EN / SLO

Fiona Sampson

1963, UK

Fiona Sampson has been published in more than thirty languages. She has eleven books in translation, and has received the Zlaten Prsten (Macedonia) and the Charles Angoff Award (US), and been shortlisted for the Evelyn Encelot Prize for European Women Poets. From 2005-2012 she was the first woman editor of Poetry Review since Muriel Spark in 1949. She is now Professor of Poetry and Director of the Poetry Centre at the University of Roehampton. A Fellow and Council Member of the Royal Society of Literature, Trustee of the Wordsworth Trust, Fellow of the Royal Society of the Arts and Fellow of the English Association, she is the editor of Poem: International Quarterly Review

English:
THE CORN VERSICLES                

I love paths cut                        
    through corn,
through grass and meadowsweet –

    that clean opening,
as if the path                
    were a pattern                        

for life,                        
    abstract and true –
as if form were a truth                 

     about you.
And I love to walk
    the new                

swathe, where stalks                
    start up from the exact                        
gold dark

    as I reach                    
down to touch each corn-head                        
with a fingertip –                        
    
it makes me think                        
of Helena, Empress
Mother of Constantine,

    gambling on the natural justice
that gods
    reward faithfulness.                    

Everything good
    still waits             
in the next field,

the best
is yet to come
and it smells of warm earth            

crazed by sun,
of seed-heads
husked against my thumb.

Do you remember
when we                
walked at Eastleach?

Did you see                         
me stoop and grow
strange to myself –

like the rows
of wheat – like shaking bells of husk?    



V slovenščini:
Koruzni liturgični odlomki

Ljubim steze, ki zarežejo
    skozi koruzo,
čez travo in ljubek travnik –

    čez golo jaso
kot da bi bila steza
    vzorec

življenja,
    abstrakten in resničen –
kot da je oblika resnica

    o tebi
ljubim hojo
    v novih

zvezah, ko začnem stopati
    po sledi v jasnem
svetlikajočem mraku,

    ko se sklonim
in se s konicami prstov dotaknem
    koruznega storža –

razmišljati začnem
    o Heleni, cesarici,
Konstantinovi materi,

    in pri tem vse stavim na naravno
pravico, da bogovi
    nagradijo zvestobo.

Vse dobro
    še vedno čaka
na naslednji njivi,

znorelo od sonca
    in storžev z zrni,
ki se luščijo pod palcem.

Se spominjaš,
    ko sva se
sprehajala v Eastleachu?

    Si videl,
da sem se ustavila in postala
    tuja sama sebi –

kot brazde
    pšenice – pozibavajoči se zvonovi klasov?

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik



English:
HAWTHORN MILK            

    The hawthorn brings death into a house


i

Thorn-lily runs beside the fields            
to meet the sky

where the smell of rain-water and salt
is like an opening –

chalice or drain, the mouth soft
and wet  

This smell is meat,
not hawthorn,

the animal that turns and turns nearby            
is not the sea


ii    

You were a breast                 
where I drank rusty milk        
that made me yours

The rust peeled from your hands
and stained my skin
like ochre, like blood

When you died
my skin turned black
When we danced the macabre

your skin turned white        
as the flowers of a Northern spring,
and I was your milk hope

The taste of blood in milk
is like rust; the smell of death
is like hawthorn blossom        


iii

Hawthorn stars the sky,
black against daylight
Its odour
is close and creaturely at night

How is it drugs             
can give the skin                 
this deathly perfume
of hawthorn?

Familiar dark head
crowned with bright hawthorn –
your fear
is so lightly, so darkly worn                


 
V slovenščini:
GLOGOVO MLEKO

         Glog prinaša smrt v hišo

i

Trnaste lilije rastejo ob njivah
dotikajo se z neba

tam vonj deževnice in soli
spominja na odprtino –

na kelih ali odtok, na usta mehka
in sladka

To je vonj telesa,
ne gloga,

in žival, ki se obrača in obrača,
ni morje.


ii

Bila si prsi
iz katerih sem pila zarjavelo mleko
in postala tvoja

Rja se je oluščila s tvojih dlani
in mi zamazala polt,
kakor okra, kakor kri

Ko si umrla,
je moja koža počrnela.
Ko sva plesali macabre

se je tvoja koža pobelila
kakor cvetje spomladi na severu,
in jaz sem postala tvoje mlečno upanje.

Okus krvi v mleku
je rja, vonj smrti
je glogov cvet.

iii

Glog pokriva nebo z zvezdami
črno na ozadju dnevne svetlobe.
Njegov vonj
je blizu in ponoči je bitje

Kako to, da lahko zdravilo
kožo odišavi
z vonjem smrti
iz gloga?

Znana temna glava
z vencem svetlega gloga –
tvoj strah
se nosi tako lahkotno, tako temačno.

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik



GLOGOVO MLEKO

    Glog prinaša v hišo smrt

i

trnova lilija vije ob poljih,
da bi srečala nebo,

kjer je vonj deževnice in soli
kot odprtje -

čaša ali odvodni kanal, usta mehka
in mokra

ta vonj je meso
ne glog,

žival, ki se obrača in zavije v bližino,
ni morje


ii

bila si prsi,
iz katerih sem pila rjo,
to me je naredilo tvojo

rja se je oluščila s tvojih rok
in zamazala mojo kožo
kot okra, kot kri.

ko si umrla,
je moja koža počrnela.
ko sva plesali smrtni ples,

je tvoja koža postala bela
kot rože severnjaške pomladi
in bila sem tvoje mlečno upanje

okus krvi v mleku
je kot rja; vonj smrti
je kot glogov cvet


iii

glog vlada nebu,
črna ob razsvitu
njegov vonj
je blizu in kot stvor ponoči

kako zdravila
lahko dajo koži
ta smrtni parfum
gloga?

znana črna glava
kronana z žarečim glogom –
tvoj strah
se tako lahkotno, tako skrivno nosi

Prevedla Kristina Hočevar



English:
Three Coleshill Sonnets

THE DEATH THREAT
                     

The early dark thrums with wings,                    
shadows scud between headlights.                
A window at the road’s end gleams                    
like a gaze: too long, misplaced.

He changes shape.  The autumn nights
permit this, with their mint of smells,                        
the ash-and-damp notes of a dream
you remember, blurred as wings                    

flurrying into a windscreen:                    
huge eyes, blackened by the lights –                
because sometimes he’s an owl. Or he’s a swan,            
or Caucasian male, clean-shaven, age unknown

or this plumed and gleaming angel                    
at the door, with a knife.



English:
REVENANT


Downhill… and I met myself,
a pale ghost glimmering
the way a poacher’s torch shines            
there – now there – between the trees                

so it seems at moments as if                
they too are ghosts, walking                
in a new light, coming
out of memory toward you…                

When we met, myself and I,                
each cast the other into a kind
of shining shadow,

my younger self ascending through me            
like a shiver, as I turned
toward the house below.     



V slovenščini:
POVRATNICA

Navzdol po klancu … in sem srečala sebe,
bledega duha, ki trepeta
kakor svetilka divjega lovca, ki sveti
tam – in zdaj tam – med drevesi

na trenutke se zdi,
da so tudi oni duhovi, stopajoč
v novi svetlobi, vstajajoči
iz spomina o tebi …

Ko se srečava, jaz s sabo,
druga na drugo vrževa nekakšno
sijočo senco,

moja mlajša jaz se dviguje skozi mene
kot drhtenje, ko se obrnem
proti oni hiši spodaj.

Prevedel Iztok Osojnik



English:
DEER AT MIDDLELEAZE


The deer racing across a field
of the same taupe and tallow
they are – if they are,                        
because they could be tricks of the light –                 
must sense themselves being poured                
and pouring through life.  

We tremble,
feeling everything’s in motion,
and that feeling goes to and fro
in the world that shivers round us –            
World, too, is something poured                
and endlessly pouring itself.

February shakes the fields,
trembles in each hazy willow.    

author's texts

Literary association IA

The 11th Golden Boat Poetry Translation Workshop 2013

THE 11th GOLDEN BOAT 2013 INTERNATIONAL POETRY TRANSLATING WORKSHOP IN ŠKOCJAN ON THE KARST, SLOVENIA

IN MEDIA

Abîme - a film poem by Robin Parmar (recorded in Škocjan, Slovenia)

Abîme from Robin Parmar on Vimeo.

 

PROGRAM

Sunday, 1 September - arrivals
19:00 – Welcome dinner

Monday, 2 September
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Public conference
19:00 – Dinner

Tuesday, 3 September
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
14:30 – Excursion (Škocjan caves)
19:00 – Dinner

Wednesday, 4 September
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Walking excursion
19:00 – Dinner

Thursday, 5September
9:30 – Working session
13:00 – Lunch
18:30 – Dinner
20:00 – The Golden Boat reading Škocjan

Friday, 6 September
9:30 – departure for Ljubljana
11:00 - The Golden Boat Reading at the Trubar Literary House in Ljubljana
12:30 – Lunch
17:00 – Departure for Ljubljana
20:00 – dinner

Saturday, 7September
9:30 – Session on translating poetry
13:00 – Lunch
15:00 – Excursion to Tomaj
20:00 – Farewell Dinner

Sunday, 8 September
Departure after breakfast

The 11th Golden Boat international poetry translating workshop (www.ia-zlaticoln.org) will take place in Slovenia in the small Karst village of Škocjan, the site of one of the world’s most spectacular caves (www.park-skocjanske-jame.si/eng/). It will commence on Sunday evening of 1 September and formally conclude on Sunday morning of the 8 September 2013 (See the program bellow). There will be 16 participants (poets/translators) from 8 different countries (USA, England, Ireland, Finland, Montenegro, Slovakia, Poland, and Slovenia).

Participants: Iztok Osojnik – coordinator, Andrej Hočevar, Alenka Jovanovski, Dejan Koban, Tatjana Jamnik, Kristina Hočevar (Slovenia), Fiona Sampson (England), Marianna Kurtto (Finland), Andrea Brady (USA-England), Robin Palmar (Ireland), Dinko Telećan (Montenegro), Maciej Melecki (Poland), Jan and Miroslava Gavura (Slovakia).

Zlati Čoln 2010