viernes, 13 de septiembre de 2013

VOJISLAV KARANOVIĆ [10.505]


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.





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