PETER MILČÁK / Eslovaquia
Peter Milčák (1966) - Poeta, editor y traductor.
Ha publicado dos libros de poesía Záprah pred zimou (1989) and Prípravná čiara 57/Preparation Line 57 (2005).
En 1991 fundó su propia editorial, Modrý Peter, que se dedica principalmente a la publicación de poesía eslovaca original. Ha editado y publicado antologías de poesía eslovaca contemporánea en Inglés (Not Waiting for Miracles , 1993), en alemán (Blauer Berg mit Höhle, 1994), en francés (Les Jeux de l'charmants aristocratie, 1996) y en polaco (Pisanie, 2006).
Peter Milčák trabaja actualmente en la Universidad de Varsovia, Polonia, donde imparte seminarios sobre lengua eslovaca y literatura eslovaca.
AQUELLO QUE ES
De aquello que es
a aquello que
parece como
lo que es
De aquello que cualquier viento
se lleva sin dificultad,
de la esencia del pájaro, el canto,
a lo que lo hace
insoportablemente
pesado,
las plumas.
Aquello que no es
me hace
libre y feliz,
grandísima ficción
que no está al acecho
de su oportunidad.
A PLENO DÍA
A Sylvia Plath
Mi aliento es de propano-butano,
pero mi vista es más aguda
que en cualquier momento anterior.
Soy sólo una
de las alternativas,
realizada a pleno día,
con una foto de amapolas silvestres
encerradas en las piplias
hasta las últimas consecuencias.
PARA VOSOTROS
Cuando vomito de noche
pienso en los que duermen
en la casa, en el perro
hecho un ovillo
en el cuarto, bajo la escalera,
y en la primavera
que triunfa de manera incomprensible.
Cuando después me despierto,
la hierba está realizando
su silenciosa fotosíntesis,
meto en la bolsa el pan,
busco las gafas
y entro en la mañana
con decisión,
sorprendentemente listo.
[Línea de preparación 57 / Preparation line 57
Bilingüe, año 2005]
What is
From what is
to that
which looks like
what is.
From what any wind
will carry off effortlessly,
from the essence of a bird, its song,
to that which
makes it
unbearably heavy
to its plumage.
What isn't
makes me free and happy,
a cruel fiction,
not lurking in wait
for its opportunity.
Honey Well
It is not called
by the name it should
have been called, but
the agreement stands,
because no name
is worse than
a curse, non-existence
in being, because
not being named is
an eternity
for which no one -
absolutely no one
cares.
Sleep
When it snows at night, the sky
is a grainy screen.
The frost tests what is
still alive even though
it, too, is only here out of mercy.
A freed cone falls
giddily down on its only
journey to earth which rises
closer to it all the time.
Just as described in the manual,
a blackbird's eye opens
in the landscape but its movement
is shaded by an enormous snowflake.
A motionless fox in a snowdrift
vainly looks for a way out.
Snow warms all those
voluntarily lying down
for their winter sleep.
How
How to come to terms with the gift
of decline, meanwhile watch
the grass come up with repeated
indifference, how to ransom unfettered
joy from the hands of a man drifting ever further
from himself, how to stand
at the preparation line without the trembling
which only reflects a mind
of welcoming emptiness, always and suddenly
there, curled up and shivering,
needing at the right moment to be hugged, comforted,
wrapped in a warm blanket and lovingly left
to go on considering how.
In Their Place
How beautiful we are
in the mirrors of transience,
how noble and pure.
Why, the mirrors
are in their place.
The dark woods,
too dark to appear in
the picture.
A clear sky, so celestially clear
we cannot even glimpse it.
Butterfly, butterfly flying so
fast that behind it
only a trace
of sound remains.
And so, only we, unspeakably
happy,
steady the surface
and from our eyes shines
eternity.
The Long Way There
The long way there has
no way back, that's why it's long,
that's why it's only
there.
There is always one step
ahead, like a camel to
a Bedouin, like home
to the homesick.
There is always one step
ahead and is carrying
back in its little locked
suitcase.
Do angličtiny preložil autor a Jonathan Gresty.
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