domingo, 12 de mayo de 2013

TIN UJEVIĆ [9.804] Poeta de Croacia

Tin Ujević
Augustin "Tin" Ujević (5 de julio 1891 - 12 de noviembre 1955), es el gran poeta del modernismo croata. Creció entre Imotski y Makarska en la Dalmacia meridional y estudió en Split y Zagreb. Traductor de Whitman, Proust, Rimbaud, Poe, Gide, etc, ensayista y poeta, llevó una vida bohemia y durante un tiempo vivió en París donde llegó huyendo de la policía austro-húngara.
Cuando Ujević era joven, pensaba dedicar su vida a la política, pero despúes de haber estado envuelto en varias actividades relacionadas con el nacionalismo de Yugoslavia entre los años de 1912 y 1916, se olvidó de involucrarse dentro de política y comenzó una vida con estilo bohemio, desarrollando así un gran interés por la literatura.
Ujević distinguía sus trabajos en 3 campos distintos: la traducción, el ensayo y el folletín; además de la poesía, que fue el género literario en el que más se enfocó, y también el género que lo hizo sobresalir en la literatura en lengua croata. Años despúes, publicó varios libros de ensayos y de poesía escritos por el mismo.
Tradujó a croata numerosas obras de diversos autores, como Walt Whitman, Marcel Proust ó Joseph Conrad.


Lelek sebra/ El llanto de un esclavo(1920)
Kolajna/ Collar (1926)
Skalpel kaosa/ El bisturí del caos(1938)
Žedan kamen na studencu/ La piedra sedienta en el pozo(1954)
Auto na korzu/ Coche en la calle

Tin Ujević
Autor: Pau Sanchis


U slutnji, uno čežnji daljine, daljine
uno srcu, uno dahu planine, planine.
Malena mjesta srca mueva,
spomenak braza, Imotskoga.
Y blijesak slavna šestopera,
y mires (mires) kalopera.
Tamo, tamo da putujem,
tamo, tamo da tugujem;
da čujem one stare basne,
da mlijeko plave bajke sasnem;
da visas su znam sebe sama,
ni dima bola u maglama.


En el presagio, en el anhelo allende, allende;
En el corazón, en el aliento de montañas, montañas.
Los pueblos pequeños de mi corazón,
de Brač y de Imotski el recuerdo.
Y el fulgor de la maza gloriosa
y el olor (el olor) de la balsamita.
Hacia allí, hacia allí viajo,
hacia allí, hacia allí enlutado;
para escuchar aquellos cuentos,
para mamar la leche de la fábula azul;
que ya no me reconozco,
ni al humo del dolor en la niebla.

Estos versos de Tin Ujević que siguen los he encontrado en Split, en la plaza que hay saliendo del antiguo palacio de Diocleciano por la Puerta de Oro. Hay más placas como ésta con otros versos en otros lugares de la ciudad, todas con versos de Ujević que vivió algunos años, mientras estudiaba. Esta placa no se encuentra en ninguna pared, pero la incluyo en mi colección, porque pienso que da igual si el verso lo cuelgan las autoridades competentes en un muro o en el peldaño de una plaza, ¿no?


Noćas se moje čelo žari,
noćas se moje vjeđe pote;
i moje misli san ozari,
umrijet ću noćas od ljepote.
Duša je strasna u dubini,
ona je zublja u dnu noći;
plačimo, plačimo u tišini,
umrimo, umrimo u samoći.


Esta noche me arde la frente
esta noche me sudan los párpados;
el sueño me ilumina el pensamiento,
moriré esta noche de belleza.
Al fondo del alma la pasión
es una tea en la noche profunda
lloramos, lloramos en silencio
morimos, morimos en soledad.

Tin Ujević - Thirteen Poems / 
Translation: Richard Berengarten and Daša Marić

Daily Lament

How hard it is not to be strong,
how hard it is to be alone,
and to be old, y et to be y oung!

and to be weak, and powerless,
alone, with no one any where,
dissatisfied, and desperate.

And trudge bleak highway s endlessly ,
and to be trampled in the mud,
with no star shining in the sky .

Without y our star of destiny
to play its twinklings on y our crib
with rainbows and false prophecies.

- Oh God, oh God, remember all
the glittering fair promises
with which y ou have afflicted me.

Oh God, oh God, remember all
the great loves, the great victories,
the wreaths of laurel and the gifts.

And know y ou have a son who walks
the weary valley s of the world
among sharp thorns, and rocks and stones,

through unkindness and unconcern,
with his feet bloodied under him,
and with his heart an open wound.

His bones are full of weariness,
his soul is ill at ease and sad,
and he's neglected and alone,

and sisterless, and brotherless,
and fatherless, and motherless,
with no one dear, and no close friend,

and he has no-one any where
except thorn twigs to pierce his heart
and fire blazing from his palms.

Lonely and utterly alone
under the hemmed in vault of blue,
on dark horizons of high seas.

Who can he tell his troubles to
when no-one's there to hear his call,
not even brother wanderers.

Oh God, y ou sear y our burning word
too hugely through this narrow throat
and throttle it inside my cry .

And utterance is a burning stake,
though I must y ell it out, I must,
or, like a kindled log, burn out.

Just let me be a bonfire on
a hill, just one breath in the fire,
if not a scream hurled from the roofs.

Oh God, let it be over with, 
this miserable wandering
under a vault as deaf as stone.

Because I crave a powerful word,
because I crave an answering voice,
someone to love, or holy death.

For bitter is the wormwood wreath
and deadly dark the poison cup,
so burn me, blazing summer noon.

For I am sick of being weak,
and sick of being all alone
(seeing I could be hale and strong)

and seeing that I could be loved),
but I am sick, sickest of all
to be so old, y et still be y oung!


In this mist, in this rain -
oh drunken heart, don't drown in pain.

Love unrequited gave no rest, 
so now y ou y earn for earth's breast,

And all y our longing, cry of a slave, 
is to find some quiet grave:

here my soul will soon expire 
and here will wither my desire

on the waves of our blue, blue sea 
and white, white pebbles cover me,

and my needs will all come home 
under Blessed Heaven's dome,

with sun, calm blue, and clarity , 
beneath the ground that once bore me.

Star on High

He loves no less who does not waste his words,
but asks and cares too much, though seeming dumb,
and his whole scope of loving (like a crumb
of bread to feed to hungry teeth), he hoards,
preserving it to give some star on high -
his soul, his heart, his distant destiny.

His silence say s: in this world's alien loneliness,
flowers and sonnets occupy my dreams,
with plant-pots perched on seasoned wooden beams -
our poverty 's pure, simple lines of loveliness.
beneath the veil of day and night's clean blue,
I'm dreaming: I shall come, I'll come for y ou.

From The Necklace (1926)


Come closer, darkness, lay y our hand
across the horizon's wilderness
and cover all of no man's land
with secrecy and cloudiness.

Come closer, dusky haziness
till midnight thickens through the whole
wide world with dreams and drowsiness,
and while it sleeps, sing - from the soul.


These words - ripe harvests of black light,
these songs - ripened in silence - reach 
cracked and bursting from deep night -
like beggared hands outstretched, beseech -

I'm no poet, but I do know pain -
so I must love my human hurt.
So, from my tears, I'll braid a chain
to ornament a dowry shirt.

-With pearl and coins of minted gold
worth more than any poet wrote -
if only , my beloved child,
y ou'll wear my necklace at y our throat.


Blessed morning, y ou cascade
roaring lightfalls in this room.
How can pain make me afraid,
dead already , in my tomb?

Well, perhaps y ou can ignite
buried sparks from ash and dust
since the lilac and the light
still swell longing in y our breast.

When I lift y our veil, y ou show
lines of quiet, forms of grace
in shelves of books, row on row -
then the whole room's careworn face.

And y et, there's something still I miss
from this crib without a cross,
a smile upon dear lips, the kiss
of flowers in a waterglass.

Blessed morning, while y ou dress
this room in y our translucent robe,
I have no fear of death's caress.
Only give love back to this Job.


Amid the pressing milling throng
without a guide and fatherless.
I've lived alone and groaned too long:
groans bear my seal of hopefulness.

I hunted every sound and sight,
I gladly parcelled out my soul,
I flexed my bow, my aim was right,
and every shot attained its goal.

I blazed to give out more to all,
with light my letter, God my trust,
and my own spirit criminal
if thorn and bramble were my crust.

But now the dreariest to end
all things is, in this dreary hell,
my spirit's dead - my oldest friend -
and I a cracked and empty bell.


The Gulf! Whole oceans scaled over my head,
and gold fish fashioned out of cry stallites,
I ask where Madam Moonlight's lain abed,
and blue horizons haze blue mountain heights.

The dawn is spiked with delicate clear dread,
thought's needles - piercing, lucid - snap and freeze.
No scales or spirals raise me, spirited,
nor mirrorings of rocked realities.

The heart's a world unfathomed, fertile, deep, 
and man, beneath his lead sky , breaks and sinks, 
while life, a seagull, soars above his head.

Ay e, well-fed easy woman, stuffed on bread, 
thought's rhy thms broke our last connecting links, 
but oh, how heart and pulse beat, beat and leap.

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