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.