Οι ποιητές και οι ποιήτριες συνομιλούν με την παγκόσμια γλώσσα που ορίζουν οι μελωδίες των λέξεων. Ιστορούν τη μνήμη των ανθρώπων με τις γραφές τους υμνώντας το φως της δημιουργίας. Οκτώ ποιητές και ποιήτριες από διαφορετικές χώρες του πλανήτη συνοδοιπορησαν με τα ποιήματα τους στο Patras Word Poetry Festival.
Ο Henning Bergsvag | Norway, ο Denis Scofic | Slovenia, ο Selahattin Yolgiden | Turkey, η Simona Rackova | Czech Republic, ο Dashamir Malo | Albania, η Marija Dejanovic | Croatia, η Giselle Lucia Navarro | Cuba και η Mila Haugova | Slovakia τιμούν με το έργο τους τη σύγχρονη παραγωγή τόσο της χώρας τους όσο και τον ορίζοντα της ποίησης σε διεθνές επίπεδο. Διότι όπως λέει με δυνατή φωνή η Anny Sexton “είναι προσεκτικοί με τις λέξεις” και αυτές τους δίνονται σε ένα αέναο ταξίδι κάλλους και αρμονίας.
Henning Bergsvag | Norway
Over sengen.
Et maleri av Jesus korsfestet mot en mørk
himmelflate, naglene er synlige, men korset er
ikke der.
Han er naglet fast i nattehimmelen.
En slik valuta refererer ikke til en
gullbeholdning i statens bankhvelv.
Et lands pengesedler refererer heller ikke lenger
til en stats gullbeholdning,
Ordet er løsrevet, ekspanderende,
en skyggekraft, dødelig,
overalt.
Above my bed.
A painting of Christ crucified against a dark
sky, the nails are visible, but the cross is
not there.
He is nailed to the night sky.
Such a currency does not refer
to the gold reserves in the nation’s vaults.
Nor do bank notes any longer refer
to the gold in the vaults of a state.
The Word is cut loose, expanding,
a shadowy power, lethal,
everywhere.
Denis Scofic | Slovenia
EROS IN TANATOS
Ob paritvenem klicu
mladim jelenom
iz čela rastejo rokovja,
rokovja z razkrečenimi,
togimi, grabežljivimi prsti.
Ob paritvenem klicu
se mladi jeleni spoprimejo,
da rokovje seže v rokovje,
da se prsti oklenejo prstov.
Ob paritvenem klicu
pride do rokoborb,
dokler ne popusti najšibkejši
ali se mu odlomi roka in pade
v prazno kakor zavrnjeno premirje.
Ob paritvenem klicu
zmaga najrazkošnejše rokovje,
z dolgimi prsti, ki z lahkoto
gredo skozi samičino dlako.
Ob paritvenem klicu
zmaga največje rokovje,
takšno, ki lahko scela vzame
samico v svoje dlani.
Ob paritvenem klicu
še jelenje lobanje
na zidovih s svojimi koščenimi rokami
grabijo za mesenostjo.
EROS AND THANATOS
As mating calls sound,
young deer
sprout handtlers from their foreheads,
handtlers with splayed,
stiff, and greedy fingers.
As mating calls sound,
young deer challenge each other,
handtlers shaking handtlers,
fingers grasping fingers.
As mating calls sound,
brawls break out
until the weaker fighter yields,
or loses a hand, dropping it
aside like a peace offering rebuffed.
As mating calls sound,
the most extravagant handtlers win,
handtlers with long fingers that easily
pass through the female’s coat.
As mating calls sound,
the biggest handtlers win,
those best able to cradle
the female in their palms.
As mating calls sound,
even deer skulls
hung on walls grasp at
luscious flesh with their bony hands.
(translated by Jernej Županič)
bir kurt gibi indim ovaya ay ışığında. dört bacağımda dört pranga: acı, nefret, kuşku ve tutku. iki mektup, altı pul, dört damga!
uyuyordunuz. pencereleriniz buğuluydu.
ay benim babamdı. iyi biliyordum bunu. göğsümde ölü bir baştankara uzanıyordum yanınıza. yalanları sandınız içinizde tutarsınız. ha ha.
tanrıyla konuştum geçen gün daha. bir şeye inanıyor musun diye sorduğunuzda ulumam bundan.
siz gülümsüyordunuz. ha ha. birbirinizin içine girip çıkıyordunuz hâlâ. birbirinizin tenindeki tuzu yalıyordunuz. ben içimdeki öldürme arzusunu öldürüyordum geceleri.
bir gün bir nehir kıyısında sıyrıldım postumdan. böyle iyi. anladım herkes bir gün yorulur. ne ala! uludum durdum uludum durdum uludum bir kurt neyi ulursa.
down in moonlight i went to the steppe like a wolf.
four shackles on four legs: pain, hate, doubt and lust.
two letters. six stamps four postal marks!
you were sleeping, your windows all fogged up
the moon was my father. this i knew well.
with a dead titmouse on my chest i stretched out by your side. what you thought were lies you hoarded within you. ha ha.
i spoke with god just the other day. that is why i howl when you ask me if i believe in anything.
you were laughing. ha ha.
were entering were leaving one another. still.
you were licking the salt of the skin of one another.
at night i was killing off that desire to kill welled up inside me.
one day by the river i shed my hide. it’s better like this.
and understood that everyone’s grows tire done day.
ah how lovely! relentlessly i howled and howled whatever it is a wolf howls.
translated by Neil Patrick Doherty
Simona Rackova | Czech Republic
Kdybych byla Sylvia Plathová
Co se to stalo těsně předtím,
než mě oceán strhl za kotníky?
Co se to stalo, než mě pohodil
na svoje dno, na moje dno?
Stáli jsme tam, na Sunshine Coast, na kraji Pacifiku
Byl jsi můj přítel a to je víc než muž,
jediný, za kým lze letět přes půl světa
Oceán není moře, má jinou sílu, poznáš ji –
chtěl jsi mě ochránit, a já šla vlnám vstříc
Ta slast být podrobena
Ta slast být zaplavena
Vynořili jsme se, našli se
s odřenou kůží, zahlcení
Nemohla jsem se na ten živel vynadívat,
a zatímco jsi plánoval, kdy toto místo opustíme,
– Green Island, Port Douglas, Harvey Bay, všechna ta znamení stesku –,
myslela jsem na Virginii Woolfovou,
jak vchází do řeky v dlouhých, těžkých sukních
v těch sukních z vlny, sukních z vln
Kdybych však byla Sylvia Plathová,
jak bych se rozhodla?
Včera jsem znovu četla Ariel, stržena, nesena, uchvácena
Mé děti si vedle stavěly koleje,
jen kousek ode mě, jen kousek od tvé smrti, četla jsem:
„pokoj byl zamčen a mezera pod dveřmi pečlivě ucpána,
aby k dětem nevnikl plyn”
Pečlivě, k čertu s pečlivostí,
ony tam byly, byly tam,
křičely, bouchaly na dveře, tříletý věšel se na kliku
Sylvie, byly tam, zděšené, hladové, mladší se strženou plenou,
po obličeji, po žebřiňáku postýlky matlá si kakání, to slovo z překladu,
to slovo ze tvé básně,
zatímco matka tam v kuchyni, tak jako pak můj otec
v kuchyni, studeně, v místnosti bez útěchy
má malá Silvie, zůstanem navždy samy
Jistěže, navždy samy
Stojím tu v kuchyni, na kraji oceánu
A nejsem Virginia, a nejsem Sylvia
A nevím, jak se rozhodnu
A kdy
IF I WAS SYLVIA PLATH
(translated by Jan Štolba)
What happened the moment right before
The ocean grabbed me by the ankles?
What happened before it threw me down
To its bottom, to the bottom of myself?
We were standing on Sunshine Coast, at the edge of the Pacific
You were my friend, and that’s more than my man
The only one to whom it is possible to fly halfway around the world
The ocean is not the sea, the force is different, you know it right away –
You wanted to protect me and I was walking into the waves
That pleasure of being subdued
That pleasure of being flooded
We resurfaced, found each other
Suffocating, our skin chafed
I couldn’t get enough sight of that primal force
And while you were already busy planning when to leave this place
– Green Island, Port Douglas, Harvey Bay, all the tokens of wistfulness –
I thought of Virginia Woolf
Walking into the river in her long thick skirts
The skirts of wooll, of woolly waves
But if I was Sylvia Plath
How I would have decided?
Yesterday I read Ariel again, stirred, carried, spellbound
My children building rails in the room next door
Only a breath away from me, a breath away from your death, I read:
“The room was locked and the slit under the door carefully jammed
So the gas couldn’t reach the kids.”
Carefully… To hell with care!
They were there, there they were
Screaming, banging the door, the three year old hanging on the door knob
Sylvia, they were there, terrified, hungry
The younger one with his diaper off
All over his face, his crib wagon smeared with baby crap
Those words from the translation, words from your poem
While the mother in the kitchen, just like my father later on
In the kitchen, coldly, in the room devoid of consolation
My poor little Silvia, we will stay alone forever
Indeed, alone forever
I am standing here in the kitchen, at the edge of the ocean
And I am not Virginia, I am not Sylvia
And I don’t know how I will decide
And when
Dashamir Malo | Albania
AJO
Iku pikërshish në kohën
kur unë u emërova në atë Postw të largët Kufitare (1).
Më vonë mësova
se mëngjeseve mbrrinte herët.
Pinte ekspres
shoqëruar hera –herës me cigare të markës
“Slims”.
Mbi tavolinën ku kishte punuar
kishin mbetur kalendari me shënimet e saj,
libri “Aleksandri i Madh”,
dhe vëllimi poetik i Charles Bukoëski-t.
Pëlqente muzikën Soul.
Preferonte filmat, aktorët
Gérard Depardieu dhe Orlando Bloom.
Nuk i preferonte emisionet tip “Big Brothër”,
apo konkurset e bukursisë.
Gjithmonë parfumosej me “Obsession”.
Ishte brune,
asnjëhërë nuk kishte tentuar të bëhej bjonde.
SHE
She left just in time
When I was hired
at that farther Border police station
Later I’ve been told
That she came early every morning
Took her espresso coffee
And smoked “slims” cigarettes
On the table where she used to work
Remained the calendar and her handwritten notes
The book ” Alexander the Great” and
The poetry of Charls Bukowski.
She liked soul music.
She preferred the movie and the stars
Gérard Depardieu and Orlando Bloom.
She did not like “Big brother”
Or “Beatty Pageants”
She always wore the perfume “Obsession”
She was a brunet.
Had never tried to become a blonde
Some times her nails were painted in violet
She passionately loved the longing sunsets
And sweet-attractive mornings
She was a fan of the colour green,
But liked the white and black as well
I never meet her,
I never even saw her
However, I got to know her very well
Marija Dejanovic | Croatia
SELIDBA
selidba našeg organizma
dogodila se preko noći
zbacili smo sa sebe svoj mesnati oklop
i zaboravili kako biti opterećeni
nismo se time mnogo zamarali
tijelo vibrira dok leži pored jezera
iz ušiju mu izrasta lopoč
i kralježnica mu je strelica
koja pokazuje jug
gdje odlaze boje
kad se latice raspu i vrate u naručje zemlje?
u nos
odlaze ti u nos
the move
the moving of our organism happened
overnight
we threw off our fleshy armor
and forgot how to feel burdened
this didn’t bother us much
the body vibrates as it lies by the lake
a water lily grows out of its ears
and its spine is an arrow
pointing south
where do colors go
when petals fall and return to the soil’s embrace?
into your nose
they go into your nose
– Translated by Vesna Maric
Curriculum Vitae Marija Dejanovic
Giselle Lucia Navarro | Cuba
MANOS DE POETA
Todos los días un anónimo me incendia las manos.
Cartas manchadas de poco valor.
Para un poeta son peligrosas las palabras falsas,
las amistades falsas,
las guerras falsas,
las vidas falsas.
Un poeta necesita inscribirse un dolor
si no tiene uno propio,
pero el dolor del poeta debe ser siempre real.
Las palabras del poeta
deben estar manchadas de valor.
Las palabras del poeta
no pueden ser incendios anónimos.
Todos los días un signo incendia mi mano.
Dicen que van a crucificarme.
Dicen que voy a ser la cabeza superior
de todas las cabezas.
Contemplo mis manos:
no tienen sangre
ni tierra
ni cicatrices,
ninguna de esas cosas que marcan valor.
Todos los días una palabra me pesa.
Un incendio se me acomoda en el estómago.
Siguen sin construirme la cruz o la corona.
El país es un estómago
que pesa sobre nuestras cabezas,
y seguimos sin saber
si los hombres que acaban de llegar
serán nuestros héroes
o nuestros futuros asesinos.
POET’S HANDS
Every day an anonymous fellow lights my hands
on fire. Stained letters of little value.
For a poet false words are dangerous,
false friendships,
false wars,
false lives.
A poet needs to register a pain
if he does not have one of his own,
but the poet’s pain must always be real.
The poet’s words
must be stained with courage.
The poet’s words
cannot be anonymous fires.
Every day a sign lights my hand on fire..
They say they are going to crucify me.
They say I’m going to be the head on top
of all the other heads.
I contemplate my hands:
they have no blood on them
no dirt
no scars,
none of those things that mark value.
Every day a word weighs on me.
A fire settles in my stomach.
They still haven’t built me the cross or the crown.
The country is a stomach
that weighs on our heads,
and we still don’t know
if the men who have just arrived
will be our heroes
or our future assassins.
Translated by Indran Amirthanayagam
Mila Haugova | Slovakia
PRIESVITNOSŤ II.
Som biela hmla
Som biela hmla napĺňajúca údolie.
blúdiace temné zviera, plačem aby už nikto nezomrel.
nepotrebujem odvahu k smrti ale k životu.
aby sme predišli nedorozumeniu.
tu je príčina, jeden muž prestal vnímať jednu ženu.
ty mňa. ako sa to stalo opýtam sa.
nezadržateľne sme sa začali meniť, jeden na druhého.
jeden do druhého, už som nevedela
či milujem ja alebo ty. ruky ktoré ma objímali boli (jeho)
moje. ruky ktorými som ho objímala
boli (moje) jeho. aj ústa. aj úsmev, aj podoba, aj spánok.
aj láska, aj nenávisť za to že sa vieme.
poznáme, aj za to že sa ne-vieme ne-poznáme a nie sme takí
akí sme chceli byť jeden pre druhého
od začiatku mystickí Anjeli, hostia
nevedome privítaní v dome a tretí Anjel
držal nad nami kamennú oblohu.
TRANSLUCENCY II.
I am white fog
I am white fog filling a valley.
A dark stray animal that weeps so that no-one should die.
I don’t need the courage to die, but to live.
so we don’t foresee misunderstanding.
There is a reason. a man stopped perceiving a woman.
you me. How did it happen I ask.
inexorably, we have begun to change, one in the other.
one into the other, I don’t know
whether I have loved or you. the hands which have embraced me are (his)
mine. the hands with which I’ve embraced him
are (mine) his. and mouth. and smile. and shape. and sleep.
and love. and hate for what we knew.
we know, also from this we can’t not know and we aren’t as
we’ve wanted to be there for one another
from the beginning Mystical Angels, guests
unknowingly welcome in the house and the third angel
has held above us a stony sky.
Translated by: JAMES SUTHERLAND-SMITH