четвртак, 07. мај 2015.

Ivan Dobnik

Ivan Dobnik rođen 1960. godine u Celju. Pesnik, urednik, prevodilac, esejista i književni kritičar. Na Filozofskom fakultetu u Ljubljani je studirao filozofiju i komparativnu književnost. U periodu od 1988 – 1995. bio je zaposlen u biblioteci Bežigrad. Bio je član uredništva časopisa Apokalipsa (1998 – 2008), idejni pokretač i odgovorni urednik časopisa Poetikon (2005 - ) suosnivač Književnog društva Hiša poezije (2006 - ). Objavio je pesničke zbirke Osvobajanje (Oslobađanje), 1980; Kaligrafija lire (1999), Zapreš svoje oči (Sklopiš svoje oči), 2003; nominacija za Veronikinu nagradu 2004; Rapsodija v mrzli zimi (Rapsodija u hladnu zimu), 2005; na francuskom i slovenačkom Rhapsodie dans un hiver froide / Rapsodija v mrzli zimi (2006); Zapisi z drevesnih lističev (Zapisi sa listova drveća), 2006; na nemačkom i slovenačkom zajedno sa Andrejom Medvedom i Miklavžem Komeljom Stimmen slowenischer Lyrik / Glasovi slovenske poezije I (2007), Svetilnik (Svetionik), 2008; Bela pesem (Bela pesma), 2009; Spiva na zadnji obali / Wir schlafen an der letezen Küste (Rimbach, 2009) i Rapsodija v mrazovitata zima (Sofija, 2010). Njegove pesme su prevedene na brojne jezike. Živi i stvara u Šmatevžu (Savinjska dolina) i u Ljubljani.
(prev. Ana Ristović)

Ivan Dobnik, born in 1960 in Celje, is a poet, editor, translator, essay author, and literary critic. He studied philosophy and comparative literature at the Faculty of Arts of the University of Ljubljana. In the years 1988 to 1995 he worked at the Bežigrad Library. He was on the editorial board of the literary magazine Apokalipsa from 1998 to 2008 and is the founder and chief editor of the literary magazine Poetikon (2005-present) as well as co-founder of the Literary Association House of Poetry (2006-present). He has published the following works: Osvobajanje (‘Liberation’, 1980), Kaligrafija lire (‘Caligraphy of the Lyre’, 1999), Zapreš svoje oči (‘Closing Your Eyes’, 2003; nominated for the Veronika Award in 2004), the French-Slovene Rhapsodie dans un hiver froid / Rapsodija v mrzli zimi (‘Rhapsody in a Cold Winter’, 2006), Zapisi z drevesnih lističev (‘Tree Leaf Notes’, 2006), the German-Slovene Stimmen slowenischer Lyrik / Glasovi slovenske poezije 1 (‘Voices of Slovene Poetry 1’, 2007; with Andrej Medved and Miklavž Komelj), Svetilnik (‘The Lighthouse’, 2008), the Slovene-German Spiva na zadnji obali / Wir schlafen an der letzten Küste (‘We Sleep on the Last Shore’, 2009, Bela pesem (‘A White Poem’, 2009), Rapsodia v mrazovitata zima (Sofia, 2010), Laubschriften (2010), and Pred začetkom (‘Before the Beginning’, 2010). His poems are translated into several languages. He lives and writes in Ljubljana.
(prev. Tanja Dominko) 



SVETIONIK

                               Za Marka Cestnika

Prozračnost horizonta odakle se pokreću talasi,
vest razglednice, drhtavi plamen poslednjeg pogleda.
Posvećujem se sebi, istrajavam, istrajavam
sa zracima večeri koji prečišćavaju reku,
pa i ljudsku dušu, nepouzdanu
ostavu neponovljivih stanja,
gde god sam. Pemaquid Point Lighthouse,
New Harbor, Maine; sunce već tone,
ti svojim slanim stopalima pretražuješ
vetar, sećanje i još uvek žive prisutnosti
umrlog oca, pišeš mi, da je leto u zenitu.
Mesta gde sam već bio, milovanja mirisnih soba,
Bezanson, 1996; mirišem te, mislim te,
sanjam i pijem. I buka automobila
sa autoputa Ljubljana – Maribor je muzika,
nova svetilišta našeg vremena su podarena
knjigama. Plodovi koji sazrevaju. Predeo kao što je
bio pre četrdeset godina, vonj po konjima
na paši, po nedovršenim platnima slikara
aktova seoskih devojaka, a jeseni su bile hladne,
zvezde tihe, bio sam nepokretan, začaran,
prepunjen toplinom koja je isijavala iz divljine.
Uvek iznova grad je pun krvi, svako
secište morija, bogatstava koje obično
ne znamo da upotrebimo, ovde su kao pokloni
budnima. I jezero koje skriva glas,
klizanje leopardovog hoda na igralištu
predgrađa, bilo gde, površina se preobražava,
sneži, galebi na Il de Molen su se srećno
vratili iznad Rokavskog morskog prolaza, u zatišju
Žute kuće gledam nazad na kontinent,
tih, biblijski, paganski. U intenzivnom snu
ne sanjam. Najmoćnija stvarnost
me vrati rođenju, sebi, da bih mogao
da te volim naporom ćutanja, sazrevanja,
beztežinskog. I noćne daljine žmirkanja
svetionika. Onda oslobođenost Sredozemlja,
na grčkom ostrvu: i tamo, među ostacima
odvažnog čovečanstva gde si tražio crne oči i
nebo da bi se podigao, lebdeo.
Ovde se leto završava. Neću otići.
Ni ti, kod kuće na obali previranja,
nećeš. Otići, vratiti se: sve
najpouzdanije su naše reči,
beleške, pisma, ukus dimljenog
čaja u šumi, sunčevi zalasci,
koji ogreju naše vazdušne prijatelje,
Vintgar, Grapa: u očima svetla
pišemo, to su zgušnjavanja potpune
predanosti, put, tako razvejan,
širi se u prošlosti, naseljava
prostranstva koja može da dosegne
samo pisanje, talas stanja osećanja
ne može se umiti u samo jednom obliku
niti sve reči ne mogu da stišaju
želje za trenutkom; jadrasta zbog jedrenja.
Dugo traj. Jabuke u voćnjaku su
nestale, rečna korita, skrivališta fazana,
zatrpana su. Nebo plavo, tako odsutno.
Ovde, gde se sve raširi, avgust je.
Sve. Što imam nije moje. To nestaje
zbog mnogih beležnica, zbog brzine
koja nas razvlašćuje od materijalnog, dakle
materije snova da bi i dalje bila čista.
Popodne, bezvetarje, žmirkanje zraka:
kuda me vodi glas? Ostaću gde sam,
posvuda. Obalo, tako slikovita! kažeš.
Šum Okeana, mešanje privida, čuđenje,
dugo pismo, izlizan kamen na ruci,
što menja oblike, otvara žilava
bespuća. I iznad svega tamo svetionik.

Preveo sa slovenačkog: Milan Đorđević



The Lighthouse

For Marko Cestnik

A translucent horizon, from where waves roll in,
a message on a postcard, the quivering flame of a final glance.
I am devoted to myself, I persist, persist
with the evening sunbeams cleansing the river,
as well as the human soul, the uncertain
repository of unrepeatable states,
wherever I am. Pemaquid Point Lighthouse,
New Harbor, Maine; the sun is setting,
with salty feet you examine
the wind, the memory and the still vivid presence of your
dead father, you write to me that the summer has reached its zenith.
The places I have visited, the caress of fragrant rooms,
Besançon, 1996; I breathe you, I think you,
I dream and drink you. Even traffic noise
from the motorway Ljubljana-Maribor is music,

new temples of our time are given to
books. Ripening fruits. The land as it
was forty years ago, the smell of horses
in a pasture, of a painter's unfinished nudes
of country girls, the autumns were cold,
the stars quiet, I was still, entranced,
full of the warmth emanating from the wild.
Time and again the city is full of blood, all the
crossroads of seas, riches we usually
don't know how to use, are here as gifts
to the wakeful. And the lake which hides the voice,

the leopard-like prowl on the playground
of a suburb, wherever, the surface changes,
it snows, the seagulls of Ile de Molén have safely
returned from the Channel, in the calm
of the Yellow House I turn back to the continent,
silent, biblical, pagan. In an intensive sleep
I don't dream. The strongest reality returns
me to birth, to myself, so that I could
love you with the labour of silence, contemplation,
weightlessness. The nocturnal distance of winking
lighthouses. Then the leisure of the Mediterranean,
on a Greek island: also there, among the remains
of a bold people, where you sought black eyes and
the sky to elevate and float.

This is where summer ends. I will not leave.
Neither will you, at home on the shore of exuberance,
you will not. To leave, to return: all that
which is most certain are our words,
notes, letters, the taste of smoked
tea in the forest, sunrises
warming our aerial friends.
Vintgar, Grapa: in the eye of the light
we write the sum of complete
devotion, the path forks out
into the past, inhabits
vast expanses, which only writing
can reach, waves of emotional states
cannot be washed in only one form,

neither can any given word slake
the longing for the Moment; we sail for sailing's sake.
Last long. The apple trees in the orchard have
disappeared, the riverbeds, hideouts of pheasants,
are buried under. The sky is blue, so absent.
Here, where everything broadens, is August.
Everything. What I have is not mine. It vanishes
because of the numerous notebooks, because of the speed
which dispossesses us of everything material, meaning
the stuff dreams are made from, so that we could remain pure.
The afternoon, stillness, flickering rays of light:
where does the voice lead me? I'll stay where I am,
everywhere. The coast, so picturesque! you say.
The hum of the Ocean, a confusion of visions, a sense of wonder,
a long letter, a slick stone on the palm of my hand,
that which transforms shapes discloses resilient
untrodden ground. And above it all the lighthouse.

(from The Lighthouse, 2008)

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