Festivalul Internațional de Poezie București

Târgul Național al Cărții de Poezie

 13 - 17 mai, 2015. Video 2015

„Anything could happen” Jana Putrle Srdić

Jana Putrle SrdićPoemele de mai jos aparțin poetei Jana Putrle Srdić și vor apărea în volumul  Anything could happen, A Midsummer Night’s Press, New York, 2014, aflat acum sub tipar.

Mai jos aveți originalul și traducerea în engleză.

 

Raziskovalci se čudijo

 

 

Nekoč so bile stvari preproste:

če si bil počasen, te je že požrla kakšna zver.

Hitri so včasih padli čez rob.

 

Danes me varno obdajajo stene iz knjig,

večinoma neprebranih. Vsaka je nov

svet, ki odpira še večjo množico

neznanih in me dela malodušno.

 

Ostanejo še banane (S plantaže banan? Nepredstavljivo.)

in voda, ki se v tem lenem, deževnem popoldnevu

cedi po odtokih kot med.

 

Psica-volkulja se zaganja v hrib,

njene misli imajo obliko poševnih strmin.

Čisti presežek.

 

Govoriš z mano kot pragozd,

ki pogoltne dinozavra.

 

Ljubim se s tabo kot žareča krogla,

ki prižvižga iz kraterja, ko poči vulkanska lava.

V Herzogovem dokumentarcu o Antarktiki,

ki se ne sprašuje o zapletenem vedenju pingvinov,

 

ampak, zakaj smo tam mi.

Kam kopljemo.

Explorers wonder

(translated by Barbara Jurša and the author)

 

Things used to be simple:

if you were slow, some beast would eat you.

The quick sometimes fell off the edge.

 

Today I’m safely surrounded by walls of books,

most unread. Each is a new world

that opens into even more unknown

ones and makes me feel discouraged.

 

What remains are bananas (From a banana

plantation? Unimaginable.) and water dripping

through the drains like honey on this lazy afternoon.

 

The wolf-dog is sprinting up the hill,

her thoughts have the shape of steep slopes.

Pure surplus.

 

You talk to me like a jungle

that swallows the dinosaur.

 

I make love to you like a fireball

swishing out of a volcano when the lava bursts.

In Herzog’s documentary on Antarctica,

which doesn’t explore the complex behavior of penguins,

 

but why are we there.

Where are we digging.

Izginjanja

 

 

 

 

Pol leta po tvoji smrti

sem poklicala domov,

nihče ni dvignil slušalke in

nenadoma me je na tajnici presenetil

tvoj glas.

 

Kot bi kaktusi z okenske police

zjutraj obkrožili mojo posteljo.

 

Kot da se oglašaš iz kocke

rožnatega želeja.

 

Tvoj glas

je bil znan in hkrati tuj,

neobičajno odločen kot glas

tridesetletnika, ki ni nikoli

doma in potrebuje tajnico,

 

ker je pravkar prišel z rokometa

in se mu mudi na strelske vaje.

Kot vsi strelci ve, da mora na poti

na strelišče zreti skozi okno

avtobusa v vedno isto točko,

luno na popoldanskem nebu,

 

da mu potem pred tarčo

srce začne biti s črnimi krogi,

dokler jih z utripom ne sklene v piko

in pritisne na sprožilec.

 

Znan glas

tridesetletnika, ki je pravkar na poročnem

potovanju v Benetke s kaseto Glena Millerja

v avtu. Ženski klobuk s širokimi krajci.

Lahke poletne hlače – Gatsbyjev stil –

zdrsnejo prek kolen, ko preskakuje

po dve stopnici čez mostove.

Smrdljivi kanali, vlažni zidovi,

golobi, ji reče, povsod golobi,

hkrati z vžigalnikom lahkotno

prižiga nasmeške na negative.

 

Grem mimo tega visokega vitkega moškega

v svetli poletni srajci, ki me ne prepozna,

ni me še.

 

Pomislim – ko bomo presneli tajnico

in bo tvoj glas v moji glavi

postajal zabrisan, bom ostala

nekoliko bolj porozna,

začelo se bo pripravljati

moje izginjanje.

Vanishings

(translated by Bridgette Bates and the author)

 

Half a year after your death

I called home,

no one answered the phone and

suddenly I was surprised by your voice

on the answering machine.

 

As if the cactuses from the window shelf

had circled my bed in the morning.

 

As you were talking from the cube

of pink jelly

 

your voice

was both familiar and strange,

unusually determined like the voice

of a thirty-year-old who is never

at home and needs an answering machine

 

because he just came from handball,

and is hurrying to a shooting exercise.

Just as all shooters on the way

to the range, he knows that he has to stare

through the window of the bus

at the same spot continuously,

the moon on the afternoon sky,

 

so in front of the target

his heart begins to beat with the black circles

until he joins them with his pulse on a dot

and pulls the trigger.

 

The familiar voice

of a thirty-year-old who is now on

a honeymoon to Venice with the tape of Glen Miller

in the car. A women’s hat with a wide brim.

His light summer trousers – Gatsby’s style –

slip over his knees when he jumps over

two stairs at a time.

Stinky canals, damp walls,

pigeons, he says to her, everywhere pigeons,

at the same time as his cigarette, he leisurely

lights the smiles on negatives.

 

I pass by this tall slender man

in a light summer shirt who does not recognize me,

I do not exist.

 

I am thinking – when we erase the tape

and your voice in my head

becomes blur I will be

a bit more porous,

my vanishing

will begin to prepare.


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