понедељак, 28. мај 2012.

NINA ŽIVANČEVIĆ


Pesnik, prozni pisac, esejista, kritičar i prevodilac, Nina Živančević je objavila prvu knjigu poezije “Pesme” u izdanju Nolita 1982. i za nju dobila uglednu Brankovu nagradu. Do sada je objavila 13 poetskih zbirki na srpskom, francuskom i engleskom. Objavila je šest proznih knjiga i 2 teoretska eseja - monografiju o recepciji dela Miloša Crnjanskog (doktorska teza) i studiju o našim umetnicama u egzilu, “Onze femmes artistes, nomads et slaves”.
Dobitnica mnogih književnih nagrada, prevodila, uređivala a i lično učestvovala u brojnim pesničkim antologijama svetskog značaja.
Kao urednica i korespondent sarađuje  sa časopisima i novinama kao sto su “Nin”, “Politika”, “Dnevnik”, “Prestup”, “Moment”, “New York Arts Magazine”, “American Book Review”, “East Village Eye”, ”Republique de letters”.
Predavala je književnost i teoriju pozorišne avangarde na brojnim univerzitetima kao sto su Naropa University, New York University, the Harriman Institute, St.John’s University u Sjedinjenim Državama, a u Evropi predaje na Sorboni i na  univerzitetu Paris 8. 
Živi i radi u Parizu.


           Kraća Bibliografija

            Knjige:
            Pesme, Beograd, Nolit, 1982 (Brankova nagrada)       
            Mostovi Koji Rastu, Beograd, Nolit, 1984
           Gledajuci Knjige Nezavisnih Izdavaca, Beograd., Narodna Knjiga, 1985
            More or Less urgent, Minnesota, New Rivers Press, 1988
            Duh renesanse, Prosveta, Beograd 1989
            I Was a War Reporter in Egypt, New York, Leaves Press, 1992
            Recherche Philippe Sollers, Paris, Noel Blandin, 1992
            Inside and Out of Byzantium, New York, Semiotexte, 1994
            Vizantijske Price, Beograd, Vreme Knjige, 1995
            Pesnicki Divan, Zrenjanin, Branicevo, 1995
            Minotaur I Lavirint, Vršac, KOV, 1996
            Prodavci Snova, roman, Narodna Knjiga, Beograd, 2000
            Kao Sto vec rekoh, roman, Prosveta, Beograd, 2002
            Death of New York City (Izabrane pesme, predgovor  Charles Simic),
            Cool Grove, New York, 2002
            Orfejev Povratak (pripovetke), Prosveta, Beograd, 2003
            J’ai été cette journaliste de guerre en Egypte » (izabrana poezija), L’Harmatan, Paris, 2004
            Slovo P, (poezija), Beogradska Manufaktura Snova, Beograd, 2004
            Krajem Veka (poezija) Beogradska Manufaktura Snova, Belgrade, 2006
            Milosh Crnjanski, de la Serbie à l’exil et son  retour (monografija), l’Harmattan,Paris, 2007
            Sous le Signe de Cyber Cybele, poezija, Harmatan, Francuska 2009
             Iznenadni Blesak (razgovori  sa savremenicima), Glasnik, Beograd 2009
            Onze Femmes Artistes, Nomades et Slaves, Non Lieu, Paris, 2011


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Isceljenje

I.                    O malim objektima

Mali objekti su toliko dragoceni
Treba im vremena da disu
Otpustaju energiju i onda hodaju
Pricaju sa raznima pricaju sa svima
Dok tako pricaju   caskaju  carlijaju pricaju

Stepenice mere otkucaj srca
Gledaj kako zaleprsa pa odleti
Prekriveno bojama rdje prekriveno peskom I algama
A Beket je bio u pravu kad rece
Da je zemicka samo rec a ni covek
nije  « rec mnogo bolja »

Eh, da disemo svezinu leta
Dragocene male objekte   pesak i lenje galebove
Koji uzlecu
Vazna je reciklaza
Sadasnjosti  buducnosti  a i proslosti
Tog otuznog objekta koga stavljamo
Na dlan na ljuljasku   taj bljesak srecnog trenutka
Secanja dolaze i odlaze u naletima
Ona nas ne prozdiru vec samo prostiru…

Savrsena damska krinolina seta kroz bastu
U kojoj se noc oprostila sa
Sljunkom i raskosnim visterijama
Treba sada i ovde da otkrijes izlaz
Da pronadjes kljuc
Da uzdahnes
Pre no sto zakoracis niz
Stepenice pre no sto
Postanes mlada I pogrebni mladozenja
Pre no sto pobacas sitan sljunak
Na neke ljude     na sve ljude
Brojim ih…    I nikada se ne igram sa njima
Isuvise umorna da se igram
Ko su svi ovi ljudi ?
Isuvise uzbudjeni da igraju
Ostavljeni na milost
Galebovima I blistavom sjajnom pesku
Bez oprosta     bez trouglastih lastavica
Bez perja           bez pompe          bez kajanja
Bez   lastavica     bez perja       bez pompe
Bez kajanja


II.                 PRAVA LJUBAV

Ljubav je setna   plava    zlatna   i  prava
Prestani sa segacenjem    pisi svoju poeziju
Popi lek               uglancaj cipele
Idi u skolu     mangupiraj se
Izaci iz sopstvene kule       baci je u vazduh  
Orlando rece
Podne je skromno i hrani se mrvama
Mali objekti govore Svahili i cuvaju
postmoderni postkomatozni sjaj gde noc drhti
I zatvara nad glavama sustavi veo
Spasen od sigurne sigurnosti od mudrog znanja
Od siromasne informacije
Duz klizavog doka
Objekat se ugnezdio
Okrugao mudar I hranljiv
Ne progorava I krije svoje skrivene dane   cudan ukus
Svoju slavnu proslost
Bezvremen je
Majko        da li me volis?
Majko        da li ti je do mene stalo?
A meni, do tebe?
Eto, odgegaces se tom sljunkovitom stazom I ostavices me
Samu u svemiru ispunjenom zemickama i zvezdama i
Sjajnim objektima     debelim knjigama  i glasnom muzikom
Sublimnim objektima    veselim recnicima zarobljenim vremenom
Ispunjenom sargarepama    cveklom I ostalim lekovima
Djavoljim satarasem      kaldrmom   prstenjem od opala  i  kobaltnim sutonom

Laka kisa spira ogromne robote   drske racune
Pozajmice I kredite     glupe rekvizite optocene kremenom
Vraca mi se ljubav I sad je vec
Setna plava         zlatna i prava


III.               MORSKO DNO

Noc ce isprati sljunak
Uprskan blatom                  zudnja ekspresioniste
Slatkast otuzan miris cilibara          smrad cilibara
Neodredjen i Bozji
Krajnje francuski  znaci rigorozan    nezasticen ozbiljan
Uplasen i zaboravan
Kamioni zgrusenih reci
Vesnici zudnje            ministarstva cekanja
Kafici  puni izazova
Skole prepune pogrebnika      imena pretrpana istorijom
Saljivdzije     nabijene znanjem
Evo greske  cujes kasalj       gle ludaka
A mi se vozimo u magicnoj opni
Iza membrane prekrivene ledom I legendarnim cutanjem
Hajde dodji   dodji brzo
Uzdahu zenice moje      kostana srzi cveta mog
Taj cvet pokusava da odrzi obecanje koje
       ti je dao na dnu
Najdubljeg purpurnoga mora



----


CURE

 I               ON small objects

Small objects are precious
they take time to breathe
they contain energy and then they walk
they talk   they talk to all sorts of folk
and talk and  talk  and talk
 and talk

The stairs are there to measure the heartbeat
see how it flutters and then flies away
its rusty colours covered with sand and seaweed
Beckett was surely right
that bun is just a (s)word and man is
not much better

Oh to breathe the loveliness of summer
the precious small objects  the sand and lazy seagulls
taking off
the importance of being recycled
the present the future and then the past
a suffocating object placed on
a palm a swing a tinge a happy momentum


Memories come and go in snatches
they do not devour just deflower
a perfect ladylike gown walks through
the garden where the night had said good-bye
to small pebbles lush wisterias
you have to figure out
the exit you
 figure out
the keys you
 taking a breath of air
before you
 descending the staircase
before you
becoming a bride a nightmarish groom
before you
throwing these small pebbles
at other people and yet other people
 counting them up    never playing with them
 too tired to play      who are these people
 too feverish to play
 left all alone
to the seagulls and to that bright bright sand
unforgiving                no rectangular swallows
no feathers            no pomp                 no remorse
no swallows         no feathers            no pomp
no remorse



II                         LOVE IS TRUE

Love is blue   love is gold    love is true
stop being childish   write that poetry
swallow your medicine    brush up your shoes
and go to school     and be a fool
get out of your castle  and blow it off  Orlando said
noon is humble feeding on crumbs
small objects speak Swahili and retain their post
modern post comatose glamour where night shivers
and closes its shimmering veil
saved from certainty saved from knowledge
saved from the poverty of information
along a shady dock
an object takes its place
 round and wise and nourishing
 it says nothing about its hidden days about its  strange taste
about its glorious past
it is extemporal
Mother   do you love me?
Mother    do you care?
And do I care, for you?
There you will trot
along the tiny pebble path and leave me all alone
in the universe peopled with buns and stars and
shiny trinkets   staggering books  and loud records
subliminal objects   cheerful dictionaries encapsulated in time
with carrots  beetroots thistle remedies
witch’s brews cobblestones agate rings cobalt sunsets

light rain washes away  huge robots impertinent bills
mortgage loans     stupid yawns hammered in
love comes back to me and is
blue   gold and true



III                      SEA BED

night will wash away the pebbles
soaked in mud   expressionist yearning
sweet sweet smell of amber  the odour of amber
 neutral and divine
very French and rigorous   unprotected stern
scared and oblivious
the trucks loaded with words
sentinels of yearning    ministries of waiting
cafes filled with challenge
schools full of undertakers     names peppered with history
jokers   stuffed with science
a bluff     a cough      a nut
he is a bluff   and you are a nut
and we are riding in a magic shell
covered with ice and legendary silence
come to me    right now
the eye of my apple   heart of my flower
is trying to keep that promise it
made at the bottom
of the deepest crimson sea


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