Vojislav Karanović
Nacido en 1961 en Subotica, SERBIA. Licenciado en Letras por la Facultad de Artes de Novi Sad.
Trabaja como editor del programa de literatura en Radio Novi Sad.
Desde 1992 hasta 2005 ha sido el editor de poesía de la revista de literatura "Letopis Matice Srpske".
Escribe poesía, obras radiofónicas y ensayos. Vive en Novi Sad.
Ha publicado siete libros de poesía:
Keyboard (1986), Minutes from Awakening (1989), Live Bars (1991), Steep Sights (1994) , Son of the Earth (2000), The Rush of Light (2003), Breath of Things – Selected poems (2005).
Ganó los premios más destacados nacionales literarios, tales como: Premio Branko Copic, Premio Branko Miljković, Premio Mesa Selimović, el Premio Golden Flower. El poemario The Rush of Light fue declarado el libro de Serbia del año 2003. Ha ganado Vladislav Petkovic Dis Award, para el logro poético en general. Sus poemas han sido traducidos a varios idiomas.
LA POESÍA ESTÁ NACIENDO
El poeta es
El que escribe una carta
A una persona inexistente
Que vive en una ciudad inexistente
De un país inexistente.
El contenido de la carta es breve
"Todo poema nace
De alguna manera
Póstumo."
El poeta es
El que afanosamente espera
Una respuesta que no obtendrá.
Traducida al castellano por Midica Milovanovic
POSTAL
És així, seguim vius.
L'asfalt al voltant
és aspre
i fred. La rosa
suau com una flama.
La construcció de ferro
del pont recorda
unes espases creuades.
Els fanals a la nit
acoten el cap.
Els cotxes als carrer
brunzeixen com escarabats.
L'aire és suau,
i agradable, vora el riu
per on naveguen lents
els vaixells. Això són arbres,
això, àlbers. Fulles, fragàncies.
Els cantells són esmolats.
Una evidència. N'estem
orgullosos. Així és,
seguim vius. Però tot
és més i més lent.
Fins que no esdevinguem
una escena a la postal.
Traducida al catalán por Xavier Farré
Razglednica
Jeste, živi smo.
Beton oko nas
Hrapav je
I hladan. Cvet
Ruže, kao plamen mek.
Čelična konstrukcija mosta
Podseća na ukrštene
Mačeve. Svetiljke
Noću obaraju svoje glave.
Automobili na ulicama
Zuje kao bube. Vazduh je
Lak, i prija,
Uz reku kojom plove
Polako brodovi. Ovo drveće,
To su topole. Lišće, mirisi.
Ivice su oštre. Jasnost
Na koju smo ponosni. Jeste,
Živi smo. Ali
Sve sporije i sporije.
Dok ne postanemo
Prizor na razglednici.
Postcard
Yes, we are still alive.
The concrete around us
is rough
and cold. The rose
as soft as a flame.
The steel construction of the bridge
reminds us of crossed
swords. At night
street lamps bow their heads.
In the streets
cars hum like insects.
The air by the river
is tender and pleasant.
Ships move slowly away.
And the poplars: leaves, fragrances.
Everything has clear-cut
outlines. Yes,
we are still alive.
But we don't overstate this:
as we wait to become a scene
on a postcard.
Übersetzung: Translated by Zoran Paunović
ELEGY ABOUT AN ACACIA UNDER THE WINDOW
Translated by: Zoran Paunović / Svetozar Koljević
Dodir
Prizor traje do ivice mog pogleda,
Potom se obrušava. Kiša se
Sliva niz oluk. Barica
Koja se stvara u ulegnuću asfalta
Prevariće nekog odbleskom.
Trava se leluja, i zemlja se ježi.
Rovac se užasnut trgne u svom
Uzanom hodniku.
Vrtoglavica se vije
Na staklenoj stabljici.
Kao prašina je mrak rastresit.
Svetlost me uvek iznenadi.
Vrhovi mojih prstiju su se rascvetali.
Blago zanjihan
Svet izvan mene postoji.
A TOUCH
The scene extends to the verge of my look,
Then it soars down. The rain
Pours down the gutter. The pool
That is being formed in the hollow on the asphalt
Will cheat someone with its reflection.
The grass sways, the earth shivers.
The mole cricket, horrified, startles
In its narrow passageway.
Vertigo wavers
On its glass stalk.
Darkness disperses like dust.
I am always surprised by light.
The tips of my fingers have bloomed.
Slightly swinging
The world around me exists.
ELEGY ABOUT AN ACACIA UNDER THE WINDOW, 1.
How many times have you seen this treetop,
its leaves quivering or at peace,
its twigs thin as burst
capillaries on an eye;
that tree trunk, upright
as an exclamation mark,
and the branches, spreading aside
as if fumbling for something.
You were afraid that you would not find
the words for a poem,
that you might lose it:
as if a poem could disappear,
vanish, turn into silence, into air.
In autumn, the tree used to lose its leaves,
in spring it would get them again.
So it seemed to you.
And the acacia was there, under your
window, unable to move –
except in a stormy nightmare.
ELEGY ABOUT AN ACACIA UNDER THE WINDOW, 2.
The fallen leaves roll along
the asphalt, slowly changing
their colour, from green to dark brown.
More and more they resemble
faces of children at dusk, when the day wanes.
So many times you watched that tree
and it offered itself to your glance,
indifferent, with its breath abate.
Its root hair, its tissue, the juices that
feed the body that wriggles
and breaks away from the firm embrace
of your consciousness. Maybe you do not see it
but the tree looks straight
into your eyes.
ELEGY ABOUT AN ACACIA UNDER THE WINDOW, 3.
Those leaves, green and soft as words,
decaying and rotting, going back
to the earth, wherefrom they sprang.
Are you still afraid
that the poem might escape from you?
The poem does not throw away its words.
The verses – whom can they return to?
Who do they come from at all?
You are still at the window. Watching.
The treetop, that murmuring whirlpool,
focuses in a point
as small as an eye pupil.
The asphalt is like the white of the eye.
The wind slides over it
like an eyelid over the eye.
The earth has your features.
And this is not a window, but a mirror.
How many times have you approached it,
and you never realised that,
never noticed.
A PRAYER
God, give me strength to accept
Peacefully the share of suffering
Allotted to me;
Never to call the pain that
Creeps into my soul an intruder
Or a guest.
The room in which I dwell
Is well-lit, and open.
And give me strength not to
Become proud, for joy,
For those moments of bliss
When I took the world
Into a lover's
Embrace
Nerves of a leaf, sparkling
Of the river's surface, odour
Of lime-trees in bloom, a shell
Buried in the sand, clouds
Amassed against
Dark background of the sky.
All of that is so real
That it surely is within me.
I am weak. That's why I talk.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario