Изток Осојник: AND THINGS HAPPEN FOR THE FIRST TIME
Изток Осојник е словенечки компаратист, поет и есеист. Помеѓу 1997 и 2004 година бил директор на Виленица – интернационален книжевен фестивал организиран од Словенечката асоцијација на писатели. Живее и работи во Љубљана, а има издадено неколку збирки поезија. Во продолжение ви приложуваме четири песни од Осојник кои може да се прочитаат во селектираната збирка на негови песни – AND THINGS HAPPEN FOR THE FIRST TIME, преведена на англиски од Соња Кравања.
A boat across the river in the soul.
Strange are these rivers. They run silently,
smooth and shining like oil, yet hateful,
deep, dark, wild, with an immense force.
Strange are these struggles: with no words, no
shouting, no clashing of axes, in silence,
invisible. An ordinary day with the horizon,
the sky and the lake. Empty, drained.
Opened into nothingness, condensed, dripping
with sweat from heat and damp.
Smear over, filthy,
a dismembered soldier on the bare mountaintop outlined
in clear moolinght. Everything precariously perched
at the bottom of the universe. Immovable – swarming, present.
A leather jacket, a horse, a pilgrimage, a pope –
and the empty mirror a faceless god
blessing it all with his non – existence.
A worthless sigh at the stars –
what a terrifying echo!
THE UNIVERSAL WOUND
Shut off from the world, fenced in with
the anxious I as companion, with no
guarding quiet to veil
the inner monologue from outsiders
we assume to be different,
weak, too vulnerable. We admire the faces,
hard as granite; their
relentless, invulnerable composure.
They, too, have their reflective,
anxious, wounded I. Horrified by its weakness
desperate from its wound, they retreated
into isolation. As in honeycomb, the concealed
solitudes hide from one another.
The dark breath, blowing across their depths,
leaves them sealed, separate. Aloneness – the well of mankind.
THE ONE WHO BEARS MY NAME
On the way back to its face a swan
meets angels and ghosts returning
from long nights without consciousness…
You, meanwhile, have already lost a sense
of everyday clarities. You,
the focused one. Which is already absurd.
who comes down the path under the spruce threes?
When does the pensive one wake up in
the dark flesh? One day he, almost out of habit,
forgets to open his eyes when
he turns around. And yet he can see,
watches the same clouds, massacres. Who lives in these blind
eyes, that got us used to boundaries as to language?
Who observes himself out of the letters if the alphabet,
who recognizes himself when rain beats down on the roof?
Then he extinguishes himself like the day, and then it is night.
Back from the mountains he returns to the house of the usual.
But the fog and the rain remain far off on the dark crest.
AN AFTERNOON IN BOLZANO
Here von der Vogelweide once sang his
heart out. There are slopes around,
spun with grapewines. The south wind
bears the scent od jasmine, the valley
whispers of the distant sea.
Sea, that is history, sea.
Nothing discernible remains after rhe trace washes out.
Altogether out of the story or memory
the swollen water tumbles along the pebbeld beach,
the immediate substance tenses with
the dencity of the round horizon.
What von der Vogelweide sang about is not known to me.
But i know who sang, and why. I also know
what he kept quiet about, and who kindled
the immense flare of his forceful love.
Визуелно: Laurent Pernot
Избор на песни: Ивана Смилевска