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V SLOVENŠČINI:
Kritična masa
              za B. v Ljubljani, 28. 6. 2011, 08:30

Dolga noč brez spanca se kmalu nadaljuje
v nespeče jutro in ljudje, ki so ju prespali,
morajo vse začeti znova. Nekaj nas je tistih,
ki nas ženejo kava, smeh, obljube ljubezni in
besede, in mi samo nadaljujemo, povemo več,
naredimo več, v našem drugem jutru, to je
naš drugi danes. Nekateri se ne poljubljajo ponoči,
včasih je potrebna cela noč, da pridejo do sline
drugega. Debate o poeziji in glasbi so dolge,
nedokončane, pravzaprav ne vodijo nikamor,
zato so potrebni dogovori in popuščanja,
da se lahko ponovno vrnemo k pogovorom
o stvareh na naših kožah, v naših rokah.
Ampak glasba se hitro prikrade nazaj
povsem neslišno, z navidez nedosegljivimi ritmi,
dolgimi intervali med dogodki, v času budnosti.
Zdaj sediš ob cesti in poslušaš prihajanje
in odhajanje avtobusov v in iz jutra,
v in iz sinoči, zaljubiš se v površinsko kaotičnost
prometa, ampak pogled ti ostane na lastni koži,
na lastnih rokah in na stičišču med tlemi in
nogami. Samo enkrat ti pogled uide na avtobus,
ravno bo odpeljal, in v njem tihi obraz ženske,
popoln v svoji mimobežnosti, in blišč njene rdeče
majice. Dobro veš, da ne smeš ponovno pogledati,
ker avtobusa in ženske mogoče ne bo več tam,
njen obraz zagotovo ne bo več popoln,
njena majica pa morda že povsem druge barve.

ENGLISH:
Critical mass
          for B. in Ljubljana, 28th June 2011, 08:30

A long night without sleep soon continues
into a sleepless morning and people who have slept through both
have to begin all over again. There's few of us
driven by the coffee, laughter, promises of love and
words and we just continue, we tell more,
do more in our second morning, this is
our second today. Some don't kiss during the evening,
sometimes the whole night is needed to get to saliva
of others. Debates about poetry and music are long,
unfinished, actually they're not going anywhere,
that is why agreements and concessions are needed,
so we can return again to the conversations
about things on our skins, in our hands.
But music sneaks back soon and
completely silent, with seemingly unreachable rhythms,
long intervals between events, during the time of wake.
Now you're sitting next to the road and listen to the
arrivals and departures of buses in and out of the morning,
in and out of last night, you fall in love with the traffic that seems
chaotic on the surface but your gaze stays on your own skin,
on your own hands and on the intersection of ground and
feet. Just once your take a glimpse onto the bus,
it is about to drive away, and in it a silent face of a woman,
perfect while she's passing you by and the shine of her red
shirt. You know well you must not look again,
because the bus and the woman might not be there anymore,
her face will certainly not be perfect again
and her shirt could be of completely different color.

NIHONGO:
臨界質量
                         2011年6月28日、リュブリャナにて、Bのために

                                     ガシュペル・トルカル（訳　新井高子）

眠らない、長い夜の果てに、
寝ないまま朝が来た、よく寝た人たちは
始めなければならない、またすべてを。が、ここにはほとんどいない、
コーヒーや笑い、愛の約束、おしゃべりでエンジンをかける人は、
私たちはただ続けているだけ、さらに何か話し、
さらに何かやっている、寝ずに迎えた二回目の朝に、つまり、
私たちの今日は二回目なのだ。夜、キスをしない人がいる、
時にはキスの唾のため、すべての夜が必要
なのに。詩や音楽についての議論は長く、
終わらない、実際、どこにも行かない、
だから、同意したり譲歩したりが必要になる
そして、また戻ってくる、私たちは、また話すために、
身に付けたりや手に持ったりするものをつぎの話題にして。
が、音楽が、ほどなくこっそりやって来る、
なにも言わずにやって来る、手が届きそうにないリズム、
出来事の間の長いインターバル、起きている間ずっと。
いま、あなたは道路のすぐ脇に座って、聞いている、
バスが着いたり出たりする音を、今朝の内側と外側で、
昨晩の内側と外側で、あなたは恋する、車の往来に、それは
表面はカオスのようだが、あなたはじっと見つめている、自分の肌を、
手を、地面と足の接点を。
それから、ちょっとバスの方に目を向ける、
バスはどこかへ行こうとしている、そこに乗った押し黙った女の人
は完璧だ、赤いシャツを輝かせて、あなたのそばを通り過ぎる。
振りかえってはいけないことをよくわかっている、あなたは、
バスと女はもうそこにいないだろうし、
女の顔はもう完璧と見えないだろうし、
彼女のシャツもたぶんもう違う色をしているだろうから。

Nihongo-yaku: Takako Arai 

V SLOVENŠČINI:
Gledanje na vse to

Skozi oči starca, ki so povedale že vse, kar je želel,
na najboljši način, ki ga je zmogel, in mu zdaj
ostane samo še nekaj prikritega humorja,
vpetega v rezek glas, ujet v jezikovni sirup,
poln preteklika, poln Zgodbe. Ali skozi nore oči,
ki opazujejo stvari, ki se povsem naravno zgodijo
ponesreči; prosim, naj bo to moja dolžnost:
za vse, kar je še vedno tu, kar tako jasno je.
Jutranja melanholija nas bo očistila vsega,
razen prizorov na njivo kadečih dimnikov,
poslušanja padanja snega, opazovanja ljudi
na zabavah, kako se zapletajo v situacije,
in, seveda, včasih se med njimi zapleteš tudi ti,
odkrivaš tuja gola telesa z grenkim priokusom uvoženega,
ali še raje: spet si se zapletel v pogovor, kajne?
– in ni ga bilo konec; kaj naj rečem?
Usojeni smo si bili vsi po vrsti; zdelo se je,
da smo v bitki, ki nam bo pokazala Neznano,
da če pridemo čez to, bomo spet umrljivi,
ne samo pomirjeni, ampak polni nekoristnega
znanja o vsem, kar se nas je nevidno dotaknilo:
poslušanje glasov čez steno, stiskanje na mrzli
avtobusni postaji in zapuščanje stanovanja,
polnega spečih teles, teles v vodi, ki nas je odnašala
po ulicah in naplavila na obalo domače postelje,
polne vonja naših strahov in naših strasti;
sladkornih kristalčkov, ki nas bodejo pod kožo,
raztopljenega sonca pod jezikom ponoči.
Pošljem ti razglednico, od koder smo vsi zase zbrani,
na površini veliki kakor mesto, v refrenu iste neskončne pesmi.
Škoda, da nisi tu z mano, vreme je konstantno
lepo ali vsaj strašno, ampak na nas dela blažilno,
ker vemo, da ima vedno prav. Jaz pa sem
spet poln nekega čustva, morda spet žalosti
ali pa se spet sramujem nekega novega upanja.
Naključja nam res uspevajo in pripravljen sem
jih še kdaj ponoviti, se še kdaj vrniti;
se še kdaj sleči, pozabiti jesti, se poslušati
izgovarjati svojo sedanjost v sanjavem pretekliku.
Šepetanje nekoga, ki se je pravkar zbudil ob tebi.
Spet bom začel kakšno vojno, sklenil kakšno premirje.

ENGLISH:
Looking at all of this

Through the eyes of an old man, which already told everything
he wanted, the best way he could and all that remains
to him is some hidden humor,
sewn into harsh voice, trapped in the syrup of language,
full of past tense, full of Story. Or through the crazy eyes,
observing things that happen completely naturally
by mistake; please, let this be my duty:
for everything that is still here, which so clearly is.
The morning melancholy will clean us of everything,
except the scenes on the fields of smoking chimneys,
listening to the falling of the snow, looking at the people
at the parties, how they get themselves into situations
and, of course, sometimes you get yourself among them and
discover foreign nude bodies with a bitter aftertaste of import,
or even better: you found yourself in a conversation again, didn't you?
- and there was no end to it; what can I say?
We were all destined to each other; it seemed
that we were in a battle which will show us the Unknown,
that if we get through this, we'll be mortal again,
not just calmed down, but full of useless
knowledge about everything that touched us invisibly:
listening to the voices through the wall, snuggling on the cold
bus stop and leaving the apartment, full of sleeping bodies,
bodies in water which carried us through the streets
and shipwrecked us on the coast of bed at home,
full of scents of our fears and our passions;
sugar crystals which sting us under our skin,
sun dissolved under our tongue at night.
I'll send you a postcard from where we're all gathered,
on the surface as big as the city, in chorus of the same infinite song.
It's a shame you're not here with me, the weather is constantly
beautiful or at least scary, but it feels soothing to us,
because we know it's always right. But me, I'm
full of some kind of emotion, maybe sadness again
or I'm ashamed again of some kind of a new hope.
The coincidences are really working for us and I'm ready
to repeat them some time, to return some day;
to take my clothes off again, to forget to eat, to listen to myself
articulating my present in a dreamy past tense.
Whispering of someone who just woke up next to you.
I'll start some kind of war again, make some kind of truce.

OG NORSK SPRÅK:
Når jeg ser på alt dette

Gjennom øynene til en gammel mann, som allerede har fortalt
alt han ville, så godt han maktet, og alt som gjenstår
er bare skjult humor fra en røff stemme,
innvevd i språkets sirup, fylt med fortidsformer, fylt med fortelling.

Eller gjennom øyne som ser ting skje totalt
naturlig tilfeldig; vær så snill, la dette være min plikt:
overfor alt det som fortsatt er her, noe det helt åpenbart er.

Denne morgenmelankolien vil rense oss fra alt,
bortsett fra synet av takflater med rykende skorsteiner,
lytter til dalende snøflak, ser folk
på en fest, hvordan de roter seg opp i ting,
og selvsagt, noen ganger blir jeg hektet opp i dem også og
utforsker fremmede nakne kropper med en bitter ettersmak av import,
eller enda bedre: du befant deg i en samtale igjen, gjorde du ikke?
-og det var ingen ende på den; hva kan jeg si?

Vi var alle skjebnebestemt for hverandre, tilsynelatende var vi i en krig
som vil vise oss det ukjente,
som hvis vi vant ville gjøre oss dødelig igjen,
ikke bare avslappet, men full av ubrukelig
kunnskap om alt usynlig som rørte ved oss;

lyttet til stemmene gjennom veggen, klinte på
iskalde busstopp og forlot en leilighet fylt med sovende kropper,
kropper som fløt nedover gatene
og gjorde oss skipbrudne langs sengens kyster,
fylt med fryktens og kåtskapens dufter;

sukkerkrystaller som stikker under huden,
solen som smelter under tungene våre om kvelden.

Jeg kommer til å sende deg et postkort, fra her vi alle er samlet,
på en overflate like stor som byen selv, i refrenget til den samme evige låten.
Det er synd du ikke er her, været er bestandig
strålende eller i det minste litt skremmende, men det det føles beroligende for oss,
for vi vet det alltid er som det skal. Men sjøl er jeg
fylt med en slags følelse igjen, kanskje tristhet
eller kanskje skam over et slags nytt håp.

Tilfeldighetene klaffer for oss og jeg er klar for å
gjenta dem en gang, vende tilbake en gang;
kle av meg igjen, glemme å spise, lytte til meg sjøl
uttale nåtiden min i en drømaktig fortidsform.

Jeg skal starte en slags krig igjen, inngå en slags våpnhvile.

Oversatt av Henning H. Bergsvåg

V SLOVENŠČINI:
Romanje v Marseille

Marseille, avgust 2011. Terenske vaje
za poezijo. Pariz sem po treh dneh
zapustil tam, kjer sem ga našel - v dežju.
Takoj zunaj železniške postaje nad mestom,
so mi ponudili travo, ki jo je nekdo povlekel iz hlač.
Tukaj se beli kamen blešči v soncu
in ljudje dihajo globoko v tvoj slan zrak,
Marseille. Prepozno je, da bi ti priznal,
da na tem svetu ničesar ne verjamem,
ampak te dni se zdi, da se vse uresničuje.
Zmankuje mi denarja, ampak ne bom klical
očeta in ga prosil za dodatne dneve,
tako kot je Carverjev sin pisal iz Italije,
da se bo ubil, če mu ne plača računov.
Vse to bo postalo resnično šele v spominu,
ki je enako oddaljen kot konec potovanja.
Našel sem si posteljo, jutri me že vržejo ven,
nikoli ne rezerviram, sploh pa nisem nameraval
priti sem, kjer ob pristanišču opazujem množice
in iščem ljudi, kjer so vsi tako lepi. Zanos,
ki ga je prebudilo potovanje, mi sili oznako:
angeli. Z dvema sem se pogovarjal na cesti
in kazala sta mi smer, kjer sem srečal
mladega preroka in pripovedoval mi je,
da joka, ko moli in jaz sem mu povedal,
da jokam, ko pišem pesmi. Ni vedel,
da je bolj prerok, kot angel, da je lahko
že jutri umrljiv. Moral sem ga pustiti
ob morju in se kot v tihi, osamljeni molitvi
posvetiti ulicam. Šele kasneje, ko se je začelo daniti,
so mi v kopalnici začela rasti krila iste barve kot lasje.
Vsi popotniki smo po prvem dnevu začenjali šibko žareti
in postali prijazni in si strmeli v svoje oči tako dolgo,
dokler nismo videli nekoga drugega. Zjutraj sem
vrnil ključe zagrenjenemu Francozu, nebesa utrudijo ljudi,
in svoje podplate ulicam. Zrak je bil lahek in svež,
ljudjem se ni mudilo. Zadovoljen sem bil,
eno delo je bilo uspešno opravljeno
in otvorila so se nova obnovitvena dela sveta.
Bog je bil tudi tam: izgineval je za vsakim vogalom,
ampak moral sem oditi domov in ga pustiti,
da se sprehaja gor in dol po mestu. Vse
te besede sem pisal večer pred odhodom,
s prijateljico sem se pogovarjal preko interneta
in ji povedal, da me to mesto trga, ampak da moram
že zjutraj oditi. Nocoj, mirna noč v Ljubljani, končujem
to pesem iz zapiskov. V neko pismo sem napisal:
Zdaj sem v hostlu v Marseillu, čudovito mesto,
nekaj nenavadnega je na njem. Naše besede so
evfemizem za tisto, kar dejansko čutimo.

    Marseille - Ljubljana, avgust 2011 - junij 2012

ENGLISH:
Pilgrimage to Marseille

Marseille, August 2011. Poetry field
exercise. After three days, I left
Paris where I found it - in rain.
Right outside the railroad station above the city,
I was offered weed that some guy pulled out of his pants.
The white stone here is gleaming in the sun
and people are breathing deep in your salty air,
Marseille. It's too late to confess to you,
that in this world I don't believe a thing,
but I think that in these days everything is becoming true.
I'm running out of money, but I'm not going to call
my father and ask him for extra days,
like when Carver's son was writing from Italy,
that he's going to kill himself, if he doesn't pay his bills.
All of this will become real only after being in a memory,
which is equally distant as the end of the journey.
I've found myself a bed, they are throwing me out tomorrow already,
I never make reservations, I didn't even plan
to come here, where I'm looking at the crowds in the harbor,
looking for people. Everyone is so beautiful here. The ecstasy,
which was awakened by the travel, is forcing me the label:
angels. I talked to two of them on the street
and they were showing me the way, where I've met
a young prophet who told me
that he's crying when he prays and I told him,
that I'm crying, when I'm writing poems. He didn't know,
that he's more of a prophet, than an angel,
that he could be mortal tomorrow already. I had to leave him
at the sea and be attentive of the streets
as if in a quiet, lonely prayer. Only after it started to dawn,
in the bathroom, I'd started to grow wings, same color as hair.
All the travelers have started to glow weakly after our first day
and became kinder and we stared in our own eyes for so long
until we saw someone else. In the morning I returned
the keys to a bitter French-man, heavens tire people,
and my soles to the streets. The air was light and fresh,
people were not in a hurry. I was satisfied,
a job has been successfully carried out
and new renewal works of the world had opened.
God was there too: he was disappearing behind each corner,
but I had to go home and leave him walk up and down the city.
I was writing these words in the evening before I left,
I was chatting with a friend over the internet
and told her that this city is tearing me,
but that I have to leave tomorrow already.
Tonight, quiet night in Ljubljana, I'm finishing
this poem out of notes. In some letter I wrote:
Right now I'm in a hostel in Marseille, amazing city,
there's something strange about it. Our words
are euphemism for what we actually feel.

    Marseille - Ljubljana, August 2011 - June 2012

The 10th Golden Boat Poetry Translation Workshop 2012

Bogdan Macarol: Kosovel postaja svetovni pesnik (Primorske novice, 1. 9. 2012)

The 10th International Golden Boat Translation Workshop 2012

This year's traditional The 10th Golden Boat International Poetry Translation Workshop 2012 will be held from 26th August to 2nd September at Škocjan in the Karst and Ljubljana. This year's guests come from 10 countries: Darija Žilić (Croatia), Will Root (USA), Emilio Coco (Italy), Takako Arai (Japan), Paddy Bushe (Ireland), Martin Warmuz (Poland), Tatjana Jamnik, Gašper Torkar, Gašper Malej, Dejan Koban, Lenka and Matej Kranjc (all Slovenia), Jan Gavura, Miroslava Gavurová (Slovakia), and Henning H. Bergsvig (Norway).
The workshop will be led by Iztok Osojnik. Like every year, in addition to mutual translation, the workshop shall be dedicated to the conservation of live contacts in the Western European, Central European and Slavic triangle, linking small and large European and world literatures in the East and West, co-organizing festivals, symposia, meetings, workshops, dissemination of a modern literary hub in Škocjan and international recognition of poetry in the originals and translations in Slovenia and abroad. Following the successful implementation of Kosovel in the UK and the USA this year, followed by a new monograph of Kosovel in Polish language (KUD Police Dubová and Instytut Mikołowski) and international recognition of Slovenian new wave classics (Gregor Strniša, Jure Detela). Participants of the Golden Boat shall present their work at two literary readings: 30th August, 20:00, in Škocjan in the Karst and 31th August, 19:00 in Trubar's House of Literature in Ljubljana, and on website www.ia-zlaticoln.org. All programs are public. No entrance fee.

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, Monitor ZSA, KUD France Prešeren, Regional Community Alps-Adriatic and journals / publishing houses Društvo Apokalipsa and Monitor.

The workshop is supported by Slovenian Book Agency, Krka, d. d., Škocjan Caves Park, Meiji University (Japan), FILI (Finland), Pri Vncku Inn,  Pulse / Cuisle Festival Limerick (Ireland), SKD Sežana, Trubar House of Literature, Okarina, d. o. o., Triglav-Rysy Association (Poland), Sampark Publishing House (New Delhi-London).

PROGRAMME

Sunday, 26th August - arrivals
19:00 – Welcome dinner

Monday, 27th August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
19:00 – Dinner

Tuesday, 28th August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
14:30 – Excursion (Škocjan Caves)
19:00 – Dinner

Wednesday, 29th  August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Walking excursion
19:00 – Dinner

Thursday, 30th August
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
18:30 – Dinner
20:00 – The Golden Boat reading Škocjan

Friday, 31st August
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, 1st September
9:30 – Session on translating poetry
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Excursion to Tomaj
20:00 – Farewell Dinner

Sunday, 2th September
Departure after breakfast