Angela Carr

/Kanada

(Kanada), v Montrealu živeča pesnica in prevajalka, avtorica pesniške zbirke Ropewalk (2006), pripravlja za jesen 2009 novo zbirko – The Rose Concordance. Leta 2007 je sodelovala na simpoziju Translating Translating Montréal s prispevki o inovativnem prevajanju poezije, poznana pa je tudi po svojih intervjujih s sodobnimi kanadskimi pesniki v revijah Matrix in Open Letter.

Pesmi

O begu, o jedru / Of running, of the core

kako neprizadeti beg pred sokrivdo
neprizadeti beg s krhkimi udi
nič ne steče lepše od nagona
nihče se ne zateče lepše
k revščini, ko beg navrže
ubežnike, te vidike, listje v njenih laseh.
lahko človek oblikuje tako lepega ubežnika?
moje srce divja
kaže se dovolj mehko
najbrž upočasni tvoj beg
beg najinih glasov ne spremeni ničesar
kako se vonj steka vame
beg in vonj tvojega telesa
rečem beg, mislim pa telesi
telesi najinih glasov ne spremenita ničesar

kako telesi neprizadeto pred sokrivdo
telesi neprizadeto s krhkimi udi
nič se ne utelesi lepše od nagona
nihče ne utelesi lepše
revščine, za kogar telesa odstopijo
telesa, te vidike, listje v njenih laseh.
lahko človek oblikuje tako lepo telo?
moje srce divja
kaže se dovolj mehko
najbrž upočasni tvoje telo
telesi najinih glasov ne spremenita ničesar
kako me vonj uteleša
telesi in vonj tvojega bega
rečem telesi, mislim pa beg
beg najinih glasov ne spremeni ničesar

Iz angleščine prevedel Dražen Dragojević.

how running dryly from complicity
running dryly with fragile limbs
nothing runs more beautifully than instinct
no one runs more beautifully
to poverty when running yields
runners, these aspects, leaves in her hair.
can you fashion such a beautiful runner?
my heart races
it appears softly enough
presumably slows your running
the running of our voices changes nothing
how the smell runs into me
running and the smell of your body
i say running when i mean to say bodies
the bodies of our voices change nothing

how bodies dryly from complicity
bodies dryly with fragile limbs
nothing bodies more beautifully than instinct
no one bodies more beautifully
poverty for whom bodies cede
bodies, these aspects, leaves in her hair.
can you fashion such a beautiful body?
my heart races
it appears softly enough
presumably slows your body
the bodies of our voices change nothing
how the smell embodies me
bodies and the smell of you running
i say bodies when i mean to say running
the running of our voices changes nothing

O mnogih / Of the many

Kaj ko bi končni s izbrisal besedilo? In bi zdrsnilo v ne-bivanje, zdrsnilo čez sam konec. Ko bi bil krhek. Potem ko bi padel na pločnik, stekleni s, ki poka.
Sčasoma zrastejo rastline okrog črepinj tega s. Ena izmed njih, olesenelo drevo, prodre skozi razdrobljeno krivuljo tega s, ga preobrazi v humus.

S je imel zgodbo, vendar se je izgubila v času. Izbris časa. Razdrobi sam dotik. Ta ideja pristnosti, iztrgana iz avtorja kot drobec/ ta ideja pristnosti, razdrobljena za avtorja/ ta ideja avtorja/ ta ideja pretoka toplote/ prstov/ njenega mehanističnega telesa/ idej, ki se razdrobijo in zagozdijo v njenem telesu
Krogotok izbrisa in pretrgane lahkotnosti, sprejete in zavrnjene čutnosti. Ko bi zapisala celo poved, bi se odkupila?
Ko iznesemo stekleni s in ga izzovemo, da poči. Ko smo brez upa/ nam je odleglo/ te iluzije

Iz angleščine prevedel Dražen Dragojević.

What if a final s were to elide the text? Slipping into non-being, slipping off the very end. If it were fragile. As it fell to the pavement, a glass s cracking.
In time, plants grow around the shards of this s. One of them, a solid tree, breaks through the fragmented curve of the s, transforms it into topsoil.

The s had a story, but she was lost in time. The elision of time. Splinters the very touch. This idea of authenticity drawn from the writer like a splinter/ this idea of authenticity splintered for the writer/ this idea of the writer/ this idea of convected heat/ of fingers/ of her mechanistic body/ of ideas splintered and wedged in her body
The cycle of elision and broken ease, accepted and rejected sensuality. If I were to write a whole sentence, would it be to redeem?
When we bring a glass s outside and dare it to break. When we are undone/ eased/ these illusions

O sredini / Of the middle

Najin jezik, ki teče brez telesa in z nič manj sape.
Najin jezik manj v gibanju kot gibanje.
Najina jezika med lastnostmi, ločujeta,
bradavičke, sredinski jezik, utrip srca.
Do sredine septembra sem bila ob telo,
bila sem sredinski jezik, ki ločuje manjkajoči utrip srca,
moj utrip srca, od sedanjosti.
Do sredine septembra sem bila ob lastnosti, ob telo.
Do sredine.
Krvavela sem jezik, dokler nisem bila ob telo.
Med najinimi lastnostmi, ki ločujejo repo
od snega v mrzli goli
bližini najinega jezika.
Do sredine zime
je bila najina zgodba manj gibanje, jezik je krvavel iz mene.
Do sredine sem pogrešala
mesece, ki ločujejo, v človeškem
jeziku brez telesa
satovje
zamrznjeno
izostreno
ššš
vendar
ne morem dihati ne teči z manj jezika.

Krvavela sem jezik, dokler nisem bila ob telo.
Krvavela med repo in snegom
Krvavela mrzli goli jezik.
Do sredine
Je bila najina zgodba manj
Jezik je krvavel iz mene
Zato je bila najina zgodba manj.

Iz angleščine prevedel Dražen Dragojević.

Our language with no body, nor less breath running.
Our language less in motion than motion.
Our tongues between properties, dividing,
nipples, the centrelanguage, heartbeat.
By the middle of September I had no body,
I was centrelanguage dividing the missing heartbeat,
my heartbeat, from the present.
By the middle of September I had no property, no body.
By the middle.
I bled language until I had no body.
Between our properties dividing turnips
from snow in the cold bare
vicinity of our language.
By the middle of winter
our story was less motion, language bled from me.
By the middle, I was missing
dividing months from the human
language with no body
honeycombs
frozen
honed
shhhh
but
I cannot breathe nor run with this less language.

I bled language until I had no body.
Bled between turnips and snow
Bled the cold bare language.
By the middle
Our story was less
Language had bled from me
So our story was less.I bled language until I had no body.
Bled between turnips and snow
Bled the cold bare language.
By the middle
Our story was less
Language had bled from me
So our story was less.