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 Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda

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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:46

Miroslav 'Mika' Antić
Photo of Miroslav Antić linking to Antic Blog[From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

Miroslav "Mika" Antić (Serbian Cyrillic: Мирослав "Мика" Антић) (March 14, 1932 – June 24, 1986) was a Serbian poet, journalist and painter. Antić was born in Mokrin, Vojvodina, Serbia (then Yugoslavia).

He wrote poems, articles, dramas, movie and TV scripts and documentaries. Mika also acted in several movies, and was an amateur painter. His best known poem is "Srem", in which he mourns for dead in World War II and describes the beauty of Srem using "bećarac" song form. He is well known as a bohemian.

Mika Antić is best known as a children and youth poet, a master of delicate and gentle sentiments.

His paintings are garnering greater attention and have been featured any several galleries recently. For example, they were shown at the Stremmel Gallery in Reno, Nevada in 2007. His art was also featured in an ad in Art News that same year.

His bohemian, hard-drinking lifestyle is best illustrated by a barely translatable pun about him:

"Čika Jova deci, čika Mika Antić dva deci"

"Čika Jova deci" meaning "Mister Jova to the children", referring to Jova Zmaj, a known children's poet. "Čika Mika Antić dva deci" means "Mister Mika Antić two deciliters", referring to drinking from a glass, likely of alcohol.


(From the National Review)

MIROSLAV ANTIĆ (1932-1986), THE POET WHO DOES NOT ACCEPT FAREWELLS
I have lived at least eight lives

His blond lock of hair and sooty alley, his summers and loves, rivers and intersections, marked the early youth of so many of us and weaved into us like a code, like a gift. He left us the Immortal Poem and Nonreturnable Song, better than anyone taught us that thing about ants and eagles, scattered all around us the magical images from that ”land of czardas, glasses and landless people”. This unforgettable Banatian, chaste debauchee, poet, painter, journalist, sailor, talker, ”the last Duke of Vojvodina”, he who could do anything, told us at the end: ”If they tell you that I have died, don't believe it. To die I don't know how”... read the rest of this article by Zorica Todorović Mirković.
"Ovo su tvoje pesme. Ne pitaj kako sam saznao šta misliš. Možda sam ponekad bio: ti. Možda si i ti pomalo bio ja. Možda smo zajedno bili ceo svet."



"These are your poems. Don't ask how I knew what you were thinking. Perhaps I was sometimes you. Perhaps you were a little bit me. Perhaps together we were the whole world."








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:47

Plavi Čuperak
Plavi čuperak



Plavi čuperak obično nose
neko na oku,
neko do nosa,
al ima jedan čuperak plavi
zamislite gde?
- U mojoj glavi.

Kako u glavi da bude kosa?

Lepo.
U glavi.
To nije moj čuperak plavi,
već jedne Sanje iz šestog “a”

Pa šta?

Videćeš šta – kad jednog dana
čuperak nečije kose tuđe
malo u tvoju glavu uđe,
pa se umudriš,
udrveniš,
pa malo – malo… pa pocrveniš,
pa grickaš nokte
i kriješ lice
pa šalješ tajne ceduljice,
pa nešto kunjaš,
pa se mučiš,
pa učiš – a sve koješta učiš.

Izmešaš rotkve i romboide.
Izmešaš nokte i piramide.
Izmešaš leptire i gradove.
I sportove i ručne radove.
I tropsko bilje.
I stare Grke.
I lepo ne znaš šta ćeš od muke.

Sad vidiš šta je čuperak plavi
kad ti se danima mota po glavi,
pa od dečaka- pravog junaka
napravi tunjavka i nespretnjaka.




The Blond Locks

A lock of blond hair
will usually fly
around the face
or into the eye,
but there are some blond locks that I find
imagine where,
in my mind.

How can some tresses be in your mind?
Just like that
In my mind!

It's not my hair that's in the mix
it belongs to Sanya from grade six.

And then, so what?

You will see 'what' when one day soon
somebody's locks your own mind swoon.
And you lose your words.
You lose your cool.
You find yourself blush like a fool.
You bite your nails and hide your face,
write secret notes,
with your heart in pain,
and try to study
but all in vain.

You mix the radishes and squares,
the pyramids and grizzly bears.
You mix butterflies and towns.
And all the sports.
And evening gowns.
And tropical plants.
And ancient Greeks.
At the end of your rope
with love flushed cheeks.

Now you see what's the meaning of that
when that blond hair gets under your hat
and turns a boy,
a superhero,
into a dork with confidence zero.

(Translated to English by Betina Rasic)


Naive painting by artist Eva Husáriková
Quiffs Of The Hair

Quiffs of the hair are usually found
Down to the nose
Or over the brow,
But there’s one blond quiff, golden like bread,
Guess where it lies?
Inside my head!

How can hair be inside the head?

Just like that -
Inside my head.
But it’s not my blond quiff, it ought to be said
But that of the prettiest girl from the ‘6.a’ Class.

“So what?” you ask.

You’ll see what, one day
When the lock of another’s hair
Into your head does stray.
And you become wise,
and you flush,
and little by little… you blush.
And you bite your nails
And hide your look
And you write secret notes in the margin of your book.
And you sulk
And you’re a bit of a mess
And you try to study – what nonsense!

You confuse hens with goats,
pyramids and notes.
You confuse works of art with salads,
butterflies and ballads.
You confuse crocodiles and barn owls.
And tropical plants. And a king’s wealth
till you just don’t know what to do with yourself.

Now you see what a blond quiff means
When inside your head it intervenes.
And from a boy – a hero in his own right,
It creates a clumsy creature – a pitiful sight.

(Translated by Pavle Ninković)


A Lock Of Blond Hair

A lock of hair we usually wear
on an eye
or on a nose instead;
but, there is a lock of blond hair--
imagine where?
It’s in my head.
How can hair possibly be in someone’s head?
Sure it can.
Right in the head.
It's not my lock of blond hair,
but Sanya’s from grade six who’s really fair.
So what?
You’ll see for yourself if one day
a lock of somebody else’s hair
somehow comes into your head.
And you become harsh,
and you become stiff,
and little by little--you just blush,
and suddenly you start biting your nails,
and hiding your face into the ground,
and sending secret notes around,
and you feel tender, and you feel tense,
and you learn the lessons but can see no sense.
You mix up roots and rhomboids.
You mix up notes and pyramids.
You mix up butterflies and sports.
And cities and handiwork sorts.
And tropical plants. And Old Greeks, too.
And you just don’t know what to do.
Now you see how it looks when a lock of blond hair
plays games in your head day after day;
it turns a boy who’s really cool
into a nerd and into a fool.

(Translated by Dragana Konstantinovic)








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:48

Opomena
Miroslav Mika Antić
Opomena

Važno je, možda, i to da znamo:
čovek je željan tek ako želi.

I ako sebe celog damo,
tek tada i možemo biti celi.

Saznaćemo tek ako kažemo
reči iskrene, istovetne.

I samo onda kad i mi tražimo,
moći će neko i nas da sretne.


A Reminder

It might also be important to learn:
A man is desired only if he desires in return.

And only if we fully give our mind and soul,
We will be able to make our lives a whole.

We can get to know things in any domain
Only if we say words that are heartfelt and plain.

And only if we truly search for someone new,
Someone will enter our lives, out of the blue.

(Translation by: Tanja Klipa)

Caution

Perhaps it is worth our repeating
That desire is born of desire.

And we can only be complete
once we give ourselves entire.

We will learn only from speaking
sincere words that bind us.

And only once we start seeking
Can anyone hope to find us.

(Translated by Pavle Ninković)


Caution

(attempting to improve rhythm of translation above)

It may be good to repeat
That desire is born of desire.

And we can only feel complete
once we give ourselves entire.

We can only learn from speaking
sincere words that bind us.

And only once we start seeking
Can someone hope to find us.

(Translated by Pavle Ninković)








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:48

Nepovratna pesma
Nepovratna pesma

Nikad nemoj da se vracas
kad vec jednom u svet krenes
Nemoj da mi nesto petljas
Nemoj da mi hoces-neces.

I ja bezim bez povratka.
Nikad necu unatrag.

Sta ti znaci staro sunce,
stare staze,
stari prag?

Tu je ono za cim moze da se pati
Tu je ono cemu mozes srce dati.
Al' ako se ikad vratis
moras znati
tu ces stati
I ostati.

Ocima se u svet trci
Glavom rije mlako vece
Od reke se dete uci
ka morima da potece.

Od zvezda se dete uci
da zapara nebo sjajem.
I od druma da se muci
i vijuga za beskrajem.

Opasno je kao zmija
opasno je kao metak
da u tebi vecno klija
i carlija tvoj pocetak.

Ti za koren
nisi stvoren
Ceo svet ti je otvoren.

Ako ti se nekud zuri,
stisni srce i zazmuri.
Al' kad podjes - nemoj stati
Mahni rukom.
I odjuri.
Ko zna kud ces.
Ko zna zasto.
Ko zna sta te tamo ceka.
Ove su zelje uvek belje
kad namignu iz daleka.

Opasno je kao munja
opasno je kao metak
da u tebi vecno kunja
i muci se tvoj pocetak.
Ti si uvek krilat bio
samo si zaboravio.

Zato leti.
Sanjaj.
Trci.
Stvaraj zoru kad je vece.
Nek' od tebe zivot uci
da se peni i da tece.
Budi takvo neko cudo
sto ne ume nista malo,
pa kad krenes - kreni ludo,
ustreptalo,
radoznalo.

Ko zna sta te tamo ceka
u maglama iz daleka.

Al' ako se i pozlatis,
il' sve tesko,
gorko platis,
uvek idi samo napred.

Nemoj nikad da se vratis.





Non-Returning Poem

When you start going to the world,
never look back or go behind.
"Won't" does not do--"will" is the word,
the only right word you should find.

I also run without return.
I don't look back 'cause I am bold.

Anyway, what means the old Sun?
Well known old paths?
The door-sill that's old?

All these things you could cherish.
For these things your heart could run pettish.
But, if you ever do come back,
I have to say:
That's where you'll stay.
And just stay.

A boy runs to the world through his eye.
His head fights all those evening pleas.
He learns from a river how to fly
towards the oceans, towards the seas.

He learns from millions of sparkling stars
to reach the sky, to gleam and shine.
He learns from roads how to get scars
and boldly go further to reach the divine.

It is dangerous like a snake,
it is dangerous like a shell
if my beginning is awake,
if it's always so good and well.

And I would like to run wild.
I hold my heart.
I shut my eye.

When I start going I won't look back
because I'm eager to try to fly.
I don't know where.
I don't know why.
I don't know what's hidden far behind.
I know that here--
as I cross a line,
they try to smear,
they try to bind
all that I find.

It is dangerous like lightning.
It's dangerous like a shell
if my beginning is fighting,
if it's still so good and well.

That is why I run away.
That's why I run.
That's why I seek.
I make dawns out of the evening Sun.
Let the life learn how to flow
the very same way I have done.
I'm miraculous in a way--
when I start something, I'm not slow;
when I start, I am eager and gay--
my impatience
and curiousity grow...

I don't know what will bring a new day
hidden in those fogs far away;

but, if I easily get the golden glow,
or if I have to go through the snow,
I'll always go onward and only forward.

I'll never, never, never go back.









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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:49

Besmrtna pesma
Besmrtna pesma                    An Immortal Poem

If they tell you that I have died,
and I was dear to your heart,
then something within you will suddenly turn gray.
Mist on eyelashes.
On a lip an ashy mark.
Have you ever on occasion
wondered what it means to live, say?

If they tell you that I have died,
this is what will be.
A thousand rainbow fishes
will be fluttering through my eye.
And earth will hide me.
And weeds will hide me.
While in the meantime I'll be
soaring up high...
up high.

Do you really think that my hand,
my knee, or my head
could tomorrow turn into
a willow root
or grass?


If they tell you that I have died,
don't believe it
to die I don't know how.

I have just dropped by this Earth in passing,
to give you a little wink.
So that I leave behind me something
like a fluttering mark.
Therefore, don't be sad.
I want so much to remain in you
foolish and strangely dear to your heart.

At night, when you lift your eyes up to the sky,
you too give me a wink.
Let it be our secret.
In spite of the gloomy days
whenever you notice a shooting star
making the horizon blush,
remember: that's actually me,
moonstruck, still flying and living.

[Wikisource]


Ako ti jave: umro sam
a bio sam ti drag,
mozda će i u tebi
odjednom nešto posiveti.

Na trepavicama magla.
Na usni pepeljast trag.
Da li si ikad razmišljao
o tome šta znači živeti?

Ko sneg u toplom dlanu
u tebi detinjstvo kopni.
Brige...
Zar ima briga?
Tuge...
Zar ima tuga?

Po merdevinama mašte
u mladost hrabro se popni.
Tamo te čeka ona
lepa, al lukava duga.

I živi!
Sasvim živi!
Ne grickaj kao miš dane.
Široko žvaći vazduh.
Prestiži vetar i ptice.

Jer svaka večnost je kratka.

Odjednom nasmejani
u ogledalu nekom
dobiju zborano lice.

Odjednom: na ponekom uglu
vreba poneka suza.

Nevolje na prstima stignu.
Godine postanu sivlje.

Odjednom svet, dok hodaš
sve više ti je uzan
i osmeh sve tiši
i tiši
i nekako iskrivljen.

Zato živi, al sasvim!

I ja sam živeo tako.
Za pola veka samo
stoleća sam obišao.

Priznajem: pomalo luckast.
Ponekad naopak.
Al nikad nisam stajao.
Večno sam išao.
Išao...

Ispredi iz svoje aorte
pozlaćen konac trajanja
i zašij naprsla mesta
iz kojih drhte čuđenja.

I nikad ne zamišljaj život
kao uplašen oproštaj,
već kao stalni doček
i stalni početak buđenja.


2.

A onda, već jednom ozbiljno
razmisli šta znači i umreti
i gde to nestaje čovek.

Šta ga to zauvek ište.

Nemoj ići na groblja.
Ništa nećeš razumeti.
Groblja su najcrnji vašar
i tužno pozorište.

Igrajući se nemira
i svojih bezobličja,
zar nemaš ponekad potrebu
da malo krišom zađeš
u nove slojeve razuma?
U susedne budućnosti?

Objasniću ti to nekada
ako me tamo nađeš.

Znaš šta ću ti učiniti:
pokvariću ti igračku
koja se zove bol,
ako se budes odvažio.

Ne lažem te.
Ja izmišljam
ono što mora postojati,
samo ga nisi jos otkrio,
jer ga nisi ni tražio.

Upamti: stvarnost je stvarnija
ako joj dodaš nestvarnog.

Prepoznaćeš me po ćutanju.
Večni ne razgovaraju.

Da bi nadmudrio mudrost,
odneguj veštinu slušanja.

Veliki odgovori
sami sebe otvaraju.

Posle bezbroj rođenja
i nekih sitničavih smrti,
kad jednom budeš shvatio
da sve to što si disao

ne znači jedan život,

stvarno naiđi do mene
da te dotaknem svetlošću
i pretvorim u misao.

I najdalja budućnost
ima svoju budućnost,
koja u sebi čuje
svoje budućnosti glas.

I nema praznih svetova.

To, čega nismo svesni,
nije nepostojanje,
već postojanje bez nas.


3.

Ako ti jave: umro sam,
evo šta će to biti.

Hiljade šarenih riba
lepršaće mi kroz oko.
I zemlja će me skriti.
I korov će me skriti.

A ja ću za to vreme
leteti negde visoko.
Upamti: nema granica,
već samo trenutnih granica.

Jedriću nad tobom u svitanja
niz vetar klizav ko svila.
Razgrtaću ti obzorja,
obrise doba u povoju
i prizore budućnosti
lepotom nevidljivih krila.

I kao nečujno klatno
zaljuljano u beskraju,
visiću sam o sebi
kao o zlatnom remenu.

Prostor je brzina uma
što sama sebe odmotava.
Lebdeću u mestu, a stizaću
i nestajaću u vremenu.

Odmoriću se od sporednog
kao galaktička jata,
koja su srasla pulsiranjem
što im u nedrima traje.

Odmoriću se od sporednog
kao ogromne šume,
koje su srasle granama
u guste zagrljaje.

Odmoriću se od sporednog
kao ogromne ptice,
koje su srasle krilima
i celo nebo oplele.

Odmoriću se od sporednog
kao ogromne ljubavi,
koje su srasle usnama
još dok se nisu ni srele.

Zar misliš da moja ruka,
koleno,
ili glava,
mogu da postanu glina,
koren breze
i trava?

Da neka malecka tajna,
il neki treperav strah
mogu da postanu sutra
tišina,
tama
i prah?

Znas, ja sam stvarno sa zvezda.
Sav sam od svetlosti stvoren.

Nista se u meni neće
ugasiti ni skratiti.

Samo ću,
obično tako,
jedne slučajne zore
svom nekom dalekom suncu
zlatnih se očiju vratiti.

Kažnjavan za sve što pomislim,
a kamoli što počinim,
osumnjičen sam za nežnost
i proglašen sam krivim
što ljubav ne gasim mržnjama,
već novom, većom ljubavlju
i život ne gasim smrtima,
već nečim drukčije živim.

Poslednji rubovi beskraja
tek su pocetak beskrajnijeg.

Ko traje dalje od trajnijeg
ne zna za kratka znanja.

Nikad se nemoj mučiti
pitanjem: kako preživeti,
nego: kako ne umreti
posle svih umiranja.


4.

Ako ti jave: umro sam,
ne brini. U svakom stoleću
neko me slučajno pobrka
sa umornima i starima.

Nigde toliko ljudi
kao u jednom čoveku.

Nigde toliko drukčijeg
kao u istim stvarima.

Pročeprkaš li prostore,
iskopaćeš me iz vetra.
Ima me u vodi.
U kamenju.
U svakom sutonu i zori.

Biti ljudski višestruk,
ne znači biti raščovečen.

Ja jesam deljiv sa svačim,
ali ne i razoriv.

A sva ta čudesna stanja
i obnavljanja mene
i nisu drugo do vrtlog
jednolik,
uporan,
dug.

Znaš šta su proročanstava?
Kalupi ranijih zbivanja
i zadihanost istog
što vija sebe ukrug.

Pa što bismo se opraštali?
Čega da nam je žao?
Ako ti jave: umro sam,
ti znaš - ja to ne umem.

Ljubav je jedini vazduh
koji sam udisao.
I osmeh jedini jezik
koji na svetu razumem.

Na ovu zemlju sam svratio
da ti namignem malo.
Da za mnom ostane nešto
kao lepršav trag.

Nemoj da budeš tužan.

Toliko mi je stalo
da ostanem u tebi
budalast,
čudno drag.

Noću kad gledaš u nebo,
i ti namigni meni.

To neka bude tajna.

Uprkos danima sivim,
kad vidiš neku kometu
da vidik zarumeni,
upamti: to ja još uvek
šašav letim i živim.








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:53

Welcome‎ > ‎Branislav Petrović‎ > ‎
Na tragu ti je
Drawing by Franz Kafka
Na tragu ti je

na tragu ti je
uhoda neshvatljive revnosti
odan sudijama
surov i pravičan
na tvom radnom stolu šator je razapeo
tvoja gospođa mu čisto rublje prinosi
tvoja kćer
živu vodu na dlanu
na njegov mig
tvoj verni pas će te rastrgnuti
glodare i sitne ptice
lovi za njega tvoja mačka.
aždaja koju hraniš rukopisom
kad bi ti bar ona ostala verna.

He Follows Your Trail

He follows your trail
Spy of incomprehensible eagerness
Devoted to judges
Cruel and justible
He pitches the tent on your writing desk

Your lady brings him clean laundry
Your daughter
Live water on her palm

On his wink
Your faithful dog will tear you apart

Rodents and small birds
Your cat hunts for him
Monster you feed with the manuscript
If only that animal could remain faithful

(translated by Ivana Milankova)








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:54

"Desanku Maksimović mnogi smatraju pesnikom ljubavi, mladosti i vedrine. Pesnikom zemaljskih lepota i plodova. U njoj, cini se,pre treba videti velikog pesnika velikih strahova i velikih sumnji. Ona je mozda najautenticniji pesnik Srbije. Ali je ona jos autenticnija kad opeva neku zemlju koja i jeste i nije; koja i postoji i ne postoji. I za koju se ne zna da li je pesnikov zavicaj ili zemlja njegovog progonstva. Prve svoje pesme Desanka je objavila 1920. godine u casopisu "Misao" i od tada ona neprekidno stvara, tako da spada u nase najplodnije pesnike. Objavila je oko pedeset knjiga poezije, pesama i proze za decu i omladinu, pripovedacke, romansijerske i putopisne proze. "Kada su se stvarale ove pesme, izvirali su stihovi kao voda; kao da sam neku cesmu otvorila. I sama sam se cudila kako su tekli glatko neprestano....Dogodilo se ono najpozeljnije, oblik i sadrzaj su sliveni, jedno drugo isticu i dopunjuju." - kaze sama pesnikinja. "Po svojoj motivskoj raznovrsnosti i bogatoj lirskoj skali od najjednostavnijih tonova do dubokih i misaonih sazvucja, lirika Desanke Maksimovic se ukazuje kao srecna mogucnost da poput vecite pesnicke senke prati svoga citaoca od njegovih prvih koraka u zivot, pa nadalje..."


"Many consider Desanka Maksimović to be a poet of love, youth and joy. A poet of earthly beauty and treasures. In her, it seems, one should rather see a great poet of great fears and great doubts. She may well be the most authentic Serbian poet. But she is even more authentic when singing of a country which is and isn't; which both exists and doesn't exist. And for which we don't know if it is the poet's homeland or the land of their exile. Desanka published her first poems in 1920 in the magazine "Misao" ("Thought") and has continued to create ever since, becoming one of our most prolific poets. She has published about fifty books of poetry, poems and prose for children and young adults, short stories, romantic stories and travel writing. In her own words, "When these poems were being created, lyrics flowed like water; as if I had opened some tap. Even I wondered at how smoothly they flowed. The most desirable thing had occurred, content and form were fused, at once originating from and complementing one another." In the diversity of their motifs and their rich lyrical range - from the simplest tones to the deepest thoughts and harmonies - the lyrics of Desanka Maksimović present themselves like a fortunate opportunity for the eternal poetic shadow to follow its reader from his first steps in life, onwards..."

by Stevan Raičković


Pesme/Poems

Krvava bajka*
Sreća*
Strepnja*
Opomena*
Selice*
Proglas*
Lutke računaju
Naša tajna
Bez sagovornika
Predosećanje*
Opravdanje
Nemam više vremena
Prolećna pesma*
Nikoli Tesli*
Gračanice*
Pesma Beogradu*
Čežnja*
Trazim pomilovanje za svrgnute*
Za coveka koji je pogubio Pergamente*
Trazim pomilovanje za sebra*








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:55

Apprehension

No… don’t come to me! I want to adore
and love your two eyes from far, far away.
For, happiness’s beau just while waiting for—
when only allusion comes out of its way.

No… don’t come to me! There is more allure
in waiting with sweet apprehension, fear.
Just while seeking out everything is pure;
It’s nicer when just forboding is near.

No… don’t come to me! Why that, and what for?
Only from afar all stars spark and glee;
Only from afar we admire all.
No… let not your eyes come closer to me.

(Translation: Dragana Konstantinovic)

Προσμονή

Όχι, μην με πλησιάζεις!Θέλω απο μακριά
να αγαπάω και να ποθώ τα δυό σου μάτια.
Γιατί η ευτυχία είναι όμορφη μοναχά όσο την περιμένεις,
oπως αυτή από μόνη της υποδηλώνει.

Όχι,μην με πλησιάζεις! Έχει πιο πολύ γοητεία
αυτή η γλυκιά προσμονή, η αναμονή κι' ο φόβος.
Όλα είναι πιό όμορφα σαν τα ψάχνεις,αυτά
που νιώθεις με το προαίσθημα.

Όχι, μην με πλησιάζεις!Γιατί και πώς;
Όλα λάμπουν σαν αστρα μόνο από μακριά
Όλα τα θαυμάζουμε μόνο από μακριά.
Όχι, ας μην με πλησιάζουν τα δυό σου μάτια!


(Απόδοση στα Ελληνικά: Marina Markovic)

Apprehension

No, don’t come near! It’s from afar that I
Wish to love and pine for thine eyes.
For happiness is dear only when nigh,
When there’s just a glimmer of it likewise.

No, don’t come near! There’s more thrill
In this sweet apprehension, waiting and fear.
All is so much nicer as long as sought still,
And if known by the feeling of being near.

No, don’t come near! Why so require?
Only from afar all things shine as a star;
Only from afar all things we admire.
Oh, may thine eyes stay from me far!

(Translation by: Ljiljana Parović)
Welcome‎ > ‎Desanka Maksimović‎ > ‎
Strepnja

Стpeaњa

Не, немој ми прићи! Хоћу издалека
да волим и желим ока твоја два.
Јер срећа је лепа само док се чека
док од себе само наговештај да.

Не, немој ми прићи! Има више дражи
ова слатка стрепња, чекање и страх.
Све је много лепше донде док се тражи,
о чему се само тек по слутњ зна.

Не, немој ми прићи! Нашто то и чему?
Издалека само све ко звезда сја;
издалека само дивимо се свему.
Не, нек ми не приђу ока твоја два








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:56

[From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]
Ivan V. Lalić (born June 8, 1931, Belgrade - died July 28, 1996, Belgrade) was a Serbian poet with a reputation as one of the finest European poets of his time.
Biography

Lalić was born into a cultured family in Belgrade; his father, Vlajko, was a journalist, and his grandfather Isidor Bajić was a celebrated composer. As a child he experienced the trauma of seeing many of his school-friends perish in an air-raid. When in 1983, a BBC interviewer asked Lalic how he had found his poetic voice, Lalić replied "My childhood and boyhood in the war marked everything I ever wrote as a poem or poetry“.

Lalić studied law in Zagreb, where he first began to publish poetry, and worked for the publishers Nolit in Belgrade. He was also a distinguished critic and translator, especially of English poetry. He lived in both Zagreb and Belgrade, and spent the summers with his family in the Istrian town of Rovinj. He was survived by his Croatian wife, Branka, and his younger son.

Poetry

Lalić was awarded with the most prestigious literary prizes in Yugoslavia. He was admired abroad and books of his poems have been translated into six languages (English, French, Italian, Polish, Hungarian and Macedonian). Individual poems have appeared in more than 20 languages.

Indeed, Lalić’s poetic quest into the nature of time, culture, and human perception combines a startling clarity of images and a thoughtful, highly crafted, lucid diction that places him firmly in the tradition of European and American modernism, in which he is acknowledged to be one of Europe's masters.

The Works of Love (1981) was the first of several English translations of his poetry by Francis R. Jones: Last Quarter (1987), The Passionate Measure (European Poetry Translation Prize, 1989) , A Rusty Needle (Poetry Book Society Recommended Translation, 1996) and Fading Contact (1997).

In her obituary of him, Celia Hawkesworth spoke of "the central place in his work of memory: fragile in the face of the collapse of civilisations, but all we have. Memory allows the poet to recreate brief instants of personal joy as well as to conjure up a sense of the distant past. It allows each of us, as individuals condemned to solitude, to connect with a shared inheritance and feel, for a moment, part of a larger whole."










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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:57

Welcome‎ > ‎Ivan Lalić‎ > ‎
Tako je pevao Orfej

Tако је певао Oрфеј

Он певао је као грм пун ружа,
Гласом од бакра, од воћа и пене.
И свака грана бивала је дужа
И мека испод коре, ко да пружа
Црнкасто тело миловању жене.

А дивне звери нису чак ни знале
Како им крв се у мед златни груша.
Најежене су, велике и мале,
Ко исечене из тишине стале,
С језером светла у уху што слуша.

А он је време учинио чујним,
Дао му гипкост воде бистре, плитке,
Пуне пастрмки са тачкама рујним;
И боју траве с цветовима бујним,
И укус земље, сунчане и житке.

И певао је и под кишом млаком,
Мокар, сред љубичасте детелине,
Крвав под кожом, и скривено лаком
На одјек зрелог гласа под стењаком,
Гле вребао је први вал тишине.
So sang Orpheus

Er sang wie ein Strauch voller Rosen,
Mit einer Stimme aus Kupfer, Früchten, Schaum angetan.
Und jeder Zweig verlängerte sich, war lose
Unter der Rinde, – als böte, um sie zu kosen,
Einer Frau der dunkle Körper sich an.

Das prächtige Raubzeug gar wusste von nichts,
Als ihm das Blut zu goldnem Honig gerann.
Und stand schaudernd: klein, groß, erpicht,
Ein aus der Stille geschnittnes Scherbengericht –
Mit See-Leuchten im Ohr, das Lauschen ersann.

Er aber hielt vernehmbar die Zeit
Mit der Weichheit des Wassers: kristallklar, des seichten
Voll von Forellen, mit roten Punkten bestreut;
Und die Farbe des Grases, das Blumenpracht zeugt,
Und die Erd-Aromen, die biegsamen, die sonnenreichen.

Und er sang auch im Regen – lauwarm;
Nass, inmitten des lilanen Kleewuchses Fülle,
In blutiger Haut, heimlich, voll gierigem Harm
Aufs reife Echo der Stimme unterm Gebarm,
Lauerte er auf die erste Woge der Stille.


(Übertragung und Nachdichtung: Cornelia Marks und André Schinkel)









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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Sre 28 Dec - 17:59

Welcome‎ > ‎Sibe Miličić‎ > ‎
Filigran
Филигран

На једном пољу
Једно бело јагње
Игра се, са једним плавим ждребетом.
Радост, бескрајна радост
Ушла је у поље
Ушла је у јагње
Ушла је у ждребе плаве боје
Ушла је у немирно срце моје.


Φιλιγκράν*

Σ' έναν αγρό

Ένας λευκός αμνός
Στο παιχνίδι, με ένα μπλέ πουλάρι.
Χαρά, αμέτρητη χαρά
Αυτή εισέβαλε στον αγρό
Εισέβαλε στον αμνό
Εισέβαλε στο μπλε πουλάρι
Αυτή είσδυσε στην ανήσυχη καρδιά μου.


(poetreated (Panos Xourafas))


* : Φιλιγκράν = Είδος λεπτοκαμωμένου κοσμήματος, φτιαγμένου από νήματα χρυσού και ασημιού. H λέξη είναι λατινική από το filum (νήμα) και το granum (υφή)


Filigree

In a field
One white lamb
The game, with one blue foal.
Joy, infinite joy
She entered the field
She entered the lamb
She entered the colt blue
She came into my restless heart.

(poetreated (Panos Xourafas))









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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Čet 29 Dec - 11:11

Welcome‎ > ‎
Vojislav Ilić

[From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

Vojislav Ilić (Serbian Cyrillic: Војислав Илић) (1860–1894) was a 19th century Serbian poet of finely chiselled verse, son of the Romanticist playwright and poet Jovan Ilić. He was born in the capital of Serbia, Belgrade.

Vojislav failed to complete his gymnasium education and was forced to take various clerical positions of minor importance. Living for the most part in penury, he wrote poetry extensively and soon became the leading Serbian poet in the last decades of the nineteenth century. As so many Serbian artists of that era, he died young, of consumption, in 1894.

His poetry exemplifies a classic example of modern Serbian language and features the standard Decadent motifs of the epoch: cruel nature (e.g. cold wind blowing across empty fields), and times of Elagabalus.

Biography

Vojislav J. Ilić, Serbian poet, was born in Belgrade on the 14th of April 1860, the son of poet and politician Jovan Ilić. On both sides of the family was of the highest provincial middle class, but was not noble; his father was fairly wealthy after retiring from the Privy Council in 1882, and living quietly as the patriarch of a literary dynasty which he helped create. Jovan Ilić, together with politicians-historians Jevrem Grujić and Milovan Janković, played a critical role in the St. Andrew Day National Assembly in 1858 when the call for a parliamentary check on Alexander Karađorđević's monastic power for the first time gained popular support. Vojislav, the eldest child, was educated at various grade schools and high schools and at the end of his school days he enrolled in the Faculty of Philosophy at Belgrade's Grande École (Velika Škola), but did not graduate. The hub of literary activity was his home, where he befriended Jovan Jovanović Zmaj and Đura Jakšić and even married one of Jakšić's daughters. In certain aspects Vojislav does belong somewhat to all the four main periods of European literary style that he passed through in a period of less than 15 years, a unique phenomenon, but his great merit as a poet is that he emancipated himself from the affectations and puerilities of his masters. Literary critic Jovan Skerlić said one of the most striking aspects of Vojislav's activity is the attention he drew to the form and technique of poetic creation.

In 1885 he joined the Serbian Army as a volunteer and accompanied his detachment to Bulgaria but did not encounter the enemy. The short-lived Serbo-Bulgarian War gave Ilić another direction than the military. From 1887 until 1892 he was an editor at the Government Printing Press. In 1892 he taught at a Serbian grammar school in Turnu Severin, in Romania. That same year he was appointed press secretary at the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and afterwards vice-consul in Priština, then under Turkish rule. He died in Belgrade on 21 January 1894.

Literary work

His first publication was a book simply entitled Pesme (Poems) which appeared in Belgrade in 1887 and this was followed at other intervals by other volumes of more verse. As a poet he soon made a reputation as one of the ablest and most versatile writers of his day. His influence was infectious, young aspiring poets would gather around him and in that period the term Vojislavism became a coined word in Serbian literature. In the 1890s a true Vojislavism reigned among young Serbian poets; no wonder he was proclaimed "the greatest Serbian poet" by Skerlić and other critics. Of the best known Serbian poets who looked up to him during that period were Milorad J. Mitrović, Mileta Jakšić, Aleksa Šantić, Danica Marković, and for a short while even Jovan Dučić, who soon went on to abandon Vojislavism for a new literary wave that Dučić and Milan Rakić would ultimately espouse, influenced by the French poets. This independence Dučić and Rakić owed in part perhaps to their studies and frequent travels abroad, both were in the diplomatic service. It was Jovan Dučić who put it best in perspective, Even if Vojislav did not succeed in becoming our greatest poet, he is certainly our most beautiful poet. But nothing diminishes Vojislav J. Ilić's standing in Serbian literature which remains on a firm foundation more than a century later.[citation needed]

Undoubtedly Vojislav J. Ilić achieved much for a poet who died young—he had not reached 34 years of age. He was, indeed, the poet of his period. Jovan Skerlić, the great Serbian literary critic, wrote: What Lukijan Mušicki meant to Serbian literature in the 1830s, Sima Milutinović Sarajlija in the 1840s, Djura Jakšić and Jovan Jovanović Zmaj in the 1860s, so too, did Vojislav J. Ilić make his imprint in the 1890s. He brought Romanticism to its conclusion and ushered in a new direction -- Vojislavism.

Compared to Pushkin

Critcs say he was an ardent follower of Pushkin: "As far as Vojislav Ilić is concerned Pushkin's influence is beyond question: everything in Ilić's verses, their rhythm and power of expression remind one of Pushkin." The critic Jovan Skerlić reproached him for that, but Ilić himself never made a secret of it and openly avowed in one of his poems that he was a pupil of Vasily Zhukovsky and Pushkin.

Vojislav J. Ilić was also an ardent follower of Vuk Karadžić's reforms. He displays richness of fancy and aptness of language, and his work has even stood the test of time. Various editions of his Collected Works have been published after his death, one in 1907 and 1909, in two volumes.

Vojislav has been credited for having influenced many poets that came after him, thereby paving the way for higher achievements in Serbian poetry in the first two decades of the twentieth century.









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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Čet 29 Dec - 11:12

Welcome‎ > ‎Vojislav Ilić‎ > ‎
Grm
Hiroshi Sugimoto - Lightning Fields
Grm

Munjom opaljen grm na surom proplanku stoji,
Kô crn i mračan div. I guste travice splet
Gordi mu uvija stas – i gorski nestašni lahor
Leluja šareni cvet.

I zima dođe već, i svojom studenom rukom
Pokida nakit sav i goru obnaži svu,
Al’ mnoga zima još sa hladnim vetrom će doći,
A on će biti tu.

The Shrub

A thunder stricken shrub on a grey hill it rests,
Like a dark almighty giant. And grassy ribbon dense,
Twists around his shape. And playful mountain breeze
Sways the bright flowers and trees.

Then winter comes along, and with its frosty arm
Tears all the charms and strips the mountain bare
But many more winters with a cold wind will come
And he will still be there.

(Prevela na engleski: Betina Rašić)








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Čet 29 Dec - 11:12

‎Vojislav Ilić‎ > ‎
Turska
Turska

Ko izumrli davno, preda mnom gradovi leže
I mirna, uboga sela. Sa mračnih domova njini
I drevnih, kamenih platna, vinjaga gusta se vije
Il šumi na visini,
I kao prastaro groblje lisnatom vrežom ih krije.
Eno na surom visu urvine vekovne stoje
Ko strašan, ogroman skelet… Kroz okna njihova
pusta
Sanjivo šumori vetar i noče visoka trava
Sumornog zaborava.

Izgleda kao da čovek ni rukom dotako nije
Što su stoleća burna odbila u mračnom hodu
Sa kula i platna gradskih. Tu gnezdo jejina vije,
I zmija odvratno mili i gušter po travnom podu.

La Turquie

Comme mortes depuis longtemps, devant moi s'étalent des villes
Et de paisibles, pauvres hameaux. Et de leurs sombres maisons
Aux murs anciens de pierre pendent les boucles drues de la vigne
Ou bruissent aux frondaisons

De son filet de feuilles les revêt, tel un vieux cimetière.
Vois, sur le piton chenu, se dresser des ruines séculaires
Comme un énorme squelette affreux... Dans leurs croisées sans huis
Le vent rêveusement murmure, et drus poussent l'herbe et le buis
Du nostalgique oubli.

On croirait que la main de l'homme n'a jamais eu à faire
Ce qu'en leur sombre marche arrachent les siècles tumultueux
Des tours et des murs de la cité. Son nid y tresse l'effraie,
Là rampent l'odieux serpent et le lézard sur le sol herbeux.

(Traductions en vers : Jean-Marc Bordier)

Turkey

As if extinct long ago, before me lie towns
And quiet, poor villages. From houses their
forlorn and ancient stone walls, lush vine heaves
Or rustles in the air,

As an old cemetery, they are draped by its leaves.
There, on the gray top of an olden cliff they stand
As a dreadful, giant skeleton. Through their bleak
Windows murmurs the wind and grows high grass
Of somber oblivion, alas!

It’s as if a human hand has not touched what tore
The tumultuous centuries in their dismal walk
Off towers and town walls. Here, nestles a hawk,
And snakes and lizards crawl on the grassy floor.

(Translation by: Ljiljana Parović)








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PočaljiNaslov: Re: Knjizevnost od originala do prevoda   Čet 29 Dec - 11:13

Vojislav Ilić‎ > ‎
Maskenbal na Rudniku
Maskenbal na Rudniku

I kod nas ovamo maskenbal se gradi,
pozvati su stari, pozvati su mladi –
i odbor je sklopljen. I već ovih dana
pozvaćemo goste i sa drugih strana.
Predsednik odbora o svemu se stara,
jer je on određen da predstavlja cara:
imaće na grud’ma orden zlatnog runa,
ali mu na glavi neće biti kruna –
nego, mesto krune, čakov ili kapa;
odbornici biće gomila satrapa.
Kraj njegovih nogu skupiće se zveri:
medvedi, majmuni, mačke i panteri.
Gospođice lepe i gospođe mlade
predstavljaće gole nimfe i najade.
Ta i sam će Rudnik, kad ga smej probudi,
od silnoga smeja da razvali grudi.
Za veselje takvo i za ljubav njinu,
sam načelnik pristo da predstavlja svinju.
Jedna lepa gospa, ali dosta stara,
nabavila ruvo od jednog žandara.
Car je na to pažnju obratio mnogo
svaki svoga “faha” da se drži strogo:
tako smo pozvali i jednog seljaka
da predstavlja sobom hromoga prosjaka.
Nego tu se društvo zabrinulo celo:
da li seljak ima prosjačko odelo?
Jedna mudra glava reši zbrku celu:
ta nek dođe seljak u svome odelu.

Eto to je program, neka svako vidi;
pišite nam, Srbi, kako vam se svidi?

A Masked Ball on Mt Rudnik

Even up here a masked ball will be staged,
Everybody is invited, both young and aged-
And a board is set up. In the days to come
We’ll invite guests from other places some.
To be in charge chairman was nominated,
For he represents the tsar as designated:
A gold fleece medal he’ll wear on his chest,
But on his head no crown will rest –
Instead, a leather hat or cap he’ll require
Delegates will represent many a squire.
Beasts will also be by his side there:
Many a monkey, cat, panther and bear.
Young women and maidens fair
Will act as naiads and nymphs bare.
Even Mt Rudnik, when by laughter awaken,
Will itself be by loud laughter shaken.
For such a party, and their wish to satisfy,
To play a pig the mayor himself did comply.
Some rather old lady of charm,
Acquired the uniform of a gendarme.
The tsar much insisted on the need
That all should stick to own trade indeed.
Hence, a peasant was invited to consent
A lame beggar personally to represent.
Yet, the whole community was upset:
Can the peasant beggar’s clothes get?
A wise head resolved the whole mess:
The peasant shall in his own clothes dress.

Well, that’s the program for everyone to see;
Serbs, drop us a line and tell us if you agree.

(Translation by: Ljiljana Parović)








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