Zoran Paunović 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 10 poems translated

from: черногорский, сербский to: английский

Original

Translation

Putovanje

черногорский | Jovanka Uljarević

Nijesam ovdje gdje me vidite
A nijesam ni tamo gdje me znaju
Tamo mi je ovdje
Ovdje mi je daleko

To vam je kao kad vam u ludnici
Ludi kažu da ste ludi
I vi ih zovete ludima
Pitajući se jesu li zbilja mogli otkriti vašu ludost
Ili je to samo nenormalnost koju suprotstavljaju svojoj

I nama su dali ime
Da bi mogli da nas zovu bez značenja

Bila sam kod psihijatra
Bila je “ona” i nije me zvala imenom
Bila sam mala
I ona me popela na prozor svoje sobe
Da bi mi pokazala gnijezdo golubova
Dopalo mi se koliko je bilo ružno
Rekla sam joj da je lijepo
Odlično je pamtim
I taj njen izraz kad mi govori da sam normalna
Mislim da smo se razumjele

© Jovanka Uljarević
Audio production: Haus für Poesie / 2017

A Journey

английский

I am not here where you see me
or there where they know me
There is here for me
And here is too far

It is like when madmen in a madhouse
tell you that you are mad
And you call them mad
Asking yourself whether they could really reveal your madness
Or is it only an insanity they want to confront with their own

We have also been given a name
So that they could call us with no meaning

I went to see a shrink
He was a “she” and did not call me by name
I was so small
And she mounted me to the window in her room
To show me some pigeons’ nest
It was so ugly that I liked it
I said it was beautiful
I remember her perfectly
And the look on her face while telling me that I was sane
I think we understood each other.

translated by: Zoran Paunović

ХЛАДНИ ДАНИ

сербский | Kayoko Yamasaki

Одабирати поврће, пиринач, месо и
рибе, спремати јело за породицу,
износити на сто.

Размишљам о кувању, о свакидашњем,
простом, а понекад веома
драматичном чину.

Сећам се хладних дана, када је
било тешко да се нађе једно
јаје, један кромпир.

Купус беше скупљи
од фриждера, и од
главе човека.

Тадашње воће, сада невидљиво,
стављам на дланове да
измерим тежину.

Само да осетим светлост крушке
из шуме. Оно што је хранило
нашу децу.

© Kayoko Yamasaki
Audio production: Serbian PEN Centre

COLD DAYS

английский

To choose vegetables, rice, meat and
fish, to prepare meals for the family,
to bring it upon the table.

I think about cooking, about everyday,
simple, but sometimes very
dramatic act.

I remember cold days, when it was
hard to find
an egg, or a potato.

Cabbage was more expensive
than the refrigerator, and also
than a human head.

The fruit from these days, now invisible,
I put upon my palms to
measure its weight.

I wish I could sense the light of that pear
from the forest. Of that what fed
our children.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

ЈУТРЕЊЕ, МАЈ

сербский | Kayoko Yamasaki

Овде птице
зобљу
небо.

Високо под сводом,
ниско над ливадом.

Сазвучјем гласова
различтих боја
радују се
свакидашњој
храни.

Цвркутом скоро
као молитвом,
птице кљуцају
плави застор,
да у њему отворе
безброј ситних
рупа,
да ноћу
туда сипи
рајска
светлост.

На дну долине
птице зобљу
мајско
небо,
рај.

© Kayoko Yamasaki
Audio production: Serbian PEN Centre

MORNING SERVICE, MAY

английский

Here the birds
peck at
the sky.

High under the vault,
Low above the field.

Harmony of voices
of different colours
rejoice in
their everyday
food.

With their twitter almost
like with prayer,
the birds peck at
the blue curtain,
in order to open
myriads of tiny
holes,
so that at night
heavenly light
can spray
through them.

At the bottom of the valley
the birds peck
at the May
sky,
Paradise.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

ПОВЕСТ О ШУМИ

сербский | Kayoko Yamasaki

Наша кућа нестаје.
Кућа, која је поднела гвоздену
олују и потоп
боје рђе.
Кућа, која није изгорела
у ватри,
која није водом
избрисана.

Она нас је обасјавала
зеленом светлошћу.
Веровали смо,
као деца, да је
она ту,
заувек.

Крај реке је
стајала
сама.

Била је без баште и
без капије.
На њој
није било ни врата
ни прозора.
Ни зидова, ни
крова. У њој
није било ни
огњишта.

Сазидана само
одсунчевих зрака:
нас је скривалаи
штитила. Да,од
шумских
звери.

Смарагдна вода
протиче кроз
вечерње
небо,

као
бајка коју
смо волели.

© Kayoko Yamasaki
Audio production: Serbian PEN Centre

A TALE OF THE FOREST

английский

Our house is disappearing.
That house, that survived the iron
storm and rust-coulored
flood.
That house that was not burnt down
In the fire,
nor by water
was wiped out.

It was casting its green light
upon us.
We believed,
like children, that it
was there,
forever.

By the river it
stood
alone.

It had no garden and no gate.
There were no doors
or windows
upon it.
No walls and no roof. There
was not even a hearth
in it.

It was built from
sunrays solely:
it was hiding and
protecting us. Yes, from the
forest
beasts.

Emerald water
runs through
the evening
sky,

like
a fairy tale we
used to love.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

Zagrljaj

сербский | Vojislav Karanović

Obruči što grle bačvu punu gorkog
Vina. To su bili naši dani.

Trpki ukus crnice, uporno proticanje reka,
(kao proticanje krvi kroz vene i arterije)
Šum lišća, i talasi koji su
Borama pokrivali jasno lice mora.
Varka, koju smo svi voleli.

Nema više prepoznavanja,
Prisnog smeha oblaka.
I let laste,
Nestašno prevrtanje po vazduhu,
Mi ipak nismo razumeli.

Telo bi svaki od nas
Radije bio svukao:
Osećali smo ga kao tkaninu
Čije se niti brzo paraju.

Sada, okruženo zidovima
Koje pokriva sloj guste mahovine,
Ostalo je samo srce.

Krv se kao končić dima
Izvija ka nebu.

Nema više ni srca.

Dušo, umij svoje
Razgorele obraze snegom.

Čuju se samo još damari,
Kotrljanje zvezda niz nebo.
Kao u mračnoj kutiji, tišina
Koja opija; zagrljaj
U kome nema nikoga.

© Vojislav Karanović
from: Živa rešetka
Novi Sad : IP Matica srpska, 1991
Audio production: 2006, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The Embrace

английский

The hoops that embrace a barrel full of bitter
Wine. That’s what our days were.

Sour taste of dark soil, persistent flow of rivers,
(Like the flow of blood through veins and arteries)
Sound of leaves, and the waves that
Wrinkled the clear face of the sea.
The deception, that we all loved.

No more recognition,
Or the clouds’ familiar laughter.
The swallow’s flight,
Its gentle turning in the air,
We did not understand.

Each one of us would
Rather take off the body;
We felt it like a cloth
Whose fibres rip so quickly.

Now, it is surrounded by walls    
Covered by a thick layer of moss,
Only the heart remains.

The blood, like a thread of smoke
Soars towards the sky.

The heart is also gone.

Oh, soul, wash up yor
Burning cheeks with snow.

One can now hear nothing but pulses,
Rolling of stars down the sky.
As in a dark box; the intoxicating
Silence; an embrace
In which there is no one.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

Uspon

сербский | Vojislav Karanović

Mora se krenuti od malog
I neznatnog. Od crne
Tačke sa krilca bubamare.
Preko njihanja travki
I cveta divlje ruže.
Kandže što se izvlači i uvlači,
Šape dok izviruje iz grma.
Preko oblaka koji zaklanja
Sunce, neuhvatljivog pramena
Magle, pa sve do vetra što se
Mršti, i kida, sam u sebi.
Mora se poći iz podnožja,
Puteljcima gde se pod nogom
Rone kamenčići.
Ići uskim stazama, sve užim,
Neprohodnim. Probijati se.
Kao zrak kroz oblak, ili
Zver kroz šumu.
Sve do vrha, do tačke
Gde je skoncentrisan i oštar
Život, a smrt razređena
I laka. Odakle sve stvari
Izgledaju neznatne i male.
Da bi se potom krenulo
Dole, u neki oblik.
Puteljkom, gde se rone
Reči.

© Vojislav Karanović
from: Sin zemlje
Beograd: Srpska književna zadruga, 1999
ISBN: 86-379-0735-0
Audio production: 2006, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

The Ascent

английский

It should be started from something small
And tiny. From a black
Spot on a ladybird’s wing.
Through swaying grass
And a wild rose flower.
Through a claw unfolding and folding,
A paw protruding from a bush.
A cloud covering
The Sun, elusive wisp
Of mist, right to the wind that
Scowls and tears itself from within.
It should be started from the bottom
Along the lanes where pebbles
Crumble below one’s feet.
Narrow paths should be trodden, ever narrowing,
Impassable. One should cut the way
Like a ray through a cloud, or
A beast through the wood.
Right to the top, to the point
Where life is condensed and
Sharp, death being rarefied
And light. Wherefrom all things
Look so tiny and small.
Then comes the time to go
Down, into a shape
Along the lane, where the words
Crumble.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

Sin zemlje

сербский | Vojislav Karanović

Teški smo Zemlji. Dugo me je
Kopkalo to osećanje. Rilo  
Po meni, potkopavalo
Ovo malo mira  
I sigurnosti. Kroz glas,
Kroz dah, kroz riku
Šumskih zveri – Zemlja
Se oslobađa nas.
Cvrkut ptica, otvaranje
Pupoljaka, mirisi
Poljskog cveća - tako
Nas Zemlja predaje,
Vraća nebu. I kao
Da pri tom žuri.

Zemlja ne zna, da bez nas
Ne postoji. Da bi bez
Nas bila gola
I uzaludna
Kao bilijarska kugla
Zauvek sletela
Sa meke čoje
Bilijarskog stola.

Duša: to je prostor u kome
Zemlja jedino postoji. Tu se
Ona kotrlja i okreće,
Oko sebe i oko drugih planeta.

Poslednje osećanje, ono koje
Umirućeg prevede iz ovog
U onaj svet – eto ivice
Provalije dublje
Od najdubljeg kanjona.

Zemlja to zna, i zato
Okleva: ne da nas sve,
I odjednom.

Ja sam ovde. Cvet
Krvavih latica
Otvorio se u meni.

© Vojislav Karanović
from: Sin zemlje
Beograd : Srpska književna zadruga, 1999
ISBN: 86-379-0735-0
Audio production: 2006, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Son of the Earth

английский

We are a burden to the Earth. Since long ago
I’ve been disrupted by such feeling. It used to drill
through me, uprooting
This frail peace  
And safety. Through voice,
Through breath, through roaring of
Wild beasts – the Earth
Is getting rid of us.
Twittering of birds, opening
Of buds, odours of
Wild flowers – thus
The Earth gives us away,
back to the sky. As if
In a great hurry.

The Earth does not know, that without us
It does not exist. That without us
It would be barren
And futile
Like a pool ball
Fallen down forever
From the soft baize
Of the pool table.

The Soul: it is the only space
Where the Earth exists. There it
Rolls and rotates,
Around itself and around other planets.

The last feeling, the one that
Leads a dying one from this world
Into another – it is the edge
Of an abyss deeper
Than the deepest canyon.

The Earth knows that, that’s why
It hesitates, unwilling to give us all away
At once.

I am here. A flower
With bloody petals
Has opened within me.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

Razglednica

сербский | Vojislav Karanović

Jeste, živi smo.
Beton oko nas
Hrapav je
I hladan. Cvet
Ruže, kao plamen mek.
Čelična konstrukcija mosta
Podseća na ukrštene
Mačeve. Svetiljke
Noću obaraju svoje glave.
Automobili na ulicama
Zuje kao bube. Vazduh je
Lak, i prija,
Uz reku kojom plove
Polako brodovi. Ovo drveće,
To su topole. Lišće, mirisi.
Ivice su oštre. Jasnost
Na koju smo ponosni. Jeste,
Živi smo. Ali
Sve sporije i sporije.
Dok ne postanemo
Prizor na razglednici.

© Vojislav Karanović
from: Strmi prizori
Audio production: 2006, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Postcard

английский

Yes, we are still alive.
The concrete around us
is rough
and cold. The rose
as soft as a flame.
The steel construction of the bridge
reminds us of crossed
swords. At night
street lamps bow their heads.
In the streets
cars hum like insects.
The air by the river
is tender and pleasant.
Ships move slowly away.
And the poplars: leaves, fragrances.
Everything has clear-cut
outlines. Yes,
we are still alive.
But we don't overstate this:
as we wait to become a scene
on a postcard.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

Dodir

сербский | Vojislav Karanović

Prizor traje do ivice mog pogleda,
Potom se obrušava. Kiša se
Sliva niz oluk. Barica
Koja se stvara u ulegnuću asfalta
Prevariće nekog odbleskom.
Trava se leluja, i zemlja se ježi.
Rovac se užasnut trgne u svom
Uzanom hodniku.
Vrtoglavica se vije
Na staklenoj stabljici.
Kao prašina je mrak rastresit.
Svetlost me uvek iznenadi.
Vrhovi mojih prstiju su se rascvetali.
Blago zanjihan
Svet izvan mene postoji.

© Vojislav Karanović
from: Strmi prizori
Audio production: 2006, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

A touch

английский

The scene extends to the verge of my look,
Then it soars down. The rain
Pours down the gutter. The pool
That is being formed in the hollow on the asphalt
Will cheat someone with its reflection.  
The grass sways, the earth shivers.
The mole cricket, horrified, startles
In its narrow passageway.     
Vertigo wavers
On its glass stalk.  
Darkness disperses like dust.
I am always surprised by light.
The tips of my fingers have bloomed.
Slightly swinging
The world around me exists.

Translated by Zoran Paunović

Elegija o bagremu pod prozorom

сербский | Vojislav Karanović

1.

Koliko si puta gledao tu krošnju,
lišće što treperi ili miruje,
grančice tanke kao popucali
kapilari na oku;

to stablo, uspravno
kao znak usklika,

i grane, pružene u stranu
kao da nešto pipaju i traže.

Plašio se da nećeš naći
reči za neku pesmu,
da će ti ona izmaći:

kao da pesma može da nestane,
da se izgubi, pretvori u tišinu, u vazduh.

U jesen drvo bi gubilo listove,
u proleće ga opet sticalo.
Tako se tebi činilo.

A bagrem je bio tu, pod tvojim
prozorom, i nije se pomerao -
osim u olujnom košmaru.

2.

Opali listovi kotrljaju se
asfaltom, polako menjajući
boju, od zelene u tamnomrku.
Sve više su nalik
licima dece u sumrak, kad je dan na izmaku .

Toliko si puta gledao to drvo
i ono se davalo tvom pogledu,
ravnodušno, umirenog daha.
Žilice, tkivo, sokovi koji
hrane to telo što se migolji
i beži iz zagrljaja u koji ga
steže tvoja svest. Možda ne vidiš

ali drvo gleda pravo
u tvoje oči.

3.

Listovi, zeleni i meki kao reči,
raspadaju se i trule, vraćaju se
zemlji, iz koje su i nikli.

Da li se i dalje plašiš
za pesmu, da će ti pobeći?

Pesma ne odbacuje svoje reči.
Stihovi - kome oni da se vrate?
Od koga su uopšte potekli?

Još uvek si na prozoru. Gledaš.
Krošnja, taj šumni kovitlac,
skuplja se u tačku
malu kao zenica.
Asfalt je boje beonjača.
Vetar preko njega klizi
kao kapak preko oka.

Zemlja ima crte tvog lica.
I ovo nije prozor nego ogledalo.

Koliko si mu puta samo prišao,
a to nisi shvatio,
nisi primetio.

© Vojislav Karanović
from: Svetlost u naletu
Beograd: Plato, 2004
ISBN: 86-447-0183-5
Audio production: 2006, M.Mechner / Literaturwerkstatt Berlin

Elegy about an acacia under the window

английский

1.

How many times have you seen this treetop,
its leaves quivering or at peace,
its twigs thin as burst
capillaries on an eye;

that tree trunk, upright
as an exclamation mark,

and the branches, spreading aside
as if fumbling for something.

You were afraid that you would not find
the words for a poem,
that you might lose it:

as if a poem could disappear,
vanish, turn into silence, into air.

In autumn, the tree used to lose its leaves,
in spring it would get them again.

So it seemed to you.

And the acacia was there, under your
window, unable to move –                 
except in a stormy nightmare.

2.

The fallen leaves roll along
the asphalt, slowly changing
their colour, from green to dark brown.
More and more they resemble
faces of children at dusk, when the day wanes.

So many times you watched that tree
and it offered itself to your glance,
indifferent, with its breath abate.
Its root hair, its tissue, the juices that
feed the body that wriggles
and breaks away from the firm embrace
of your consciousness. Maybe you do not see it

but the tree looks straight
into your eyes.

3.

Those leaves, green and soft as words,
decaying and rotting, going back
to the earth, wherefrom they sprang.

Are you still afraid
that the poem might escape from you?

The poem does not throw away its words.
The verses – whom can they return to?
Who do they come from at all?

You are still at the window. Watching.
The treetop, that murmuring whirlpool,
focuses in a point
as small as an eye pupil.
The asphalt is like the white of the eye.
The wind slides over it
like an eyelid over the eye.

The earth has your features.
And this is not a window, but a mirror.

How many times have you approached it,
and you never realised that,
never noticed.

Translated by Zoran Paunović