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severnica

arbeloa je fuzbaler. več kot milijarda ljudi na planetu
ljubi nogomet bolj kot svojo ženo. razmišljati o spodnjem perilu
nogometaša arbeloe pomeni v refleksijo o slovenski poeziji uvesti izseljensko fantazmo
sedemdeset let starega pesnika, ki ga slavijo njegov pes, njegov prilizovalec in njegov suženj.
v obratnem vrstnem redu. v tem smislu obstaja določen dvom glede
njegove žene. vesna mikulič je mokra, v sobi je vroče, velika
množica zombijev se je zbrala na svečanemu čvekanju.
imamo torej tri osebke: arbeloo, pesnika zombijev
in »kdo to piše?«, nezavedni glas iz brezimne množice
gosi, ki zganjajo tak trušč, da človeku odgrizne jezik. brez družbenih sprememb
ni možno odstraniti stopnic v mavzoleju. morda bi bilo utegnilo biti primerno kakšno reč
naskočiti direktno, tako kakor dejan zavec, ki ti trešči en aperkat na tisti del zgornjega
dela telesa, ki sliši na ime čeljust. je tak poknilo, da je vse
regrate odpihnilo. tako smo dobili program za največjo evropsko
kulturno prestolnico leta na svetu. nato si ogledujem svoje spolovilo, kar je poželo
precej negodovanja. tu gre za vprašanje ciljne publike, kavni mlinček ropota,
ker v njem kuham zbrane spise: g. pollock, m. shapiro, j. gardiner,
c. abado, e.g. hadjinicolau, l.vogel, c. grant in e.m. thomspon, ki je energično koregirala
priimek in ime iz rozi brajdoti, avtorice iz prejšnje pesmi v rosi braidotti, kar se
tudi avtorju te pesmi (in tudi avtorju one prejšnje) zdi jako na mestu,
kajti red mora biti. na misel mi pride dogodek, ki ga kanim opisati
v nadaljevanju, očitno izvajajoč to na
način norca, ki kritično smeši
akademsko vlogo g. sete knopf, proti njeni volji opravičeno označene za cenzorico,
ne pa z ne urednico prispevkov za nek, sicer nepomemben simpozij in še manj pomemben
zbornik, h kateremu sem bil povabljen kot nekdo, ki naj bi prispeval
znanstveno razpravo in se ga udeležil. kaj je
zdaj s tem spolovilom, sem pomislil. razmišljal sem o robni situaciji, ki naj bi sama po
sebi pokazala na etično jedro prispevka (s tem mislim na to pesem
ne na iz v zborniku objavljenih
materialov izločenega prispevka, kar zna biti pretirano ponavljanje že povedanega).
cela zadeva mi je izvabila nasmešek na obraz, ker
je ves trud cenzuriranja nesmiseln, še več, jalov,
saj je moj prispevek že napisan in razmnožen, da ga ni več mogoče ustaviti.
tu javno priznam, da se zavedam, da se kot pesnik
ne morem primerjati z ostrino in natančnostjo verzov taje kramberger.
če kje upravičeno citiram eliota, je to tukaj: il miglior fabro, ali
boljši od sebe. nemir v udih se ne odraža v ognjevitosti strasti
v mojih žilah, ali kjerkoli že plamti ta gorečnost v telesu. še kakšno uro,
pa bom peljal avtomobil na servis, da mi zamenjajo pnevmatike. tudi ta beseda
človeka spomni na t. s. eliota, kako in zakaj, pa bom prepustil
bralčevi bistrini in znanju. kljub iskrivosti duha, sem upravičeno prepričan,
da mi preboj ni uspel. morda v tem lahko vidimo simptom
dispozitiva časa, v katerem me avto pelje na servis.

2
za razliko od nekaterih, nisem nikoli bil kulturni ataše v new yorku
to mi ni preprečilo, da ne bi sodeloval na white light festivalu v lincolnovem centru
dva dni sem nosil svojo zamisel v glavi kakor posodo za premog
preden sem jo inplantiral v klone v dveh severnjaških mestih
v prvem, sva nastopila z londonskim simfoničnim orkestrom kot del programa
z nazivom imenuj me zeleno. moji škornji so nenavadno odmevali po podiju iz
pralnih strojev, ki so se vsi besno vrteli, ne da bi bilo slišati kaj več kakor
šum čebeljih kril. v ritmu vrtečih centrifug je bil najin vibrato strun
podoben plesu srečno zaljubljenega pijanca, ki je ravnokar odkril, da ga
ženska vara z dvojnim doktorjem znanosti in transakcijske psihoanalize. segel je po
svoji tablici za branje in nanjo napisal: tvoja slava bo moj spomin, ali je to podobno
nečemu, kar je pred njim napisal že prešeren. nisem povsem prepričan.
opazujem lasersko mušico, ki lušči mojo krastavo dušo.
vprašal sem gidona kremerja, kaj misli
o tem, pa je samo odmahnil z roko, rekoč, to se ni zgodilo ne prvič ne zadnjič,
ne da bi pojasnil, kaj s tem misli. ko smo vsi skupaj pozneje
z giedre dirvanauskaite in andriusem zlabysom
čudovito izvedli bachovo chaconne, zaradi česar je publika kar pobesnela,
se je ideja, da bi v festivalski program ob boku misse solemnis
uvrstili tudi tretjo londonsko izvedbo brittnovega vojnega rekviema
izkazala za nadvse umestno, kajti ni dobrega koncerta brez marka e. smitha,
to pa je bil drugi del koncerta pod nazivom imenuj njo zeleno, kakor rečeno.
ni pomagalo dosti, kajti s spreminjanjem psihičnih stanj ni mogoče
vplivati na mrežo krokodiljih solz ob sončnem zahodu. bom že
prebolela, je rekla, ko sem opazoval dim iz njene cigarete, moja misel
pa je širila svoj prazni trebuh kakor pri zagovoru doktorata.
kava se je ohladila, premišljeval sem, ali
je bila to za lincolnov center primerna pesem, samoglasniki so se odbijali
od marmornatih stebrov in se zaletavali v soglasnike ter v ciklotronu
računalnika tvorili povsem nove molekularne strukture, še posebej,
ko sem komajda še odskočil
izpred tramvaja. zvok je vsaj toliko, kolikor je proizvod igranja na instrument,
tudi produkt materiala, iz katerega je narejen instrument, sem pripomnil.
sicer ne vem več, kaj sem hotel povedati s to puhlico,
imelo me je celo, da bi zaklical muzam, naj me rešijo
pred utapljajočo zimo, a mi je gidon z očmi nakazal, da smo spet skupaj,
misel sem prepustil prstu laserskega iskalca
in skomignil z rameni. težko je na svojih plečih nositi usodo naroda,
sploh če ni do tega ne njemu ne tebi.
stupico je to večkrat pognalo v ono kliniko na polju,
a jaz se iz tega ne mislim norčevati, to je vendar jasno.
mislim pa, da mi spet ni uspelo zagnati estetskega agregata,
naj se je gidon še tako trudil, les v mojih možganih
je molčal kot top
pika

Bratislava, 11. 11. 2011

Tu prav tu bi se vas morala okleniti pesem, ki sem jo včeraj
Napisal pred odhodom iz Brna. Bilo je sončno jutro, spomini sveži, govorica
Živa in okretna, kakor se spodobi za klasika. Nekaj je izgubljeno in človek
Se s težavo sprijazni s tem. Določen kontinuum je prekinjen, v sledu
Umetniške realizacije sveta zija velika luknja, kakor je rekel Kajfa,
in žalost je njen poodmev. Je pravilno
Tej luknji žalosti reči žalost. Od daleč so stvari precej jasnejše, kar je
Začetni pogoj za obračun z še vedno živo preteklostjo. Pristrigel sem si predolg
Noht in pogledal skozi okno. Daleč spodaj je ropatal tramvaj, šum oddaljenega prometa
Je ozvočil veliko tišino v sobi. Danes se vračamo v ljubljano, nekaj, kar ima
Določeno draž. Kilometri mrmrajočega izginjanja ceste pod nosom kombija, levo in
Desno gore, tu pa tam kakšen grad. Potrkavam po trianglu svoje včerajšnje izjave,
Da nikoli nimam težav z navdihom, ker me navdahne vsaka še tako majhna malenkost. A
Sem takoj pristavil, da mora biti ob tem človek presneto previden, da ne bi
Bil ohol, ker bo takoj kaznovan z odvzemom navdiha. Sem se zdaj
Znašel na tej točki? Naj spet pokličem ščurka z drobnimi nožicami,
Ki migljajo v zrak? Hej slovaške muze, prikličite v fanta slapove izostrenih
Misli in sikajoče glasbe. No, tole se ne bo izteklo, ponavljati pesem, ki jo je
Določen postopek nepreklicno izbrisal, je precej nesmiselno početje, ki ne bo
Obrodilo sadu. Poskušam ugotoviti. Z vseh strani me obletavajo muhe in klici
Ki vdirajo v ustvarjalni postopek. Kaj se je pravzaprav zgodilo? Popravljal sem napisano
Pesem, ura je veselo tiktakala svoj čas, tomi je spodaj v restavraciji
Počel stvari, ki so povezane z zajtrkom, pitjem kave in zvijanjem prve jutranje cigarete,
Takoj za tem vtaknjene med ustnice in prižgane. Pesnik v meni je bil zadovoljen z napisano
Pesmijo, tu pa tam sem popravil besedo ali zamenjal besedni red in prišel skoraj do konca, do
Zadnje besede, ki se je ne spominjam več. Konec, povsem značilen zame, jako domiseln
In po stari navadi spretno izpeljan obrat obrata, kakor pesem scela in nasploh. Nenadna zatemnitev zaslona, ekspresno hitro zapiranje oken in še preden bi lahko posegel vmes, izklop
Računalnika, ki se je samodejno recitiral zaradi kaj vem katerega pomembnega programa
Oken, kaj vem kdaj samega od sebe naloženega s spleta. Moje neznanje, kako obuditi
Neshranjen dokument, se je obrestovalo v občutku boleče luknje, kakršno čutimo
Ob veliki izgubi. Ni kaj dodati, treba se bo spet pobrati na noge in vse drugo, kar
Spremlja usoden dogodek. Razčiščevanje
bo v naslednjih štirideset letih ostalo nezapisan spomin

ENGLISH:
the new yorker poem

there are two women in those brains
left and right. they say left means business
and right imagination, i don’t know
maybe it is the other way around and left means creativity
and right ratio, computing, planning,
two women and none [= neither] of them happy with only half of it
both wanting it all
there has been no uniform law formulized for our universe so far yet
nor there is only one side of the street
and imagine rivers; symmetry is law
it doesn’t count for pirates with one eye and a black smack [= patch?]
on their eyes. a lesson in anatomy:  rene descartes was not far away
at the time, uppsala was the center of the world. nor a cup of tea
and a sugar spoon full of deadly poison
it was nice meeting you, rene (there of all [the] places)
and it was a cold week in winter, long nights and nearly no day at all
two hemispheres, memories here and there, stakes on hillsides
green areas means activity, dark red is hell, only occasionally though
and yellow means heaven, seldom of course
hearts are like brains, only different
no halves,  totality only
one with the other, and the poem was meant to be a joke
isn’t it always

NA HRVATSKOM:
Pjesma o Njujorčaninu

Dvije su žene u tim mozgovima
lijevo i desno, kada kažu lijevo misle na posao
a desno je imginacija, ne znam
možda može i drugačije da lijevo znači kreativnost
a desno racio, računanje, planiranje,
dvije žene i nijedna od njih nije sretna sa samo jednom polovicom
obje žele cjelinu
ne postoji jedinstven svemir da bi se otišlo tako daleko
niti samo jedna strana ulice
i zamisli rijeke: simetrija je zakon
ne računaju se gusari s jednim okom i crnim povezom
na očima, predavanje o anatomiji: rene decares nije bio tako daleko
u to vrijeme, uppsala je bila centar svijeta, kao i šalica čaja
i šećerna žličica puna ubojitog otrova
bilo je lijepo vidjeti te, rene (baš na ovom od svih mjesta)
i bio je hladan tjedan u zimi, duge noći bez dana
dvije hemisfere, sjećanja ovdje i tamo, štapovi na brežuljcima
zelene površine znače aktivnost, tamno crveno je pakao, premda povremeno
i žuto znači nebo, rijetko naravno
srca su kao mozgovi, samo drugačija
bez polovica, samo cjelina
jedno s drugim, i pjesma je mišljena kao da bude šala
nije li uvijek tako

Prijevod: Darija Žilić

NIHONGO:

「ニューヨーカー」の詩 (抄訳)
                       イズトック・オソイニック（訳　新井高子）

二人の女がいる、脳の
左側と右側には。人々は言う、左はビジネスを、
右はイマジネーションを意味すると、私にはわからない、
たぶんほかにも回路はあるんじゃないか、左が想像力で
右が理性、計算、計画を意味するとか、
二人の女は、どちらも一人きりなら幸せじゃないだろう
両方とも全体でありたがっている
一つの支点だけに基づく世界なんてない、今日までずっと、
片側だけの道はない
川の姿を想い描いてみてよ; シンメトリーが習わしなんだ
片方に眼帯をした、片目の海賊は
例外だが。解剖学の授業だ; ルネ・デカルトは、遠くにいなかった、
そのとき、ウプサラは世界の中心だった。一杯の紅茶と
死にいたる毒を盛ったスプーンも、遠くではなかった　
ルネ、それは素敵な出会いだったよね
そして、それは冬の寒い一週間だった、夜が長くて昼間はほとんどなくて、
脳という二つの半球で、記憶はそこここにあって、丘の斜面では火炙りの刑、
緑色の一帯は活力を表し、ダークレッドは地獄、場合によってだけど、
黄色は天国、もちろん、たまにね、
心は脳に似ているが、たった一つ違うのは
半分に分かれないこと、全体性だけがある
一つはもう一つと同居している、この詩の始まりは冗談も含んでいたけど、
いつもそうじゃないよね？

Nihongo-yaku: Takako Arai 

PO SLOVENKSY:
báseň pre The New Yorker

v  tom mozgu sú dve ženy,
ľavá a pravá. Vravia, že ľavá znamená podnikanie
a pravá predstavivosť, neviem
možno je to naopak a ľavá predstavuje tvorivosť
a pravá rozum, rátanie a plánovanie.
dve ženy a ani jedna sa neuspokojí len s jednou polovicou, chceli by všetko
nemáme žiadnu jednotnú teóriu vesmíru
tak ako žiadna ulica nemá len jednu stranu
a vezmite si napríklad rieku, symetria je zákonom
neplatí to pre pirátov s čiernou páskou na oku.
Lekcia z anatómie: rené descartes nebol v tom čase
ďaleko, uppsala bola pupkom sveta. Ani šálka čaju
a kávová lyžička plná smrtiaceho jedu
som rád, že som ťa mohol stretnúť, rené (zo všetkých miest práve tam)
a bol to jeden z tých studených zimných týždňov, dlhé noci a takmer žiadne denné svetlo
dve hemisféry, spomienky v jednej aj druhej, koly na svahoch kopca
zelené polia znamenajú aktivitu, tmavočervená je peklo, hoci len občas
a žltá predstavuje nebo, samozrejme, len zriedka.
srdcia sú ako mozog, ibaže iné
žiadne polovice, len jednota
jedného s druhým, táto báseň mala byť len vtipom
a nie je to tak vždy?

Do slovenčiny preložila Miroslava Gavurová

ENGLISH:
***

invest! invest! i realized that a free market poetry cannot do it by itself
so we desperately need state support, let's say 700 billion dollars
a magic card in a byron’s sleeve (an old fart)
i could manage with that. note my pidgin english, the rockandroll of living languages
another free market commodity, though don’t forget security, national of course
intercultural dialogue, climate change and creative economy (hear the buzz).
see, i don't get it, i don't understand poetry, actually i hate it
the trick is to get you genuflecting at the entrance into a dinning room of fames
solemnly a project i propose, or rather, i am applying for it
imagine, from a restaurant to a pub, from a pub to one of those hot dog stalls
down on the lexington avenue, o, captain, my captain, a fart gone with the wind
eating my way through poetry. and all those critics, anne
heavily criticizing my english, and some of the local moguls
the tortoise on my shirt
what was the last item on the menu
as you see there is a plan, a strategy (now forgotten)
save poetry by state intervention, billions of lives will be saved
including free work for everybody, not to say anything about a job
not understanding poetry (get it, me being a poet! yes, clever)
to eat my career through the gourmand restaurants of the planet
send a postcard

NA HRVATSKOM:
***
uložite! uložite! shvatio sam da slobodno tržište poezije ne može samo
pa očajnički tražimo pomoć države, otprilike 700 biliona dolara
magičnu kartu iz byronovog rukava (stari frik)
mogu to srediti. zabilježi moj pidgin english, rockenroll živih jezika
još jednu pogodnost slobodnog tržišta, ali ne zaboravi sigurnost, nacionalnu naravno, interkulturalni dijalog, klimatske promjene i kreativnu ekonomiju (poslušaj buzz).
vidiš, ne shvaćam, ne razumijem poeziju, zapravo je mrzim
trik je da te vidim naklonjenog ulasku u sobu slavnih
svečano postavljam projekt, ili točnije, apliciram
zamisli, iz restorana u pub, iz puba u jedan od tih hot dog dućana
dolje na lexington aveniji, o kapetane, moj kapetane, frik je otišao s vjetrom
jedem svoj put kroz poeziju, i sve te kritike, anne
žešće kritizira moj engleski, i neki od lokalnih mogula
kornjača na mojoj majici
što je bila zadnja jedinica na meniju
kao što vidiš tu je plan, strategija (sada zaboravljena)
spasi poeziju državnom intervencijom, bilijuni života bit će spašeni
uključujući slobodan rad za svakoga, ne spominji posao
niti razumijevanje poezije (shvati, ja sam pjesnik! da, pametan)
da bi se jela moja karijera u gurmanskim restoranima na planeti
pošalji razglednicu

Prijevod: Darija Žilić

ENGLISH:
From “I shall read poems by Christopher Okigbo”

1
I should read poems by Christopher Okigbo
who died in the civil war fighting for the independence of Biafra
and whose poems are written as a spiritual quest in the face of corrupt politicians,
violence and dislocation from the natural world.
This of course is partly a quotation from the essay of Sarah Fulford,
I think it is only fair to tell it
and not to be as some, who even claimed being my lover
forgot to tell who and what and when
claiming the originality of their stolen ideas and translations and essays
But we are not here to discuss this Slovenian typicality.
Were there any spirits when I walked through the forest
in my youth. There were fears – as there still are. I remember
my wandering through the winter forest of Krim
following the footprints of a bear for quite some time. Was he
not asleep as they should be? And hungry probably he was as well
as I was tracking him through the deep snow –
suddenly sadness has flashed my veins by an intoxicating tide
who cares I say to myself as the repetitive sound of the broken pavement
still echoes in my head. Am I lost again? And how much longer
does the sadness intend to burn my blood-vessels? And what do I want? Could a man
control his wanting? Could a man go down to the roots of it?
They come, one after the other in a procession of blind masks,
shadows and silhouettes, spirits that have not been born yet.
They are waiting in front of the doors of perception to enter
the poem. Silent howling of the wolves, the essence of the understanding
of what is going on. An octopus of silence with its thousand hands reach deep into my body
pressing with its weight against my naked body
with its naked screams it transforms a suffering into an art of
how not to say a word of it anymore
so, let’s go down to the roots
the ocean the tide the open sky the silence 

2
in the picture you look like a retired officer
of the former yugoslav peoples' army
strong guy, 90 kilos roughly, one would never guess
you suffer because of an overdose of a detergent
the other day i saw you on a bicycle, fast, no doubt, you were
and there was kelly too, no, not in a dream
i am pretty confused these days, changing weather, it is
april, not the cruellest month, I disagree on that
but definitely trilingual or even quadrilingual, just think
(counting fingers) prag, austria, english speaking guide please, slovenian,
they spoke polish at the reading too. I was sick, half asleep
I don’t know what to do. I would pray but I am not even an atheist
thus, I suffer
eat this eat that
try some ginger tea
who would care for a retired army officer
don’t put this photo on the internet
sorry, here we deal with a shipwreck situation
every man for himself
it makes one thirsty

3
so, here i am
england, the elections in three days
yes, it is painful
yes, I am slow. maybe right after I got out of my bed
freezing cold I must say
and then the tv, this guy cameron is a liar and a bastard
who will steal from the people even more than the guys before him
here we go, england, soccer and terror, another shock treatment
to make the bankers richer, and some other bastards wealthier
and yes, I do feel your presence here and I hope that I shall be strong enough
not to meet you. why? because you are a predator and a torturer
I can say that, regardless of your manner. I should not forget
that you were educated here, yes, across the river, I was there
and I know it. enough of that. I want my book back
what kind of a desk is this. my back is aching
and I have had my coffee and I am ready to go down to the beach
to listen to the ocean waves and go through the story again and again
that is actually the main purpose of my visit
to go through the story again and again
and get out of it

4
brighton, step by step
every single corner, including the bathroom at maria’s place
the beach, the table in the kitchen, the pharmacy, where finally we got
the lotion for your contact lenses
and fish and chips at the nelson cafe
was it the nelson café?
a cup of hot tea
a long purgatorial journey through the streets
now completely mixed up
how could one experience that as a political poem
no way, but there are situations that reach beyond any rational explanation
and London is much larger, just the number of bridges
that I shall have to cross. a bit late for the daffodils I would guess
a total transformation
a man on a warrior’s path. at least till the next pub
to get a sandwich and a glass of beer. and rain. it was raining
I bought an umbrella and thought about the shock therapy that this guy
Cameron is preparing for the British. it will be too late for the British
tupamaros and montagneros and sendero luminoso
but maybe in some twenty years and hopefully earlier than that
england will be taken over by chaves. so there is hope. I shall eradicate you
from my system and I shall be a freelance lover once again. it hurts, interesting
it fucking hurts, but the political violence will hurt even more
and shall we have the right to complain, to accuse,
to expose our hearts in a poem
read at the literary venue on top of a blackburn hill.
john will be there, and maria
and ciaran, and paul. six o’clock tea please. go eat go,
there will be no food at the party
I see some progress has been happening. at waterstones bookstore they started
to sell books by engels. marx is still a totem and taboo. should I go to visit
your grave, dear karl, and finish with this golem business? I think so.
what has happened it is not there anymore
and what there is has not happened yet. and to add to the Homeric oracle
we should state that the tea spoon in my room is most convenient to
clean my ears with. I can’t expect that anybody will laugh at that
but you were there.
and I was there too. how much longer still does one have to go

5
one day is the last one
never again will you visit that house or walk down that street
memories are all that are left
fragmentary recollections that slowly turn into dreams
with no firm leg to stand on
and what once was suffering and pain
is now a sentimental crab, a disgusting taste in one’s mouth
as one is walking down the london road among the blossoming cherry trees
remembering how it was to drive on that same road
on your way to heathtrow airport
a memory, a fragment of life gone
an outside glimpse of what once was a living presence
cherry trees and rain
is now all that has been left behind
you know that one day you will walk down this road for the last time
and maybe it is now this very moment
of split personality
one, a wreck, an emotional ruin, a postmodernist persona of broken pieces
fragmentary pains, sorrows, a patient on his warrior’s path of slow recovering
and a kind of functioning in society
the other a normal creature on two legs
covering distance with the steady pace of a mountain climber in
a postcolonial metropolis, regaining that forbidden territory
of cold winds along the thames
and passionate lunches in a hotel in crouch end
not knowing yet at the time one of them will be the last one to go
while chelsea, a soccer team you support, will win the english cup this year
rain and blossoming cherry trees
taking the place of daffodils and magnolia trees, and yeats, and ugo foscolo
and vanessa redgrave, and hammersmith bridge
why should one put the pieces together again
why not keep living like that
oceans, continents, seven seas, here today, tomorrow in some foreign land
trying to regain one’s composure and maybe some meaning in life
to forget about oneself but to be
to accept, now in this very preston park hotel room in brighton,
what you have lost and to go on living
in the aggressive world of the shock doctrine and blossoming cherry trees
and trains one has to change to get to london
the city of memories
the city of being alive again

PO SLOVENSKY:
5.
jeden deň je vždy ten posledný
už nikdy nenavštíviš ten dom a neprejdeš sa po ulici
zostanú ti len spomienky
úlomkovité spomienky na to, čo sa pomaly mení na sny
a niet pevnej nohy, na ktorú by sa dalo postaviť
a čo bolo kedysi utrpením a bolesťou
je teraz sentimentálnou sračkou, odpornou pachuťou v ústach
keď kráčaš po londýnskej ulici medzi kvitnúcimi čerešňami
a spomínaš na to, ako si po tej iste ulici išiel autom
na letisko heathrow
spomienka, úlomok života, ktorý sa už nevráti
letmý pohľad zvonku na čosi, čo kedysi bývalo živou prítomnosťou
čerešňové stromy a dážď
sú všetkým, čo za sebou necháš
vieš, že jedného dňa pôjdeš touto cestou naposledy
a možno dnes je tá chvíľa
rozdelenej osobnosti
jednej – trosky, citovo zruinovanej, postmodernistickej osobnosti z úlomkov
bolestí, smútkov, pacient na bojovej ceste svojho pomalého uzdravovania
ktorý nejako funguje v spoločnosti
druhej – normálnej bytosti s dvomi nohami
ktorá sa pohybuje pevným krokom fyzicky zdatného horolezca v
postkoloniálnej metropole, ktorý znovu získava to zakázané územie
studeného vetra pri temži
a ktorý úspešne chudne
a vášnivé obedy v hoteli na crouch end
a v tom čase ešte netuší, že jeden z tých dní bude posledný
kým chelsea, futbalový klub, ktorý podporuješ, v tom roku vyhrá anglickú ligu
dážď a kvitnúce čerešne
ktoré vystriedali narcisy a magnólie, yeats a ugo foscolo
vanessa redgrave a hammersmith bridge
prečo by mal niekto zložiť kúsky naspäť
prečo stále nežiť práve takto
oceány, kontinenty, sedem morí, dnes tu, zajtra v nejakej cudzej krajine
snažiac sa znovu nadobudnúť vyrovnanosť a možno aj nejaký zmysel života
zabudnúť na seba ale byť
prijať, práve teraz v tejto izbe hotela preston park v brightone.
to, čo si stratil, a ďalej žiť
v agresívnom svete šokovej doktríny a kvitnúcich čerešní
a vlakov, na ktoré musíš presadnúť, aby si sa dostal do Londýna
mesta spomienok
mesta kde môžeš znovu žiť

Do slovenčiny preložila Miroslava Gavurová

7
the ability to have an idea that one has never had before
have that idea be profound
and at the same time be able to execute that idea
as Charles J. Limb put it at the end of an interview with Alicia Anstead
a definition of  the endless flow of my genius
erupting through my mouth ears nostrils fingers finger nails
lava of spirit drifting in soft snow through an Arcadian valley on a bicycle
melting everything on its way, starting with
the lotus of my self, made of cockroaches and peanut butter
a doughnut in my left ear and a shoe spoon around my neck
at the gallows of poetry
wind in one’s face that curiously enough is mine
artificial Buddha hood with a head, which is also mine in the jet stream
above the gulf of Mexico looking at BP spill killing thousands of moths
sea urchins avocados real-estate agents and mimic octopuses from Indonesia
AAA, America is a dreamless paradise, where every hiker wears Nikes
and Arnold Schonberg is the most cherished composer, especially in March
John Luther Adams has built stone cones all over Canada
and I suddenly remembered the moment of inexpressibly sadness
at the entrance of a local cinema hall in Knoxville
Will and Pam preferred buffalo steaks (I don’t want to mention Amir
because it was after eight) but me, I would join that
girl in red girdles and lick an ice-cream in the darkness of July
which by the way is the title of one of my self published books now amounting to
thirty books of poetry only
and I still haven’t got rid of you, as I now publicly admit
being a constant flow of genius or not
in the J.D. of my own self
I need some kind of an ending here, hello, brother, help your local poet

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