SYLVA FISCHEROVÁ [14.340] Poeta de República Checa

SYLVA FISCHEROVÁ 

Sylva Fischerová (nacida en 1963) es una de las poetas checas más formidables de su generación. Una distinguida clasicista que enseña en la Universidad Carolina de Praga, escribe poesía con una vívida imaginación, así como de gran alcance histórico. Ha publicado ocho volúmenes de poesía en checo, y su poesía ha sido traducida a numerosos idiomas y se publica ampliamente. Una selección anterior de sus poemas, The Tremor of Racehorses, fue publicado por Bloodaxe en 1990. Además de la poesía, es autora de prosa, literatura infantil y "fictitious travelogue." The Swing in the Middle of Chaos: Selected Poems, co-traducido con Stuart Friebert, fue publicado por Bloodaxe en 2010. 

EL ÚNICO LUGAR

Siempre golpeé 

mi cara con un arco de violín

y mi seno con el arco,

me comí la montura

y me convertí en el espacio vacío

dentro del violín; yazgo ahí

con una criatura muerta que llora. Yo no lloro. Yo podría ser

algo como el ámbar, pero

inmaterial, de aire

   profundo debajo de la montaña

   donde el anciano Chino

   obtuvo la visión de cinco soles; pero al día siguiente

   había sólo uno.

El ámbar, como dije, pero sólo

su oro translúcido,

el color del mar que en la mañana

llora

bajo un sólo sol

y un violín. Allí

         nos encontramos a nosotros mismos:

desnudos, sobre una larga

solitaria playa,

         el único lugar

         al cual habremos de pertenecer alguna vez.

Robert Rivas  http://inutilesmisterios.blogspot.com.es/

six poems

By Sylva Fischerová.

FATE

Fate: but not as in Greek tragedy

where you carry it inside

where it’s written in your eyes.

Fate like rain: a branch fallen

right in front of you,

pointing to the graveyard;

a blow of a hammer, a rendezvous of two rockets,

a bloated stupidity of chance,

of victory of body over spirit,

victory of a player over the throw of dice.

I’M OBSERVING RED ROBINS

pecking at the suet I hung

on a tree,

proving things

belong together, one

bringing about another, a useful

causality,

its trodden pavement,

fairytale of fairness…

But men, and women! A trap

of desire and sense,

in which, all the time,

hidden streams flow, and rivers and

big rivers, the tins of days, of

appointments and sentences,

still, it hasn’t been said,

litter, paper, curses

and kisses stuck in the air

like handstamps from a child’s printing set,

next to them

enwrapped ball of reproaches,

pikes rising from it,

and above all

jerky sleep,

rocked by a dream…

Those golden rays of sun little Jesus

used to slide down!

That’s what I’d like to

it would be enough

for all my life:

sliding with him

down the ray

to my dark chamber

to the red robins

into the eye of a full moon

without any lie or gloom

Don’t play with it

a lie

destroys mystery

SLOW EVENINGS

when even words were eaten

and behind our backs

they were forming an image,

an inscription

illegible, but flawless

as that other time when words

were still things, their melody

on the cold, charred ground

AMONG THE WHITE DAILY FISHES

You can kill it

beat it up, as with

a baseball bat

in the name of sociology

in the name of habit –

circumstances appeared,

obstacles blossomed,

“not-to-hurt”

which hurts

What is it all about?

she asked

I don’t know, he replied

and suddenly they were hemmed in

by a fence of Don’t know’s

as in a besieged Indian village

helpless

with their talismans and rituals

and with the huge burst –

with that depth

everything was shooting up from

and flooding

white daily fishes, their well-rehearsed

hi’s and bye’s

because they touched

a mystery

and nailed to it

like an electric chair

they exploded, detonating

among the white floating fishes

and passers-by who clapped

everyone

the groundplan

of his private universe

PALACE TRAP

Memories: a palace trap leading you into a landscape, which won’t exist anymore,

which never was, we always do remember things wrong. It’s a land of Féerie, where you pass stiff sculptures on the green grass.

The land’s encircled by the Oceanos of Time. A time loop you can’t get out of.

One day, all that milled sugar-tit of looks, sounds, smells will create

amber, a creature trapped in luminous matter, a luminous

jail: there’re hot and cold

memories, all of them cooling down

in the amber,

dry sperm

injected into white sheets,

a reconciliation? Volvox globator

rolls its colony

farther and farther, bundling up

the rest of the world, globa terrae, a question of

perspective, of insemination, the reflector

of the past universe

blew up and

changed into a red star

Aldebaran, cold and

confusing.

MOTHERS

Mothers are always true –

beside their dogs, their lamps and scissors

where fate’s carpet lies

and adult children

like paintings on large plates.

Mother has one eye

like a cyclops

and the world’s full of dangers,

ants crawling all over.

Mummy, there was no Troy,

but many of us didn’t return.

Translated, from the Czech, by the author and Stuart Friebert