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Besani smo u ovoj We Are Sleepless in hladnoj zemlji This Cold Country 8. međunarodni festival suvremene poezije

8th International Festival of Contemporary Poetry

Zagreb, 2013.


Predgovor Osam je godina prošlo otkako smo odlučili pokrenuti Međunarodni festival suvremene poezije, kako bismo vam na godišnjoj razini donijeli ono što smatramo trenutno najboljim na mlađoj pjesničkoj sceni u Europi, i upornost se polako pretvorila u tvrdoglavost. I vašu i našu. Pokušavajući utažiti vašu glad za poezijom, uspjeli smo stvoriti najvjerniju publiku na domaćoj kulturnoj sceni, publiku koja itekako nadilazi puko pojavljivanje na festivalskim događanjima, i na to smo jako ponosni. Svatko od vas tko drži u rukama ovu knjigu ima pravo dići glavu i reći da je dio nečega snažnog, nečega po čemu će generacije pamtiti ovo vrijeme i kukati kako se takve stvari više ne događaju. Smijemo bez srama djelovati pretenciozno, drskim osmjehom hodati kroz grad i reći: s tim sjajem u očima, s tim žarom za poeziju, nama se živo fućka. Mi smo besani u ovoj hladnoj zemlji.

Silvestar Vrljić

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Foreword It has been eight years since we decided to start an International Festival of Contemporary Poetry – so we could bring you, every year, what we consider, at the moment, as the best of the European young poetry scene – and persistency has slowly turned into stubborness. Both yours and ours. By trying to satisfy your hunger for poetry, we have managed to create the most faithful audience in our cultural scene, an audience that beyond any doubt does far more than merely showing up at the festival’s events, and we are very proud of that. Each one of you who is holding this book in his hands has the right to hold his head high and say that he is part of something strong, something by which future generations shall remember this time and whine that these things do not happen any more. We may without shame appear pretentious, walk through the city with an impudent smile and say: with this glow in our eyes, with this passion for poetry, we don’t give a damn. We are sleepless in this cold country.

Silvestar Vrljić


8.međunar odnif est i valsuvr emenepoezi j e 8.međunar odnif es t i vals uvr emenepoezi j eodr žatć es eod1 7 .do1 9.s vi bnj a,u pr os t or i makl ubova“Ki noGr i č ”i “Subl i nk”uZagr ebu. Ovegodi neFes t i val pr eds t avl j aukupno5ml adi hi pr i znat i haut or ai z: Por t ugal a ( Gol gonaAnghel ) ,Ni zozems ke( Mar i aBar nas ) ,Bel gi j e( Maar t enI nghel s ) ,Mađar s ke( Ár pádKól l ar ) ,t ei zHr vat s ke( Mar koPogač ar ) . 8.međunar odnif es t i vals uvr emenepoezi j es l užbenoć es eot vor i t i1 7 .s vi bnj au 21s at ,nas t upoms vi hpetaut or aukl ubu„Ki noGr i č “ .Aut or ić eč i t at inavl as t i t i mj ezi c i ma,apr i j evodeć eč i t at iAnaMar asiDuš anBuć an.Vodi t el jpr ogr ama j eSi l ves t arVr l j i ć . Us ubot u,1 8.s vi bnj a,aut or i ć enas t upat i ukl ubu„Subl i nk“( T es l i na1 2)spoč et komu1 9s at i ,gdj eć epubl i kai mat ipr i l i kudoži vj et iuži vos uvr emenueur ops ku poezi j ui pobl i žeupoznat i pj es ni ke. Pr i j evodeč i t aj ugl umc i Luc i j aBar i š i ći Duš ko Modr i ni ć ,vodi t el j pr ogr amaj eSi l ves t arVr l j i ć . I s t idan,u1 1s at iukl ubu„Subl i nk“( T es l i na1 2)odr žatć emopr omoc i j uknj i ge Mar i eBar nas„ T amogdj et r ebabi t i t i ho/Waarhets t i l moetzi j n“ , nakoj oj ć eaut or i c upr eds t avi t ipr evodi t el j i c aRomanaPer eč i neciur edni kknj i geSi l ves t ar Vr l j i ć .Či t atć egl umi c aLuc i j aBar i š i ć . Unedj el j u1 9.s vi bnj anas t upiaut or as l užbenoć ezat vor i t if es t i valus t udi j u Br ut alu1 9s at i . Us kl opuf es t i val a,Br ut alj eobj avi oknj i gu„Bes anis mouovojhl adnojzeml j i/ WeAr eSl eepl es si nThi sCol dCount r y“ukoj ojs enal azipoezi j as vi hs udi oni ka uor gi nal uipr i j evodui nozemni hpj es ni kanahr vat s kiiengl es kij ezi kt ehr vat s ki hpj es ni kanaengl es ki j ezi k.


We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

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Fotografija: George Anghel

GolgonaAnghel


Fotografija: Diogo Vaz Pinto

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Golgona Anghel rođena je 1979. godine u Alexandriji (Rumunjska). Diplomirala je portugalske i španjolske studije 2003. na Fakultetu za književnost lisabonskog sveučilišta, na kojemu je 2009. i doktorirala iz portugalske književnosti. Trenutno radi na post doktorskom istraživanju iz književnih studija na Fakultetu Društvenih znanosti i humanistike na Novom sveučilištu u Lisabonu. Objavila je tri knjige pjesama: Crematório Sentimental (Sentimentalni Krematorij,  Quasi Edições 2007.),  Cómo desaparecer (Kako nestati,  Málaga 2011.) and Vim porque me pagavam (Došla sam jer su me plaćali, Mariposa Azual 2011.). Objavila je i nekoliko knjiga eseja i kritike: Eis-me acordado muito tempo depois de mim, uma biografia de Al Berto (Ovdje sam probuđen puno vremena nakon sebe, biografija Al Berta, Quasi Edições 2006.) i  Cronos decide morrer, viva Aiôn, Leituras do tempo em Al Berto (Cronos odluči umrijeti, Čitanja vremena kod Al Berta, Língua Morta 2013.).

Golgona Anghel was born in 1979 in Alexandria (Romania). She graduated Portuguese and Spanish Studies in 2003, from the Faculty of Literature of the University of Lisbon, where she also got her PhD in Portuguese Literature in 2009. She’s now developing a postdoctoral research project in literary studies at the Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities of the New University of Lisbon. She published three poetry books: Crematório Sentimental (Sentimental Crematorium,  Quasi Edições, 2007), Cómo desaparecer (How to disappear,  Málaga, 2011) and  Vim porque me pagavam (I came because they were paying me,  Mariposa Azual, 2011). She also published several books of essays and critics: Eis-me acordado muito tempo depois de mim, uma biografia de Al Berto (Here I am awaken much time after myself, a biography of Al Berto, Quasi Edições, 2006) and Cronos decide morrer, viva Aiôn, Leituras do tempo em Al Berto (Cronos decides to die, Readings of time in Al Berto, Língua Morta, 2013).

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Golgona Anghel

Na sala de leitura da insónia Na sala de leitura da insónia,  quando o carro do lixo é  a única resposta ao silêncio e cada instante é um amante que matamos num abrir e fechar de pernas, acompanho em eco, até à estação, os passos apressados das empregadas de limpeza. Para elas, não há inferno. Simplesmente,  evitam sonhar. Para nós, o autocarro 738 irá sempre ao Calvário,  mesmo se pago o bilhete.  No horizonte lento mas seguro de uma utopia light, passo o dia a vender o meu terceiro mundo em colóquios e palestras internacionais. Mostro a toda a gente o canino de ouro,  a minha pele de girafa, a bibliografia em francês. Escrevo a palavra vazio  depois da palavra espera. Pouso as mãos sobre os joelhos cansados. Limpa  mas mal vestida, - olhai – sou o novo modelo para o fracasso. 

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

U čitaonici nesanice U čitaonici nesanice,  kad je smetlarski kamion jedini odgovor na tišinu i svaki trenutak jedan ljubavnik kojeg ubijamo u treptaju nogu, pratim do stanice odjeke užurbanih koraka čistačica. Za njih, pakao ne postoji. One jednostavno izbjegavaju sanjati. Za nas, autobus 738 uvijek će voziti na Kalvariju,  čak i ako platim svoju kartu.  Na sporom ali sigurnom obzoru jedne light utopije, provodim dane prodajući svoj treći svijet na međunarodnim predavanjima i skupovima. Svima pokazujem zlatni očnjak,  svoju kožu žirafe, bibliografiju na francuskom. Ispisujem riječ praznina ispod riječi nada. Polažem ruke na umorna koljena. Čista ali loše odjevena, - pogledajte – ja sam novi model neuspjeha. 

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Golgona Anghel

In insomnia’s reading room In insomnia’s reading room, when the rubbish truck is the only answer to silence and each instant is a lover we kill in an opening and closing of legs, I follow as an echo, down to the station, the hurried step of the cleaning ladies. For them, there’s no hell.  They just avoid dreaming. For us, the 837 bus destination will always be Calvary, even if I pay for my ticket. In the slow but sure horizon of an utopia-light, I spend my days selling my third world in international conferences and talks. I show everybody my golden canine tooth, my giraffe skin, the bibliography in French. I write the word empty after the word waiting. I lay my hands on my tired knees. Clean but badly dressed,  – look – I’m the new model for failure.

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We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

Fotografija: Nico Barnas

MariaBarnas


Fotografija: Jakob Goldstein

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Maria Barnas rođena je 1973. godine u Hoornu (Nizozemska). I u svojim pisanim radovima, koji uključuju prozu, poeziju i (vizualne) eseje, i u vizualnim radovima usredotočuje se na to kako opisi oblikuju i izobličuju naš osjećaj za stvarnost. Studirala je umjetnost na Rietveld Academie i Rijksakademie u Amsterdamu. Nagrađena je s C. Buddingh’ Prize za prvu zbirku pjesama Twee Zonnen (Dva sunca,  2003.), a otada je objavila vrlo hvaljene zbirke, uključujući Er staat een stad op (Grad ustaje, 2007.). 2011. godine njezini ogledi o umjetnosti i književnosti za NRC Handelsblad objavljeni su u Fantastisch (Fantastično).  Njezina zadnja zbirka pjesama Jaja de oerknal (Dada veliki prasak) objavljena je 2013. godine i bavi se mehanizmom straha. Živi i radi u Berlinu i Amsterdamu.

Maria Barnas was born in 1973 in Hoorn (Holland). Both in her written work, including novels, poetry and (visual) essays and in her visual work, she focuses on how descriptions shape and distort our sense of reality. She studied art at the Rietveld Academie and the Rijksakademie in Amsterdam.  She was awarded the C. Buddingh’ Prize for her first collection of poetry  Twee Zonnen (Two Suns,  2003) and has since published highly appraised collections, including Er staat een stad op (A City Rises, 2007). In 2011 her collected observations on art and literature for  NRC Handelsblad were published in Fantastisch (Fantastic).  Her latest collection of poems Jaja de oerknal (Yesyes the Big Bang) came out in 2013, a book focusing on mechanisms of fear. She lives and works in Berlin and Amsterdam.

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Maria Barnas

Een tafel vol mogelijkheden Ik nam de tafel mee om aan te kunnen werken. De poten lieten gemakkelijk los en het blad is niet zwaar maar nu ik aan de verkeerde kant van dit huis aan het raam zit, ontglipt me de stad. Een gezicht waarvan ik me de naam niet herinner. Misschien moet ik ’s ochtends niet luisteren naar een requiem maar anders hoor ik meisjes giechelen. Je weet nooit wanneer ze beginnen, Kan de zangeres niet één keer een fout maken? Zoals ik met een lange man in een laag huis aan het water. We zwommen. We waren wel eens gelukkig maar op een dag werd ik bang voor de tafel. Hij trok zich er niets van aan of ik zou gaan. Hij zou er toch wel blijven staan. Hij wijst de nieuwe vrouw de kleine zon die ’s nachts uit moet op de thermostaat. Weet ze dat ze onder mijn dekens slaapt? Dat het bed van mij is en dat ik de stoelen en de slechte zee kom halen.

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

Stol pun mogućnosti Ponijela sam stol da na njemu mogu raditi. Noge su se lako rastavile a ploča nije teška, ali sad kad sjedim na krivoj strani ove kuće pored prozora, izmiče mi grad. Lice čijeg se imena ne sjećam. Možda ujutro ne trebam slušati rekvijem, ali onda čujem smijuljenje djevojaka. Nikad se ne zna kad će početi. Zar pjevačica ne može bar jednom pogriješiti? Kao ja s visokim muškarcem u niskoj kući na vodi. Plivali smo. Ponekad smo bili sretni ali jednog sam se dana prepala stola. Nije ga bilo briga hoću li otići. On će tu ostati. Novoj ženi pokazuje malo sunce koje noću treba isključiti na termostatu. Zna li ona da spava ispod moje deke? Da je krevet moj i da dolazim po stolce i loše more.

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Maria Barnas

A table full of possibilities I took the table to work on. The legs came off easily and the top isn’t heavy but now I’m sitting at the window on the wrong side of this house, the city escapes me. A face I don’t remember the name of. Maybe I oughtn’t to listen to a requiem in the morning but if I don’t I hear girls giggling. You never know when they’ll begin. Can’t the singer make a single mistake? Like me with a tall man in a low house on the water. We swam. We were happy once in a while but one day I became frightened of the table. It made no difference if I left. It would still be there anywhere. He shows the new woman the little sun on the thermostat to be switched off at night. Does she know she’s sleeping under my sheets? That the bed is mine and that I will come and get the chairs and the wretched sea.

Translation from Dutch: Donald Gardner and Maria Barnas

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We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

Fotografija: Family archives

MaartenInghels


Fotografija: Koen Broos

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Maarten Inghels rođen je 1988. godine u Borgerhoutu (Belgija) i na flamanskoj književnoj sceni diže prašinu od objavljivanja svoga pjesničkog prvijenca, knjige Tumult (Pomutnja, 2008.), sa samo dvadeset godina. Nakon toga objavljuje još jednu zbirku pjesama Waakzaam (Pozoran, 2011.), roman De handel in emotinele goederen (Trgovina emocionalnim dobrima, 2012.) i književnu non-fiction knjigu Een landloper op batterijen (Skitnica na baterije, 2012.). Od 2010. godine kurator je Felix Poetry festivala u Antwerpenu, jedong od najvažnijih međunarodnih pjesničkih festivala u Belgiji.

Maarten Inghels was born in 1988 in Borgerhout (Belgium) and has been making waves on the Flemish poetry scene since the publication of his debut collection, Tumult (Tumult, 2008), when he was just twenty. After that he published another poetry collection Waakzaam (Vigilant, 2011), a novel De handel in emotinele goederen (The trade of emotional goods, 2012) and a non-fiction book Een landloper op batterijen (Drifter on batteries, 2012). Since 2010 he is a curator of Felix Poetry festival in Antwerp, one of the most important international poetry festivals in Belgium.

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MaartenInghels

ER ZIJN GEEN BLAFFENDE HONDEN MEER Jongen, ik zou willen weten: wat maakt het de moeite waard, het navelstarende zwijgen bij de waakvlam van je badkamerboiler, bij elk niezen de liefde preken, piekeren over de potsierlijkheid van voornamen want vandaag sprak ik een bassende albinohond op straat die de wratten op zijn ballen als braille las en daarna nog steeds niet wist of we gedichten over de maan mogen schrijven. Jongen, ik zou willen weten: wat maakt het de moeite waard om dit leven te blijven leiden, te volharden in boosheid en door te blijven schrijven; brieven, opstellen, gedichten, waarin je jezelf aanprijst en de wereld verguist, vecht tegen onverschilligheid, de dagen van faits divers. Jongen, ik zou willen weten: wat maakt het de moeite waard verder te blijven schrijven tot men je debuut vergeet wanneer onze vinger niet meer dient om naar de maan te wijzen maar je vier lezers liever knuffeljunks googelen. Alle hoop is ijdel wanneer je vanuit de fermette kwetterverzen de wereld in kweelt, je gedachten comprimeert in een statusbalk of twee, een essay schrijft in honderdveertig tekens. (Ik ken een dichter die van zijn baard een strop vlecht — er zijn geen blaffende honden meer.) Jongen, mijn droom is onmogelijk en nefast, alle blaaskaken zijn op drift in deze nep-aan-neprace en wat overblijft is een riem papier met het hopeloze gehengel, maar ik beloof: ik haal het hoofd uit de borstkas, gun de ribben ruimte, blijf schrijven: brieven, opstellen, gedichten et cetera. Die hond, vergeef hem niet.

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

NEMA VIŠE PASA KOJI LAJU Stari, da mi je znati: po čemu je vrijedno, samodopadno šutjeti pri plamenu tvog kupaonskog bojlera, svakim kihanjem propovijedati ljubav, razmišljati o šaljivosti imêna jer danas sam govorio lajavom albino psu na ulici koji je bradavice na jajima čitao kao brajicu a nakon toga još uvijek nije znao smijemo li pisati pjesme o mjesecu. Stari, da mi je znati: po čemu je vrijedno ovaj život i dalje voditi, ustrajati u ljutnji i nastaviti pisati; pisma, sastavke, pjesme, u kojima hvališ sebe a svijet ocrnjuješ, boriš se protiv ravnodušnosti, protiv dana sitnih novosti. Stari, da mi je znati: po čemu je vrijedno nastaviti pisati sve dok ne zaborave tvoj debi kada naš prst više ne služi tome da pokazuje na mjesec nego tvojih četvero čitatelja radije guglaju društveno prihvaćene ovisnike. Svaka nada je lažna kada s obnovljenog seoskog imanja u svijet odašilješ cvrkutave stihove, svoje misli komprimiraš u status ili dva, napišeš esej u sto četrdeset znakova. (Poznajem pjesnika koji od svoje brade plete omču – nema više pasa koji laju.) Stari, moj san je nemoguć i koban, svi su bukači bez kompasa, u ovoj trci lažnjak-o-lažnjaka, a ono što ostaje jest snop papira s beznadnim pecanjem, ali obećavam: podići ću glavu s prsnog koša, dati prostora rebrima, nastaviti pisati: pisma, sastavke, pjesme i tako dalje. Onome psu ne opraštaj.

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MaartenInghels

The Barking Dogs Have All Gone Boy, I’d like to know: what makes it worthwhile, the navel-gazing quiet by the pilot light of your bathroom heater, preaching love at every sneeze, fretting over the absurdity of first names because today I spoke a baying albino dog in the street that read the warts on its balls as braille and then still didn’t know whether we were allowed to write poems about the moon. Boy, I’d like to know: what makes it worthwhile to keep living this life, to persist in anger and keep on writing; letters, essays, poems, in which you recommend yourself and revile the world, combat indifference, the days of faits divers. Boy, I’d like to know: what makes it worthwhile to keep on writing till people forget your debut when our finger no longer serves to point at the moon but your four readers would rather google huggable junkies. All hope is in vain when from the farmette you warble chatter verses into the world, compress your thoughts into a couple of status bars, write an essay in one-hundred-and-forty characters. (I know a poet who braids his beard into a noose – the barking dogs have all gone.) Boy, my dream is both impossible and baleful, all the windbags are at it in this feck-to-feck race and what remains is a ream of paper with all that hopeless angling, but I promise: I’ll lift up head from chest, to give the ribs some space and keep on writing: letters, essays, poems etcetera. That dog: do not forgive him.

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We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

Fotografija: Family archives

รrpรกdKollรกr


Fotografija: Keller Ami


Árpád Kollár rođen je u Senti (Vojvodina, Jugoslavija) 1980. godine. Diplomirao je mađarski jezik i književnost i sociologiju na Fakultetu za humanistiku Sveučilišta u Szegedu, na kojemu je trenutno na doktoratu. Predsjednik je mađarskog Društva mladih pisaca. Objavio je studije, kritike i eseje te dvije zbirke pjesama: Például a madzag (Na primjer konopac, 2005.) za koju je primio nekoliko nagrada koje se dodjeljuju novim autorima, i Nem Szarajevóban (Ne u Sarajevu, 2010.). Trenutno živi u Szegedu.

Árpád Kollár was born in Senta (Vojvodina, Yugoslavia) in 1980. He optained degrees in Hungarian language and literature and sociology at the Faculty of Humanities at the University of Szeged, where he is pursuing his doctoral studies. He is also the president of Hungarian Young Writers’ Association. He published studies, critiques and essays, and two poetry collections, Például a madzag (For Example the String, 2005) for which he received several awards given to first-time authors, and Nem Szarajevóban (Not in Sarajevo, 2010). He currently lives in Szeged.

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

NÉZTEM, HOGYAN BAJLÓDSZ A BÉCSI SZELETTEL. NÉZTEM Néztem, hogyan bajlódsz a bécsi szelettel. Néztem a vállat, a nyakszirti csigolyák megtörő mintázatát, néztem a kezet, ami újult lendülettel keresett döféspontot a felkockázott húson. Néztelek. És egy pillanatra a halálodat kívántam, mint Ábel az esetlen Káinét. Egy pillanatra világosan azt üzente a húsom, ki kell javítani a közös anyaméh hibáját, eldobni a tükörcserepet, amiben eddig önnön tökéletességemet csodáltam. A szobafenyő gyantás törzse ledobta az alsó ágakat, megértettem, miért nem locsoltam meg többet. Aztán sokáig csak a bűntudat visszhangos telefonhívásai jöttek, azt mondtad, nagyon szeretsz, azt mondtam, nagyon szeretlek, és igaz volt minden szavunk, akár a homok csillogása. Azt mondtam zavartan, egy vagyok mégis Bábel tornyának névtelen kőfaragói közül.

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ÁrpádKollár

GLEDAO SAM KAKO SE MUČIŠ S BEČKIM ODRESKOM. GLEDAO SAM Gledao sam kako se mučiš s bečkim odreskom. Gledao sam leđa, slomljeni uzorak pršljena na potiljku, gledao sam ruke, koje su novim poletom tražile ubodnu točku na mesu narezanom na kocke. Gledam te. I na trenutak sam poželio tvoju smrt, kao Abel nezgrapnom Kainu. Na trenutak meso mi je jasno poručilo da treba ispraviti grešku zajedničke maternice, baciti komadiće ogledala u kojem sam se dosad divio svojoj vlastitoj savršenosti. Smolasto deblo sobne jelke odbacilo je donje grane, shvatio sam zašto je nisam bolje zalio. Zatim su dugo dolazili samo odzvanjajući telefonski pozivi savjesti, rekao si da jako voliš, rekao sam da te jako volim i svaka naša riječ je bila istinita, kao bljeskanje pijeska. Zbunjeno sam rekao da sam ipak jedan od bezimenih kamenoklesara kule babilonske.

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

I WATCHED YOU STRUGGLING WITH A VIENNA STEAK. I WATCHED I watched you struggling with a Vienna steak. I watched a back, a broken sample of a vertebra on the nape, I watched hands, which with a new boost were searching for a stabbing point on the meat carved in cubes. I am watching you. And for a moment I wished your death, like Abel did to bulky Cain. For a moment the meat clearly bespoke me that the mistake of a mutual uterus must be corrected, the pieces of a mirror in which until now I have admired my own perfection, should be thrown. The resinous trunk of an indoor fir has rejected its lower branches, I understood why I haven’t watered it better. Then for a long time only the resounding telephone calls of conscience were coming, you said you love very much, I said I love you very much and each one of our words was true, like a flashing of sand. I confusedly said that I am still one of the nameless masons of the Tower of Babylon.

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We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

Fotografija: Family archives

MarkoPogaÄ?ar


Fotografija: Jakob Goldstein

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Marko Pogačar rođen je 1984. godine u Splitu. Objavio je četiri knjige pjesama: Pijavice nad Santa Cruzom (2006.), Poslanice običnim ljudima (2007.), Predmeti (2009.) i Crna pokrajina (2013.); dvije knjige eseja: Atlas glasova (2011.) i Jer mi smo mnogi (2011.) te knjigu kratkih priča Bog neće pomoći (2012.). Urednik je u književnom časopisu Quorum, dvotjedniku za kulturna i društvena zbivanja Zarez i nakladničkoj kući V.B.Z. te član programskog odbora Goranovog proljeća. Bio je stipendist fondacija Civitella Ranieri, Passa Porta, Milo Dor, Brandenburger Tor, Internationales Haus der Autoren Graz, Récollets-Paris, itd. Tekstovi su mu prevođeni na više od dvadeset jezika.

Marko Pogačar was born in 1984 in Split (Croatia). His publications include four poetry collections: Pijavice nad Santa Cruzom (Leeches Over Santa Cruz, 2006), Poslanice običnim ljudima (Epistles to Ordinary People, 2007), Predmeti (Objects, 2009) i Crna pokrajina (Black Province, 2013); two books of essays Atlas glasova (Atlas of Voices, 2011) i Jer mi smo mnogi (Because We are Many, 2011), and a short story collection Bog neće pomoći (God Will Not Help, 2012). He is an editor in Quorum, a literary magazine, and Zarez, a bi-weekly for cultural and social issues. He was a fellow of, among others, Civitella Ranieri, Passa Porta, Milo Dor, Brandenburger Tor, Internationales Haus der Autoren Graz and Récollets-Paris fellowships. His texts appeared in more than twenty languages.

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MarkoPogačar

POVIJEST Šumski požar to je kad gori šuma. toplina na krošnje spušta se s južnog neba: u lišće umotane pošiljke svjetla stabla gutaju kao kokoši glupu zob. sa stablima je u tom trenutku svršeno samo se to još ne zna. kao što krmača guta šaku. plamen već šuška u džepu košulje, u njenim naborima, i dan je svakako svjetliji. na horizontu, njegovoj kičmi, njegovim dlakama dva su sunca; šire njuška prisutnim mrakom. ništa ono ne zadržava za sebe, nikud ne odlazi. bez pomirenja; utihne tek kad dim upuže u slijepu zob i tu ostane. sve će se opametiti; sve će oko mene uskoro postati sunce, misli sunce dok spaja grane s okolnim zrakom. niz deblo k zemlji bježe vjeverice i zmije. toplina, ne znajući si ime, silazi njime u meku stvarnost i ono u sebi pulsira, tijesni se s pticama u isto ludilo. zatim iz debla prodre životinja. proždre koru i kreste konačno probiju površinu. sada deblo u svojoj dubokoj šutnji kukuriječe. upućuje u još jedan dan suviše sklon svom prolasku. potom toplina pohrli niže. sklupča se, nečujna, negdje u korijenju, svečanost stjerana u svoj početak, u mudru mladost. požar sam sebe snažno poželi. prostre se visokim raslinjem kao zora još tamnim nebom, pozdrav jednom punom i praznom sobom. poliže lišće, poliže koru, poliže korijen, sve taj pomalo poliže. i bude bliže jednom i drugom. niskom i visokom bude blizu, kratko započne a onda nastavi s pustim poslom. sada se sve već trese: između zraka i zemlje više ne stoji ništa.

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MarkoPogačar

neke su životinje otišle, a neke druge ostale ondje gdje jesu. nad njima čitava šuma u nešto prelazi, neopipljivo, voda u termama koja čisti i razbija, neka stišana nečist koja bježi ali ne nestaje, zbija si redove. i sve je negdje i sve je nigdje, i sve je osvijetljeno. šumski požar to je kad gori šuma. požar to je kad gori.

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

HISTORY A forest fire, that’s when a forest burns. from the southern sky heat falls onto the treetops: parcels of light wrapped into leaves gulp the trees like hens gulp dumb oats. at that moment the trees are finished but no one knows that yet. like a sow swallowing a fist. the flame already rustling in the pocket of a shirt, in its creases, and the day is definitely brighter. now on the horizon, its spine, its hairs there are two suns; the wider one sniffs through the dark. it keeps nothing for itself, it goes nowhere. uncompromising; it slows down only when smoke creeps into the blind oats. all things will come to their senses; everything around me will soon become sun, the sun thinks as it connects the branches to the air. down the tree trunk to the ground squirrels and snakes escape. heat, not knowing its own name, descends into a looser reality and the trunk pulses, crammed with the birds into a common madness. now from the trunk a beast bursts out. devours the bark and crests finally break the surface. in its profound silence the trunk now crows. it points to another day too keen on its passing. then heat rushes lower. it cowers, soundless, somewhere at the roots, a ceremony chased to its beginning, to wise youth. a desire for itself overwhelms the fire. it spreads through the tall plants like dawn on the darkened sky, a greeting through a full and empty room. it licks the leaves, licks the bark, licks the root, it licks a bit of everything. gets closer to one and the other. close to the short and the tall, it starts briefly then goes on with its bare labour. everything shakes now: between the air and the earth nothing stands anymore.

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Besani smo u ovoj hladnoj zemlji

We Are Sleepless in This Cold Country

some animals have left, others remained where they were. above them the whole forest shifts into something, impalpable, thermal water that cleans and opens, a filth that flees but doesn’t disappear, it closes ranks. and everything’s somewhere, everything’s nowhere, and everything is illuminated. a forest fire that’s when a forest burns. a fire is when it burns.

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8. međunarodni festival suvremene poezije organiziran je uz potporu:

8th International Festival of Contemporary Poetry was organised with the support of:

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8. međunarodni festival suvremene poezije