NATALKA BILOTSERKIVETS [10.298]

NATALKA BILOTSERKIVETS  

Nació el 8 de noviembre de 1954 en Ucrania. Graduada en la Universidad de Taras Shevchenko de Kyiv en 1976. Ha estado trabajando para la "cultura ucraniana" con entusiasmo. Vive en Kyiv. Es el autora de 6 libros de poesía, los dos últimos "Alergy" (1999) y "Central del hotel" (2004). Sus poemas se han traducido al inglés, alemán, holandés, sueco y la mayoría de las idiomas de Slavic (ruso, pulimento, esloveno y otros).

Publicaciones

Ballad about the Invincibles (poems, 1976); 

The Underground Fire (poems, 1984); 

November (poems, 1989); 

Allergy (poems, 1999).

¡En un subterráneo donde habita dolor

entre el mendigo y los vendedores de flores,

entre impuros charcos congelados y colillas,

suena, clarín de oro, este músico!

 Alto y pálido

 en una bruma sucia

 su saxofón

 suena para la gente

jalea fiesta

en la noche fría

y trae primavera

al subterráneo,

es sollozo feliz

es grito de amor

es lengua de sangre

es gran ofrenda

es gran ofrenda

es lengua de sangre

es grito de amor

es sollozo feliz.

Traducción del ucraniano:

Natalka Bilotserkivets y José María Lopera

BOYS CHOIR

In memory of Ernst Juenger

There are boys who befriend snakes. 

They are fearless and they sing.

Their white shirts, like snow

fly above a fresh grave.

Beneath the black velvet of their pants

their knees burn, torn in marches

on the marble cliffs. Their voices

are thin, but even thinner is their pure breath.

Their perfect pitch resounds like thunder

from lop-eared ears to tender ribs.

...There is no falsity in my feelings

for You, my Lord, for You.

O this love, cold and clear,

this steel honor:

like crystal, salty and icy

and crystal.

There are lips that close the seam

on the sleepy wound;

and blood that drips from the sole

becomes dew.

This is the love that befriends snakes

and beats without pity;

and will kill if Your image

winks from the crystal

and points towards the bloodied path

between reapings

where snow lies on dead ships

and sailors sleep.

HOTEL CENTRAL

for anyone

in one of the cities where at an uncertain time

capricious fate acknowledges us

where in the evening you can hear jazz in the restaurants

in the morning — bells from the gothic arches

water-lilies bloom in the canals there

people drink coffee there and later on beer

and the bicycles of radiant schoolgirls fly

in their sweet way in flocks

their backpacks bright and light

their legs long their hips slim

my God we once were like them too

ten twenty thirty years ago

but cast aside your itinerant pity

there's a Hotel Central in every city —

for those just like you who are no one for no one

here you'll unpack your ordinary things

remove the contacts from your eyes

wash your flesh get your drink

push the button of the pay TV —

there's everything you'd want; and how you'd want it too;

shut your eyes enter and take

nocturnal music knows no bounds

in the chambers of your Hotel Central

at three AM God like Bosch will come

to Hotel Central from the heavenly halls

with insects playing clarinets

with mosquitoes drinking submissive blood

with frogs and snails;

with fish, too;

and all your love —

is just caviar in the repositories of hell

just the struggle of a puny and a miserable slave

spread all over the walls,

of a human being — with a smiting Spirit

he sculpts and bends your body

then throws it into a tub of dung

removing it with his two fingers

shaking it looking and listening

like the first look of tender compassion

like the first touch of a somber "I love you"

like the burst of sun in the folds of a curtain —

Hotel Central meets the new dawn

and every day is like your last chance

and every night as though for the last time

and over the lily-flowered canals

the bicycles

of anxious schoolgirls fly

Grand Hotel Central

Rotterdam, June 22, 2002