EN / SLO

Iztok Osojnik

Slovenija, 1951

Iztok Osojnik (1951) je antropolog, zgodovinar, komparativist, filozof, pesnik, slikar, pisatelj, esejist, prevajalec, alpinist, turistični vodnik in popotnik. Je začetnik vrste umetniških gibanj, soustanovitelj anarhističnega podrealističnega gibanja, umetniškega Garbage Art (Kjoto) in glasbenega Papa Kinjal Band, Hidrogizme ter vrste drugih pomembnih umetniških ustanov ali festivalov (Galerija Equrna, Trnovski terceti, Pogovori v Vili Herberstein, Vilenica, Revija v reviji, Zlati čoln in drugih). Leta 1977 je diplomiral iz primerjalne književnosti na Filozofski fakulteti Univerze v Ljubljani. Podiplomsko je študiral v Osaki na Japonskem. Leta 2011 je doktoriral iz zgodovinske antropologije na Fakulteti za humanistične študije Univerze na Primorskem v Kopru. Do sedaj je objavil 28 avtorskih knjig poezije, nazadnje Kosovel in sedem palčkov (KUD Police Dubove, 2015), ***asterisk (KUD France Prešeren, 2011) in Poročena na rdeče (Mladinska knjiga, 2012), pet romanov, nazadnje Svinje letijo v nebo (KUD Police Dubove, 2012), dve zbirki esejev in študij ter znanstveno monografijo Somrak suverenosti (KUD Apokalipsa, 2013).

SALISBURY HOTEL

Obstaja hotel, ki so ga zaprli.
Stoji na vogalu St Ann's street in Green Lanes.
Pesem z naslovom Salisbury hotel
sem napisal že enkrat prej. Toda, ta strašni, vedno
prisotni toda, pesem ni preživela
snega, ki je tisto noč pokril mesto Swansea
v Walesu. Počutim se, kot da sem doživel spontani splav.
Pesem je bila napisana, spominjam se tistega večera.
Peter in Hana sta me zaman čakala v salonu,
pesem je bila močnejša, vse tisto, česar zdaj ne bom mogel
več napisati, je gledalo vame z računalniškega ekrana in
čakalo, kaj bom storil. 
Zaradi programov, ki so se mi sami naložili z omrežja in
potuhnjeno počakali, da sem odletel v Anglijo, daleč proč
od dostopa do serverja, in se inštalirali sami od sebe.
Ko sem priključil računalnik, so od mene zahtevali,
da jih aktiviram prek omrežja.
Dokler ne bodo aktivirani,
ne bo mogoče uporabljati uslug MS Office.
Kar je pomenilo, da ni bilo nikakor mogoče shraniti teksta,
ki sem ga prebrisano, vsaj tako sem mislil,
napisal v okolju programa Notepad. In zdaj je bila tu,
odlična, ostra, polna energije in, kot so vse zadnje čase,
dolga, zaobjemajoča vse, kar sem in nisem hotel
napisati. Več kot tisoč kilometrov vožnje po levi strani avtoceste,
sneg, noč, ki so jo kot angleško zastavo sekali trakovi paranoje.
Škripanje vrat, komentarji naše bralne turneje po Angliji,
črnina odprtega oceana v Brightonu ponoči. Amerika
na drugi strani. Notranjosti majhne ladje podobna stopnišča v hotelu
v Londonu. Posebna svežina zraka. Poskušal sem najti način,
kako pesem shraniti v kakršnikoli obliki. Ni mi uspelo.
Računalnik sem pustil prižgan in odhitel na branje v
Dylan Thomas Literary Centre. Med mornarje,
amaterske pesnike, pijane navdušence
v zasneženem večeru, ko je oster veter z ulic spihal
vonje pristanišča.
Mesto se je spremenilo v mlečen gozd,
po katerem je divje vozil naš taksi, majhen avtobus
je zavijal po ozkih vijugastih ulicah z dvojno mešanico
povečanega srčnega utripa in
zadovoljstva, da si človek.
Spomin na jutro, ko sem na hladnem,
vlažnem vetru stal pred Salisbury hotelom in premišljeval, kaj bi
naredil iz njega. Najprej, sem mislil, bi ga prenesel v Rožno dolino,
ga postavil v park, ograjen z visoko,
črno pobarvano ograjo. Povabil bi ekipo in še koga,
da se pridružijo, prevzamejo svoje vloge, ga oživijo, 
odprejo youthhostel, hotel in kulturni center,
v katerem bi gostil mednarodna srečanja, simpozije,
vse to povezal z založništvom in glasbo, z modrim nebom
nad Kilimandžarom in kruhovimi cmoki,
s praškimi ulicami, prej kot s šunko, ki sicer ni slaba,
s kislim zeljem in muziciranjem moje lakote,
moje žalostne tožbe, zaradi katere nisem vreden,
da se imam za odraslega človeka. Zdaj vem, da bi ga pustil
tam, kjer je. Salisbury hotel pomeni življenje, pomeni kino,
pomeni ljubezen, pomeni brezimnost v šestsobnem stanovanju z visokimi stropi in
velikansko stekleno steno, ki se po sredi razcveti v secesijski vitraž in
stanovanje spremeni v atelje, delovno sobo in knjižnico. Zaseben vhod,
neslišno kroženje po mestu ponoči, stopnjevanje občutka brezdomstva do
bolečine, tujosti jezika priseljenca iz Tretjega sveta,
za katerega se nihče ne zmeni, ne glede na barvo črt na obrazu ali
gube, ki so jih izoblikovale žalostinke. Začutil sem vonj
plesnive pisarne in škripanje postelje v hotelčku z dvema obrazoma,
v katerem smo prespali Allen Ginsberg, predsednik Carter in jaz,
to nam je tisto noč v taksiju v divjem metežu povedal David Woolly.
Salisbury hotel torej pomeni obliko bolečine ali nostalgične odprtosti pesmi,
ki sem jo bil prisiljen izbrisati brez sledu. Premišljeval sem,
ali naj jo prepišem na roko, zdaj mi je žal, da je nisem,
ker nobena pesem ne bo več tako dobro ujela vlažnega mraza
in molčeče prisotnosti Dylana Thomasa kot ona,
toda nisem je, nisem si mislil, da me bo tako prizadelo
in v meni zvrtalo tako luknjo,
prazen prepih, nekaj glodajočega.
Včasih ena sama neizrečena beseda pove več kot
sedem stavkov s podredji vred, res, tista pesem je povedala
veliko stvari, ena sama vrzel molka, uspešna simfonija
nepovedanih stvari, zgodba, ki je ni mogoče izreči.
Salisbury hotel pomeni torej zaprtje.
S težkim srcem sem odprl torbo za računalnik, izklopil elektriko,
zvil kable, pospravil miško, še zadnjič preletel vrstice na
računalniku z utrujenimi očmi, zelo daleč v mislih,
in potem žalostno kliknil na predalček Ne shrani.
Klik, teden dni življenja, ali celo vesolje,
je nepovrnjeno izginilo z enim samim pritiskom na tipko.
Salisbury hotel pomeni hišo želje,
za katero ni mogoče jasno ugotoviti, ali pomeni zgolj sanje
človeka na vlažnem vetru ali kaj več,
kakšno nepredelano travmo iz ranega otroštva,
ki spominja na Dickensov roman. Kdo ne pozna tistega utrinka
na računalniku, ko se v blisku sekunde zapre programsko okno in za sabo
pusti grenak priokus kave? Resnično,
počutim se kot pes, ki se plazi po trebuhu, ker si poskuša z
reber spraskati nemogočo željo, ampak potem
pomislim, da je igra resničnosti tako ali tako svojeglava,
da je ni mogoče predvideti, torej da je blazina nemožnosti samo nekakšna
pena človekovega trenutka, krik, s katerim pove stvari,
ki jih ni mogoče niti misliti,
skrivno pismo, namenjeno nepričakovanemu bralcu.
Salisbury hotel pomeni biti živ,
uresničiti v jeziku, jezik obrniti v oster piš lotosa,
tako rekoč prekrvaviti se.
Pomeni jutranjo senco sanj, ki so ugasnile.
Pomeni mojo pastoralo brezdomca, pogled nazaj na vse
podobne trenutke, molk in nasmeh.
In bodočnost, ki se je mogoče že zgodila
v enem izmed prejšnjih življenj.

In English:
SALISBURY HOTEL

There's a hotel that they shut down.
It stands on the corner of St. Ann's Street and Green Lanes.
The poem entitled Salisbury Hotel
I wrote once before. But – this awful, this always
present 'but' – the poem didn't survive the snow
that that night covered the Welsh town of Swansea.
I feel like I've had a spontaneous miscarriage.
The poem had been written – I remember the evening,
Peter and Hana were waiting in the lounge for me in vain,
the poem was stronger – and all that I won't be able to write again
was staring at me from the computer screen,
waiting to see what I'd do.  
It happened because of programmes that had downloaded themselves
from the net, waiting in ambush for me to fly off to England, far
from access to the server, to upload themselves.
When I turned on the computer, they demanded
I activate them through the net.
Unless they were activated,
it was impossible to save the text. And there it was,
superb, sharp, full of energy, and, as is the case with all of them lately,
long, encompassing everything I wanted or did not want
to write. Over a thousand kilometres of driving on the left side of the motorway, 
the snow, a night cut across, like the English flag, with strips of paranoia.
The creaking of doors, comments on our reading tour of England,
the blackness of the open ocean in the Brighton midnight. America
on the other side. Hotel corridors in London like a ship's interior.
A special freshness in the air. I tried finding a way
of saving the poem in whatever form I could. It wasn't possible.
I left the computer on and rushed for the reading in  
the Dylan Thomas Literary Centre, amid the seamen,
amateur poets, drunken enthusiasts
in the snowy evening, as the sharp wind swept
the smell of the port off the streets.
The town turned into a milky wood,
through which our taxi drove recklessly, a tiny bus
winding through the narrow streets with a double mix 
of accelerated heartbeat and
contentment at being human. 
A memory of the morning when I stood in a cold,
wet wind in front of the Salisbury Hotel, wondering what I could
turn it into. First, I thought, I would move it to Rožna dolina,
put it in a park closed in by a tall
black fence. I would invite the gang and maybe others
to join me, take up their roles, inject it with life, 
open a youth hostel, a hotel, a cultural centre,
in which I would host international gatherings, 
tie it all in with publishing, music, blue skies
over Kilimanjaro and bread dumplings,
from the streets of Prague, but rather than with ham, which is actually not bad,
with sauerkraut and the music of my hunger,
my plaintive lament because of which I am not worthy
to consider myself a grown man. But now I know I would leave it
where it is. The Salisbury Hotel means life, it means cinema,
it means love, it means anonymity in a six-room
flat with a giant glass wall, which blossoms in the middle into
a Secession style stained-glass window and
turns the flat into a studio, a workshop and library. A private entrance, 
inaudible circling around the city at night, a growing feeling of homelessness
in the face of pain, the broken language of an immigrant from the Third World,
to whom no one pays any attention,
regardless of the colour of the lines on his face or 
wrinkles created by lamentation. I felt the smell
of a mouldy office and the creaking of the bed in a small hotel with two faces,
where Allen Ginsberg, President Carter and I stayed over,
as we were told that night in a taxi by David Woolly.
The Salisbury Hotel therefore means a kind of pain or the nostalgic
openness of a poem I was forced to erase without a trace. I was wondering
whether to copy it out by hand; now I'm sorry I didn't,
because no other poem will capture so well the wet cold 
and the silent presence of Dylan Thomas as that one had done,
but I didn't, I didn't imagine it would hurt me so 
or drill such a hole in me, an empty draft, something gnawing.
Sometimes an unuttered word tells more than
seven sentences, sub clauses included: that poem told
many things, one big gap of silence, a successful symphony
of unspoken things, a story impossible to utter. 
The Salisbury Hotel therefore means closure.
With a heavy heart I opened the computer case, turned off the electricity,
wound up the cable, put away the mouse, scanned one last time the lines on
the screen with tired eyes, lost deep in thought,
then sadly clicked on Don't save.
Click, a week of a life, an entire universe
lost with a touch of a key. 
The Salisbury Hotel means a house of desire,
for which it is not possible to clearly make out whether it's just a dream 
of a man in the wet wind or something else,
some unworked trauma from early childhood,
which reminds one of a Dickens novel. Who wouldn't be familiar with that flash
on the computer, when the programme window shuts in a split second, leaving behind 
a taste of bitter coffee? Truly,
I feel like a dog crawling on its stomach, trying to scrape
off his ribs an impossible need, but then
I remember that the game of reality has its own logic anyway,
impossible to predict, and that this cushion of impossibility is only some kind of foam from one's moment, a scream, with which you tell things
impossible even to think,
a secret letter intended for an unknown reader. 
The Salisbury Hotel means to be living,
                            (Translated by Ana Jelnikar & David Brooks)

1.

tik preden sva odšla na sprehod, mi je edward said padel v bano na london
bridgeu sva začela govoriti o pesmi z westminsterskega mosta williama
wordswortha. narcise so lotos londona. rožnata barva neba, veter v laseh
do vratu zapeta vetrovka. modrikasta barva, rožnata barva, veter, vonj morja
galebi. vse to, zavito v večerni hlad, množica ljudi na tower bridge
park, potopljen v mrak in  nekaj besed o skupnih prijateljih
daleč nekje, proti vzhodu. hitro menjavanje urbane pokrajine, stolpnice
steklo, gotske cerkve s čudnimi imeni svetnikov in prekrižane
jeklene traverze, luči, ki ena za drugo v petek zvečer ugašajo v pisarnah,
množice, ki pred pivnicami in bifeji pijejo svoj pint of guinness ali
cigareten ogorek ugasnejo na smešnih pepelnikih na zidovih, ki
spominjajo na pisemske nabiralnike. yeats, cummings, luknja v spominu
kot skalpel ostra pozornost, ki v svoji mistični metodi skopari z besedami.
nekje pri tretjem ali četrtem verzu od konca zavije na neznano poljsko pot
in ponikne v grmovju ob reki, neizgovorjeno tesnobno vprašanje obvisi v zraku
ali v večernem mraku. ljudje ptice, ki letijo po zraku kot bela na chagallovi sliki
ljudje ptice, spomin na smrt, ki prihaja
dickensonova, narcisa v brezmadežno beli obleki iz bombaža
drobna ramena, prsti vihtijo pero s sadizmom kirurga, ki ti izkoplje oči
biti zagledan v točko in z njo v srcu risati zemljevid, morda so besede
nekoč nekaj pomenile, pripovedovale stare zgodbe, spomine, nesreče
veter v laseh, modrikasta barva večera, ki steguje pajkove noge v zahod sonca
gube na obrazu reke, počasni zamahi kril galeba, ki se vrača v noč,
kam, nikamor. šum prometa na mostu, množica, ki se prepleta kot
kite las na dekliški glavi zmešnjava večera, ki tone v kristalen, zamolčan zrak

In italiano:

1.
Un attimo prima che uscissimo per una passeggiata, edward said mi è caduto nello scolo del bagno sul london bridge abbiamo iniziato a parlare di una poesia di william wordsworth scritta sul ponte di westminster. i narcisi sono i fior di loto di londra. il colore rosato del cielo, il vento nei capelli la giacca a vento abbottonata sino al collo. il colore azzurrognolo, quello rosato, il vento, l'odore del mare i gabbiani. tutto questo avvolto nel freddo della sera, la folla sul tower bridge un parco immerso nel crepuscolo e qualche parola sugli amici comuni lontani, da qualche parte verso oriente. il rapido cambiamento del paesaggio urbano, i grattacieli il vetro, le cattedrali gotiche con santi dai nomi strani e le traverse d'acciaio, le luci che una dopo l'altra il venerdì sera si spengono negli uffici, la gente che davanti alle birrerie ed ai bifé beve la sua pinta di guinness o spegne il mozzicone di sigaretta in ridicoli portaceneri appesi ai muri, simili a cassette per le lettere. yeats, cummings, un buco nella memoria la tagliente attenzione, come fosse uno scalpello, che nei suoi metodi mistici lesina sulle parole. ad un certo punto al terzo o quarto verso dalla fine svolta verso un inesplorato sentiero tra i campi e si perde nella boscaglia lungo il fiume, un'incredibile oppressiva domanda fluttua nell'aria o nel crepuscolo della sera. uomini uccello, che volano nel cielo come bela nel quadro di chagall uomini uccello, il ricordo della morte che si avvicina quella di dickinson, un narciso in una veste bianca immacolata di cotone le spalle minute, dita che brandiscono una penna con il sadismo di un chirurgo che ti cava gli occhi fissare un punto e con essa tracciare una mappa nel cuore può darsi le parole un tempo abbiano avuto un significato, raccontavano vecchie storie, ricordi, incidenti il vento nei capelli, l'azzurrognolo della sera che allunga le zampe del ragno nel tramonto le rughe sul volto del fiume, i lenti colpi d'ala di un gabbiano che fa ritorno alla notte, dove, in nessun luogo. il rumore del traffico sul ponte, la folla s'incrocia come trecce sulla testa di una ragazza la confusione della sera che affonda in un'aria sottaciuta, cristallina
                                    (Traduzione di Michele Obit)
In English:

1.
just before going out for a walk, edward said fell into my tub
on the london bridge we began discussing a poem written from the westminster
bridge by william wordsworth. daffodils are the lotus of london. the rosy color of the sky, wind in the hair, a windbreaker buttoned to the neck, the blues, the pinks, wind, the smell of the sea, gulls. all of this, wrapped in the evening chill, the crowd of people on the tower bridge, the park, sunk into evening and some words about mutual friends
somewhere far off in the east. the fast-changing urban landscape, skyscrapers
of glass, gothic cathedrals with strange-sounding saints’ names
and steel I-beams, lights which one by one on friday evening
go out in the offices, crowds in front of pubs and bars
drinking their pints of guiness or stubbing out their cigarette butts in funny ashtrays
on the wall that make you think of mailboxes, yeats, cummings, a gap in memory
attention scalpel-sharp, which in its mystical method is stingy with words.
somewhere three or four lines from the end it veers off onto an unfamiliar
path through a field and disappears into the bushes by the river, an unspoken anxious question hangs in the air or in the evening dusk.
people birds that fly in through the air like people in the paintings of Chagall
people birds, remembering a coming death
dickens’ death a daffodil in a spotless white cotton dress, small shoulders,
fingers wielding a pen with the sadism of a surgeon who digs out your eyes
your gaze fixed on a point, drawing a map in your heart
maybe words meant something once, told old stories, memories, accidents
wind in the hair, the evening’s blue sticking its spider legs into the sunset
wrinkles on the face of a river, a seagull’s slow flapping wings as it returns
in the night, where, nowhere. the drone of traffic, a crowd crossing back and forth
like braids on a young girl’s head
a confusion of evening sinking into the crystal, stubbornly silent air
                            (Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox)

avtorjeva besedila

Literarno društvo IA

7. pesniškoprevajalska delavnica Zlati čoln 2009

(Film s prevajalske delavnice Zlati čoln 2009 je posnela in režirala Hana Kovač.)

ponedeljek, 7. september:  Prihod
19.00 – Večerja
    
torek, 8. september    
10.00 – začetek delavnice
13.30 – kosilo
15.30 – delavnica
19.00 – večerja

sreda, 9. september    
9.30 – delavnica
13.30 – kosilo
15.30 – delavnica
17.30 – izlet (Škocjanske jame)
19.00 – večerja

četrtek, 10. september    
9.30 – delavnica
13.30 – kosilo
15.30 – delavnica    
19.00 – Branje Zlati čoln v Škocjanu

petek, 11. september
9.30 – delavnica
13.30 – kosilo
15.30 – izlet v Ljubljano
20.00 – branje Zlati čoln v Cankarjevem domu

sobota, 12. september    
9.30 – delavnica
13.30 – kosilo
15.30 – izlet v bližnjo okolico
19.00 – večerja

nedelja, 13. september    
odhod po zajtrku/med dnevom

Zlati Čoln 2010