obecna,
przy ścianie frontowej, zaraz przy boku naszej bramy.
Nigdy nie wzbogaciła nas jadalnym owocem,
ale patyki odłupane z jej gałęzi rozpaliły niejeden ogień.
Jej najwyższe gałęzie od strony drogi pochylały się
w przeciwną stronę, odwiedzając głóg sąsiadów.
Stykały się głowami, niczym starsze kobiety na wiejskiej dróżce.

Teraz gdy tego drzewa już nie ma, zapisuję to wszystko,
ale nie mogę też nie wspomnieć, że ograniczała nasze światło
i że, z biegiem lat, rosnąc powoli lecz kategorycznie,
usuwała z muru kamień za kamieniem,
pozostawiając dziury, które trzeba było załatać.

Niecałe pół godziny zajęło Johnowi Murphy’emu
ścięcie jabłoni i zrobienie z niej użytecznych polan.
Nie więcej niż kilka miesięcy zajmie nam
spalenie tych kawałków w naszym piecu Stanleya.
Ale od tej pory w domu zagości więcej słońca
a my będziemy po nowemu oglądać łąkę Michaela Healy’ego
i jej pofalowane wzniesienie sięgające linii nieba.  

Tłumaczenie: Agnieszka Będkowska-Kopczyk


Lover

How he loves going there.
The frisky lights, the brisk pavements,
the sharp colours, the bold gestures,
the expressions that inordinately offer
the heady taste of distraction.

    *
How he loves going there.
The soft, irregular lines of surpassing meadows,
the casual release of attending stars,
the small talk of men and women
rooted in a sequence of seasons.

    *
How he loves going there.
The key fitting the lock, the turn of the handle,
the door opening to a face
framed by a well-ordered room
with sight lines that lead to a pledged passage.


PO POLSKU:

Kochanek

Jakże uwielbia tam chodzić.
Figlarne światła, ruchliwe chodniki,
ostre kolory, odważne gesty,
wyrażenia oferujące w nieposkromiony sposób
upojny smak zatracenia.

*

Jakże uwielbia tam chodzić.
Miękkie, nieregularne linie bezkresnych łąk,
przygodne uwolnienie się spod opiekuńczych gwiazd,
pogawędki kobiet i mężczyzn
inspirowane zmianami pór roku.

*

Jakże uwielbia tam chodzić.
Klucz pasuje do zamka, przekręca się gałka,
drzwi otwierają się do twarzy
wprawionej w ramy uporządkowanego pokoju
ze wzrokiem prowadzącym do przyrzeczonego przejścia.

Tłumaczenie: Agnieszka Będkowska-Kopczyk

 
A Question for God

    At the end of his life, Job got his cattle back and became a
    Happy Man, but all Jesus got was the Resurrection.
–from a student response to a test question

What were they like, Job’s cattle?
Were they dry stock? milkers?
Did he scrutinise them with contented, proprietary interest
while complacently caressing spots
where the boils had been?
Did his comforters eye with envy
a Happy Man?
a man blessed with such cattle?

God only knows, I suppose,
so go ask God.
All He got was the Resurrection, of course,
but He’s up there in Heaven with Himself
where He/They remember Job’s cattle
and remember his boils
and remember those faithful who witnessed the Resurrection
believing, perhaps, in their limited vision,
it was quite enough.
 

On the Infinite

                                  But as I sit
And look, within my thoughts I conjure up
Unending space the other side of it . . . .
–Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837), “The Infinite”

Your lonely hill was dear to you, as was
    The hedge which masked your view of the horizon.
    I read your words here in my home in Clare
    And look out on a hill that is dear to me,
    A gradual rise of meadow, rich with grass,
    Divided part way up by an old stone wall,
    Half fallen here and there, beset with briars.
    A solitary boulder, left behind
    When the field was cleared for grazing, interrupts,
    Whitely, the green that rises toward the sky;
    And at the top green shrubs show in their shapes
    The tireless action of the Atlantic wind.
    And as I sit, viewing this scene, I know
    That I occupy the other side of your hill
    And the other side of time, such as it is.


ITALIANO:

Sull'Infinito

      Ma sedendo e mirando interminati
      spazi di là da quella...
      (Giacomo Leopardi)

Ti erano cari quel colle, la siepe
che al tuo sguardo negava l'orizzonte.
Ti leggo qui, nella mia casa a Clare,
guardando fuori questo colle caro,                       
dolce ascesa di zolle grasse d'erba
lassù divisa da un muretto instabile,
morso dai rovi, crollato qua e là.
Sul prato ripulito per il pascolo
un masso solitario è una pausa
bianca in quel verde che sale su al cielo
e i verdi arbusti in cima son piegati
dall'incessante vento dell'Atlantico.
E mentre siedo e ho questo dentro agli occhi
so che sto all'altro capo del tuo colle,
l'altro capo del tempo, o quel che è.

Traduzioni di Roberto Nassi


Visit Knute's website at www.knuteskinner.com.

Literary association IA

The 8th Golden Boat Poetry Translation Workshop 2010

The 8th Golden Boat International Poetry Translation Workshop

"SAVE LEAD-POISONED CHILDREN OF KOSOVO"
You can sign the petition here

A FILM BY BOJAN BRECELJ: Golden Boat 2010 from Bojan Brecelj on Vimeo.

ABOUT WORKSHOP - MEDIA on internet

Dnevnik, 18. 9. 2010

Primorske novice, 16. 9. 2010

Večer, 27. 9. 2010

La poesia e lo spirito, 28. 9. 2010

Tvar, 21. 10. 2010

Portal české literatury, 8. 11. 2010

Czech literature portal, 1. 12. 2010

 

PROGRAMME

Sunday, 12th September
19:00 – Welcome dinner

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

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

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

Thursday, 16th September
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
18:30 – Dinner
20:00 – The Golden Boat Reading in Škocjan

Friday, 17th September
9:30 – Working session
12:30 – Lunch
14:00 – Departure for Ljubljana
19:00 – The Golden Boat Reading at the Ivan Cankar Cultural Center in Ljubljana

Saturday, 18th September
9:30 – Session on translating poetry
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Excursion to Tomaj
20:00 – Dinner

Sunday, 19th September
Departure after breakfast

Zlati Čoln 2010