Monday, September 30, 2013

Tristesse pour demain. Ivan Borislavov. Poèmes traduit du bulgare par Marie Vrinat


TRISTESSE POUR DEMAIN


Pourquoi ne pourrais-je pas crier moi aussi
que je suis un homme
qui a perdu son passé?

Est-ce parce que les souvenirs  m’ont adopté?
Et que le miroir conserve jalousement toutes mes images…
Les regards enfuis reviennent.
Les minutes
pendues aux aiguilles de la montre
se mettes à chanter.
Еt tous les éléments, qui s’étaient apaisés, se réveillent

Mais si Dieu m’a oublié,
pourquoi le diable se souvient-il de moi?
Est-ce lui qui m’a murmuré
que je ne puis perdre
ce que je n’ai jamais possédé?

Comment le passé peut-il m’apaiser?

Je sors de la nécropole de l’hiver.                                                     
Еt je vois:
un brin de mercure pousse dans le thermomètre.
Et je sais
que l’amour est vivant
qu’il est là,
inaccessiblement proche.
Ou bien il m’attend en secret là-bas,
dans les faubourgs de l’univers.

Dégélé, le temps bat.

Et je me hâte de tourner l’atlas stellaire.
Et je me hâte de verser mon sang
dans l’heure de demain.

Most Concise Definition of a Philosopher. Sergej Birjukov. Transl. Erina Megowan


Most Concise Definition of a Philosopher

Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear being a philosopher.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear being a person.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear being.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t.
Philosopher – it is a person, who.
Philosopher – it is a person.
Philosopher it is!
Philosopher!

(Read distinctly, gradually strengthening the voice. Repeat everything in the opposite order.)
Philosopher!
Philosopher it is!
Philosopher – it is a person.
Philosopher – it is a person, who.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear being.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear being a person.
Philosopher – it is a person, who doesn’t fear being a philosopher.

Reading Octavio Paz. Peter Semolič, Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan


Reading Octavio Paz
Peter Semolič, Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan

      Tonight I am sailing down all my rivers, borne by the stream
of words, I sail as I speak, I speak as I sail . . .

. . . rivers, glittering like a child’s laughter, the staccato of rapids, the fast
chutes over cascades, rapturous drops down waterfalls, beads
of water, the sun in each one, and finally the foam, bubbles of air
engulfing me like a great jacuzzi . . .

. . . the river, big brown god, carries me like a slumberous bough through
the height of summer, the buzzing of insects, I sail as I speak,
I speak as I sail, I can see: the blue sky, clouds and fish swimming
across, crabs hiding in treetops, in the green explosion of
joie de vivre, a flock of fry takes wing like startled quails . . .

. . . I can see: Narcissus’ perfect countenance, heavy blocks of Florentine
masonry, arcs of bridges crossed by poetry of transience (Apollinaire)
and by the lines of an epic I am reading . . .

. . . I can see myself in the turning of the seasons, and my love,
sad as a willow, bowing over me, a river, sailing
through winter, through the city de la Tour Unique du grand Gibet et
de la Roue . . .

. . . I am a river, absentmindedly receiving an unhappy lover,
a great poet, and I am not sad when I am stained with blood, and
I am not happy when ice sheets thin away, when I soar into the sky, neither
the dam nor the dyke can touch me . . .

. . . the river, the dark deity from beyond the swampy,
tangled greenery, callous mired deity, my mouth
has a name for you – the Amazon, it calls you the Nile, the Mississippi, my eyes
erect secret cities at your side (Eldorado), I
turn you into Okinawa . . .

. . . two youths, as beautiful as Hyacinthus, atremble in the dewy morning,
gazing at you, lost in themselves, gazing at you, as beautiful as Hyacinthus,
and you, you don't even spare them a glance . . .

      Tonight I am sailing down all my rivers, stars, stars
in the depths below me, tonight I am sailing through myself, I sail as I speak,
I speak as I sail, I sail through myself multiplied into countless
currents, I am a stream against which I sharpen a knife, a wild girl,
hastily making love upon the gravel, cleanses herself in me, my love
reaches into me and tells me River Kolpa and tells me River Rokava and tells me
you cool and unveil the path and tells me, you are ice, ice, ice . . .

. . . I speak and am spoken, I sail and am sailed, I am real
and an illusion, I am water flooding over myself, a swimmer
cutting sharply across the constant currents, the river's slow amble towards the sea,
I am the sea, which is the river of all rivers, I am the sky, which is the sea of all seas...

      Ljubljana, summer 1998:
In the garden of a neighbourhood pub I am reading Octavio Paz, two grey herons flitting to and fro like fine kites beneath a translucent evening sky . . .

. . . the constant roaring of the Ljubljanica by the railings, the river’s
body of light, and in it the big setting sun . . .
   
. . . from beneath my feet I pick up a stone the size of a child’s fist and
fling it over the fence into the water . . .

. . . don’t read me like a story, read me like concentric rings
on the water . . .

Sunday, September 29, 2013

*** As if resolved is *** Sergej Birjukov. Transl. Erina Megowan


As if resolved is
The equation of the sun

What is wind for
And rain with snow

And desert frost

And a cloud of vapor

God knows the remaining

Foreword to the Jaunty Janitor: Suck it Up, Cupcake. Jared Schickling


FOREWORD TO THE JAUNTY JANITOR:
SUCK IT UP, CUPCAKE.

Every sports stadium has a unique attraction the
ivy wall, the enormous high definition video screen
a seriously angry fan

the pigeons living overhead
doing their business right into the crowd
it’s been going on for years.  (IT’S POOP AGAIN!)

Fans in section 312 are saying bird droppings
have continually hit them
and nothing has been done about it.

“I found out a pigeon had pooped on the back of my shirt”
last Sunday

“These are $250 seats. [We’re] sitting here trapped in this kind of a situation.  Any
moment a pigeon [will] poop on you.”

She witnessed many people hit at the game where fans have been using
towels to cover their heads, their nachos
When she informed the workers, she was told it’s been an ongoing issue

“It’s a health issue.  These people have drinks.”

So the stadium released the following statement, followed by a man who spoke from his own ass, here deleted:

“We strive to ensure that all who are pooped on
know that they have a positive experience and that their safety
and comfort is my No. 1. Unfortunately, your outdoor stadium
does sometimes have issue with birds.  Others, too, but yes, sure, birds.”

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Homeless Poet Writing To His Love. Peter Semolič, Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan

Homeless Poet Writing To His Love
Peter Semolič, Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan



I’ll build for us a house made of words.
Nouns will be the bricks
and verbs will be the shutters.

With adjectives we’ll adorn 
the window sills,
as with flowers.

In perfect silence we’ll lie
under the canopy of our love.
Perfect silence.

Our house will be so beautiful and so delicate
no inflation of words                  
will endanger it.

And if we speak,
we’ll name only things
we can see with our eyes.            

Because any verb
could shake the foundation,
could demolish it.
                                              
Therefore, hush, mon amour,
hush, pour le beau demain
à notre maison.