SOUNDS LIKE A STORY
It's not easy to be a poetry reader in Croatia these days. That is to say, all original rivers of verses are reversed from poet to reader in hints. Disperse meanings more then ever insist upon reader's participation with all mind and spirit, and they leads you to another planet.
Poetry styles written by younger poets aren't similar enough for deducing them to common elements and to declare one writing system. They are individual voices of twenty-first century, also voices with high self-confidence. Poems, often free verse, are all kind of structures: word pyramids (it doesn't matter which way they are turned), little thoughts, rock ballads, street pictures, intimate stories, live pictures...etc. - and they all writes down part of poets experiences such as everyday life, mind puzzles, emotional whirlpools and individual struggles.
You have to have key to understand each one of them and their artistry: key of tolerance, empathy and open mind. Because you can sometimes read lines that are poetry but poetry on the edge - clear nonsense and denial of standard poetry notion. Although poem concept is very well termed, today's Croatian poetry expand all known meanings of that notion through poets only instrument - verses, which are going from one letter and word to sentence.
Poets are not using punctuation in full sense - they forget about it because their poems flow - and can you slow down thoughts with commas or stop them with dots? Short lines and brackets are very frequent. First is some kind of substitute for commas; between two of them often are whole ideas, close structures or they just separates one thought from another, one picture from another. Brackets are one new style instrument: sometimes for inserted verses, sometimes for by the way thoughts and else, but all indicate the same: poets have need to say more then ever!
Hard and fast way of living, necessity to demonstrate our best in every part of life, no time for deep communication and need to have 35 hours in one day to do everything we want turns poets into narrators.
This cut of poetry is representation in fragments of all today's poetry production in Croatia. It very well shows poets need to sing about beauty, love or emotional bleeding and often misunderstandings. Their poems are individual stories that reflect ability of each poet to communicate with things that matters, little things that we often do not notice.
Their voices also are so different in styles and themes that we can connect and determine: poetry in Croatia is in process of evolution because poets don't copy expression from each other. Although poetry in our country is less evaluated than short stories or novels, if it proceeds this way and number of poets would grow, like it is today, we don't have a reason to be afraid - little wisdom will be saved - only in different colors written by different voices.
Pula, Croatia, 30.3.2004.
prof. Tijana Vukic
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POET: EVELINA RUDAN
TRANSLATION: DADA HANA BANAK
Evelina Rudan (1971.) Diplomirala je kroatistiku i južnoslavenske filologije na Filozofskom fakultetu u Zagrebu. Radila je u Pazinskom kolegiju - klasicnoj gimnaziji i nakladnickom poduzecu "Josip Turcinovic", sada je zaposlena na Filozofskom fakultetu u Zagrebu - Odsjek za kroatistiku. Pjesme je objavljivala u casopisima: Quorum, Nova Istra, Marulic, Spectrum, Vijenac, Petica, zbornicima Verši na šterni (I - X),Trecem programu Hrvatskoga radija i www.konture.com.
Zbirku Sve ca mi rabi ovega prolica objavila je 2000., 2002. zajedno sa Sladjanom Lipovcem i Denisom Pericicem zbirku Posljednja topla noc, a 2003. objavljena joj e-knjiga: Uvjerljiv vrt na: www.eknigi.com.mk/01poetry/rudan/
Evelina Rudan (1971.) graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy at the University of Zagreb (Department of Croatian Language and Literature and South-Slavic Philology). She worked at the Pazin Gymnasium as well as at the Josip Turcinovic Publishing Company. Presently she is employed at the Department of Croatian Language and Literature at the Faculty of Philosophy in Zagreb. Her poems were published in the following publications - Quorum, Nova Istra, Marulic, Spectrum, Vijenac, former Petica, in collections Verši na šterni, and in web-zine: www.konture.com.
Her collection of poems "Sve ca mi rabi ovega prolica" (All I Need This Spring) was published in 2000. Posljednja topla noc (Last Warm Night) collection of poems together with Sladjan Lipovac and Denis Pericic.
was published 2002. Her collection of poems Uvjerljiv vrt (A Convincing garden) was publish 2003. as e-book on http://www.e-knigi.com.mk/01poetry/rudan/
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MOST
nestašni postolari, ljepljivi prsti, sjajne djevojke
i nešto tastature dostajat ce za pricu mog života
koju pocinjem pisati sada dok vani pršti snijeg
dok prekoputa naša susjeda suši kosu
dok iznutra moj mladic prži krumpir
dok su mi usta suha, a prsti pokretljivi
u toj prici ja nisam sjajna djevojka
ni tajna ljubav neke od sjajnih djevojaka,
nisam nestašni postolar
niti išta ljepljivog ima na meni
mislim da bih mogla biti riba, pas ili macka
u kuci postolareve žene
i da bih je mogla tješiti
kad se bude naginjala kroz prozor
kad bude sanjala doticuce grane
i kad bude vikala bijesno i uzaludno
mislim da bih mogla biti cavao, koža ili mast
na postolarevu stolu kad bude plakao
ili junacki pocupkivao (ako sam mast tad cu se cuvat,
a ako sam cavao cuvat ce se oni)
još bih mogla biti sat, torba ili jastuk
mladih, sjajnih djevojaka
što raspršeno kroce mostom
ili taj most sam
kako se uleknjuje i lomi, raspada
pršti kamenje krupno i sitno na sve strane
baš kao i ovaj snijeg vani
dok se prži krumpir
dok se suši kosa
i piše prica
THE BRIDGE
lively shoemakers, sticky fingers, remarkable girls
and a keyboard will be sufficient to tell the story of my life -
story I'm starting to write now that snowflakes are pirouetting outside
and our neighbour is drying her hair in the vis a vis apartment
my boyfriend is making French fries
and now that my mouth is dry, fingers responsive
I'm not one of the remarkable girls in that story
neither am I one of the remarkable girls' sweetheart
nor am I a lively shoemaker
and there's nothing sticky about me
but I could easily be a fish, a dog or a cat
from the house of the shoemaker's wife
and I could comfort her
when she leans through the window
dreams of adjoining branches
and shouts furiously to no avail
I think I could be a shoe-nail, leather or grease
resting on the shoemaker's desk while he's shedding tears
or skipping in triumph (should it turn out I am to be grease, I will be wary,
but if I am a shoe-nail, they will have to look out for themselves)
I could also be a watch, a bag or a pillow
belonging to those young, remarkable girls
crossing the bridge ramblingly
or I could be the bridge itself
sagging and breaking, falling apart
stones and rocks sputtering all around
just like the snowflakes outside
potatoes still frying
hair drying
and the story being written
----
O
o ormaru koji je skupljao prašinu
o vjetru koji je dovoljno blag
da je ne odnese
o kravi koja je pratila tramvaj
o djecaku koji je mislio da je krava konj
o mojoj mami koja ima velike ruke
o covjeku koji je tiho, ali ipak, lagao
i sjaju koji se objesio na prozor cimericine sobe
o jednom oku u kojem se skupljala radost
i o brojnim drugim ocima u kojima se skupljala tama
o tome da bi sada valjalo prestati
i o tome da oštre predmete valja sklanjati
uvijek kada postoji opasnost da vjetar odnese prašinu
ABOUT
about a cupboard collecting dust
about a wind gentle enough
not to blow it away
about a cow following a tram
about a boy who mistook a cow for a horse
about my mum who has large hands
about a man who lied quietly but endlessly
and about dazzling sparkles dancing in front of my roommate's window
about an eye concentrating joy
and about many other eyes concentrating darkness
about how one should know when to stop
and about how sharp objects should be put away
whenever there's a danger
of some wind blowing the dust away
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O RUKAMA, USNAMA I VUKU
ne bih da me odvedu
ni na kakve skupne susrete
gdje ne znam kako iskoordinirati pokrete ruku
koje drže cigarete i drže cašu i moraju se pozdravljati
i još moram stajati
u redovima smješka, nogu i velikih cipela
ne bih ni da ostanem
zatvorena u sobi
gdje me velikani motre sa zidova
na koje ja naslanjam tople ruke
lijepo zaobljene i pomalo prazne
ali bih dopustila
da me nose,
u oba slucaja
i pojedinacno,
da me nose
i noseci posrnu par puta
(tek toliko da sve skupa dobije na težini)
i da mi pjevaju
nježnu uspavanku
tik uz uho
(što vec ima veze s usnama)
ABOUT HANDS, LIPS AND A WOLF
I wouldn't like to be taken
to any group meetings
revealing my lack of grace
when holding a cigarette, a glass and greeting others
and having to stand upright
in rows of grinning faces, feet and large shoes
I also wouldn't like to stay
closed in a room
faces of distinguished figures closely watching me from surrounding walls
walls I lean onto with my warm hands
round and somewhat empty
but I would allow them
to carry me -
in both cases
and separately -
to carry me
and doing that, stumble a couple of times
/just to make sure importance is gained/
to sing to me
a soft lullaby
right next to my ear
(that already has to do with lips)
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A KAD SMO KOD USANA
meni se svidaju one koje slice jabukama
po boji, mirisu i zvuku koji ispuštaju
u trenucima ugode
kao jabuke kad se kotrljaju
u crvenkapicinu košaru
ona ih ceka u kutu
da ih odnese baki
baka se plaši vuka
(ne mora, jer on je jedan iz prethodne pjesme,
jedan od onih koji su nosili
i sad je vec debelo umoran)
SPEAKING OF LIPS
I prefer lips resembling apples
in terms of colours, scents and sounds they make
in moments of pleasure
like apples rolling in
Little Red Riding Hood's basket
she waits in the corner
to take apples to her granny
granny is afraid of the wolf
(she shouldn't be really, because the wolf is the one from the previous poem,
he's been working hard
and is dog-tired now)
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TAMNE MRLJE
neke tamne mrlje iskocile su ljudima po vratu
u tramvaju, u hodniku sudišta, na fakultetu i u parku
svuda ljudi s tamnim mrljama po vratu
pipkaju se, mecu vlažne papirnate, dižu kragne,
jure do prvih lijecnika, do svojih žena, muževa,
djece, roditelja i ostalih srodnika, prijatelja,
suradnika na poslu, susjeda, zovu se, nazivaju
sve je u kretnji, u žurbi, juri se,
i ja se požurujem i zamicem za prva vrata,
i pipkam se, gledam, i ne vidim ništa, i nema tamnih mrlja,
na meni nema nikakvih tamnih mrlja i malo me je strah,
i malo me gledaju zacudeno, i malo pocinju potrcavati,
i malo me jure, i vec sam na podu i vec sam u zatvoru
i vec sam na promatranju i više ne vidim gdje sam
i možda više nisam
DARK SPOTS
dark spots started emerging on people's necks
in trams and courthouse hallways, at the university and in the park
people with darks spots all around
palpating their skin, applying wet handkerchiefs, hiding behind high collars
running to available doctors, wives, husbands,
children, parents and other relatives, friends,
co-workers, neighbours; calling each other's names, punching numbers on their mobile phones
there's a huge commotion, everybody's in a hurry and running
I start running too and I hide behind first doors I come across
checking my neck, examining it in horror, but there's nothing I see, no dark spots
not a single dark spot and I'm kind of terrified,
people stare at me in a total disbelief and start following me
and chasing me, I end up lying on the ground and behind bars
and I'm being placed under observation and I become oblivious of where I am -
and maybe I no longer am
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DRUGO LICE
svojim muškarcima nikad ne pjevam u drugom licu jednine
npr. dodeš do mene i vidiš da sam sretna
da su ptice zarasle u mahovinu
a gušterica pozelenjela na popodnevnom suncu
ili donijela sam ti cokoladu na poslužavniku od svile
koji podrhtava dok nas svemir promatra
mislim s poslužavnicima je sve u redu
s mahovinom i guštericom isto
cokoladu ne jedem
a svemir puštam da me prožme
kad sam Kant i zvijezda
a to je rijetko i svecano
ali drugo lice nije za moje pjesme
ni za moje muškarce
snovi nemaju ništa s tim
ja njih, muškarce ne pjesme, opisujem
u tom opisu oni su lijepi, sretni, spretni
tužni, zdravi, ili bosonogi
radaju se iz paprati
zaklanjaju se za pjenu i dišu
poput oblaka, lješnjaka i travki
i sasvim im je dobro
tako šutljivima i pokretljivima
u okrutnom travnju i svim drugim mjesecima
SECOND PERSON SINGULAR
I never refer to men in my poems in second person singular
for example, you come to see me and realize that I'm happy
that birds turned mossy
and lizard green, in the midday-sun,
or, I brought you chocolate on a tray of silk
a tray trembling while the universe is watching
don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with trays
or moss or the lizard,
chocolate I don't eat
and I let the universe consume me
when I'm Kant and a star
that being a rare and solemn moment
but second person singular is not right for my poems
nor is it right for my men
dreams have nothing to do with it
I describe them, men not poems,
as handsome, happy, dexterous
sad, healthy or barefoot
born in the fern
disguised in the foam, breathing
like clouds, hazelnuts and leaves of grass
and they are doing just fine
so taciturn and responsive
in the cruel month of April and all other months
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POEMS AND TRANSLATION: SANDRO GOBO
Born in Labin 1970.
"White bicycle", poetry 1996; publisher: "J&L"d.o.o.
"Crossing by", poetry 1999; selfproduction
"Representing the things", dramas 2000; publisher: "Ritam grada"
"No preservatives added", short-short storyes 2001; publisher: "Mathias Flacius"
"While the train comming, don't open", poetry 2002; publisher: "Mathias Flacius"
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OBSERVATION
All alone in a sailor coat in the middle
of a corn field;
I'm talking to a label on the inner side
of the lining
and transcribing the horoscope from it.
From time to time the fog is leaning over
like a barbel
which I strive to drive away by waveing
my hand mechanically;
in the case tide wave actually moves
from below deck of the shoe
I transmit the coded news
how I'm still looking for a forest without
a curtain.
OPSERVACIJA
Sam u mornarskom kaputu usred kukuruznog polja;
razgovaram s etiketom na unutarnjoj strani
podstave
iz cijeg sadržaja prepisujem horoskop.
Magla se povremeno nadnosi kao mrena
koju nastojim odagnati makinalnim odmahivanjem
ruke;
u slucaju da plimni val doista krene,
iz potpalublja cipele odašiljem kodiranu vijest
kako još uvijek tražim šumu bez zastora.
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THE WAITING
"Hunters loves live."
Antal Geza - Hunters loves life
The hunter likes grease.
He takes his gun and he greases it well,
so it wouldn't faild in the crucial moment.
He goes to hound; he's not alone
and he's expecting a good choice.
When he gets enough courage
he roaringly says enough,
while the morning rouge shimmers on the horison.
The hunter takes blunt steps and
walkes away to lock the door.
CEKANJE
"Lovci vole život."
Antal Geza - Lovci vole život
Lovac voli mast.
Uzima pušku i dobro je podmazuje
da ne zakaže u odsudnom trenutku.
Krece u pohod; nije sam i ocekuje
dobar ishod.
Kad sakupi dovoljno hrabrosti kaže
gromko DOSTA.
Dok se na obzoru cakli jutarnja rumen,
lovac tupim koracima odlazi
zakljucati vrata.
--------
WORK
I stalk an ant. So black,
diligent
goes to the swollen soil's pit
o rest its feelers.
I can immagine the inside of entrails being
worm
and that in the core the ant has no problem
finding its place.
In there he's a signaller, chief editor
who removes the remains away from the table
so he could write something
in his diary.
He puts a piece
of fruit, vegetable
all nourishing things
on the edge of the table.
From the wall clock the bird comes out
in the system,
but the ant won't listen, like he aint home and
goes out to find newspaper and sport forecast.
POSAO
Uhodim mrava. Onako crn,
vrijedan
odlazi u grotlo nabubrene zemlje
odmoriti ticala.
Mogu zamisliti kako je unutar središta utrobe
toplo
i da u jezgri mrav nema problema pronaci
mjesto koje ga pripada.
Tamo je vezist, glavni urednik
koji rasprema ostatke
ne bi li prionuo zagrebati štogod
u dnevnik.
Na rub stola odlaže komadic
voca, povrca
- sve hranjive tvari.
Iz zidnog sata naviruje se ptica
u sistemu,
ali mrav ne sluša, kao da nije doma i
odlazi potražiti novine i sportsku prognozu.
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UNUSUAL DAY
I work in a shipyard.
I have a pair of nice black shoes that don't pinch.
They have been impregnated with artificial leather
so I don't have polish them if I even think
they are full of red rust.
I just run to the opposite side of he artificial dock
where I exult over a falsely placed trap
from which I'm allowed to get out when I get tired
of pointing my head up,
and claim that the world is all around stell membranes
simply without controll.
I try to write about this for the workman's papers,
and from the office doors, where you can smell
the intimacy of coffeine, I utter how the outlines
of the faraway shaddows look beautiful
while the slipway is completely empty.
NEOBICAN DAN
Radim u brodogradilištu.
Imam lijepe crne cipele koje ne žuljaju.
Ipregnirane su od umjetnog svlaka
tako da ih ne moram laštiti cak ni pri pomisli
jesu li možda pune crvenkaste ruzine.
Samo otrcim na suprotni kraj umjetnog doka
gdje likujem zbog lažno postavljene klopke
iz koje smijem izaci kad mi dosadi upirati glavom
gore,
i tvrditi da je svijet svuda uokolo celicnih membrana
jednostavno bez nadzora!
O tome nastojim pisati za radnicke novine
i odmah s vrata,
pred ulazom u kancelariju
gdje miriše na prisnost kofeina,
izustim kako lijepo izgledaju
obrisi dalekih sjena,
dok je navoz posve prazan!
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POEMS AND TRANSLATION: MARIO MARUSIC
I've been living in Zagreb, Croatia, since I was born in 1981. I write [mostly poetry] since age 10. However, there's a small part of my works available because I haven't been publishing anything until recently. Anyway, I published few poems in Poetry.com as well as in the Mini-Mag [Issue #2 / February 2004], an imprint of Muse Apprentice Guild. My poem 'The Inside' is going to be available in the anthology 'The Best Poems and Poets of 2003' as well as on the compact disc 'The Sound of Poetry', both to be published in the USA by the International Library of Poetry. Also, my poem 'Delusional Inertia' is going to be available in the anthology 'Colours of the Heart' which is to be published in the UK by the Noble House. This year I was nominated for an award Poet of the Year by the International Library of Poetry.
Živim u Zagrebu (Hrvatska) otkako sam se rodio 1981. godine. Pišem, uglavnom poeziju, od svoje desete godine. Medutim, tek mali dio mojih radova je dostupan jer do nedavno nisam ništa objavljivao. U svakom slucaju, nekoliko pjesama objavljeno je na portalu Poetry.com kao i u casopisu Mini-Mag [Broj 2 / Veljaca, 2004], koji je dio casopisa Muse Apprentice Guild. Moja pjesma 'The Inside' bit ce uskoro dostupna u SAD-u u antologiji 'The Best Poems and Poets of 2003' kao i na nosacu zvuka 'The Sound of Poetry', oboje izdaje International Library of Poetry. Takoder, moja pjesma 'Delusional Inertia' bit ce uskoro dostupna u Ujedinjenom Kraljevstvu u antologiji 'Colours of the Heart' koju ce objaviti Noble House. Ove godine sam bio nominiran za nagradu Pjesnik godine koju dodjeljuje International Library of Poetry.
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THE BEGINNINGS
You always seek for the truth but never learn from previous experiences
that the truth is not what you will hear. We became our own prisoners, unapproachable to everyone, even to ourselves. Perhaps you were not good
at math in high school, but you recognize every definition and formula
when the bills arrive and empty your pockets and wallets.
Are we going to disappear by the sun and rain? Scientist's theme, I guess.
I think I saw a meteor or it was an alien? No global warning yet. We have
all the power of this world and still we are absolutely powerless. How pitiful!
Later you hide behind the make-up so that consequences cannnot be read
from your wrinkled face and pale bloody eyes. Welkin is expressionless,
a lack of color, only combination of white and black dominates and these
are not colors. History repeats, the rhymes are past. We are approaching
the beginnings again, so pick the apple and cut it through.
POCECI
Neprestano tražiš istinu, ali nikad ne nauciš iz prijašnjih iskustava
da ono što ceš cuti nije istina. Postali smo vlastiti zarobljenici,
nikome nepristupacni, cak ni sebi samima. Možda ti matematika nije išla
u srednjoj školi, ali prepoznaješ svaku definiciju i formulu
kada racuni pristignu te isprazne tvoje džepove i novcanike.
Hocemo li nestati od sunca i kiše? Znanstvena tema, pretpostavljam.
Mislim da sam vidio meteor ili je to bio vanzemaljac? Nema još globalnog upozorenja. Imamo svu moc ovoga svijeta, a i dalje smo apsolutno nemocni. Kako jadno!
Poslije se skrivaš iza šminke tako da posljedice ne mogu biti procitane
sa tvog naboranog lica i blijedih krvavih ociju. Nebeski svod je bezizražajan, nedostatak boje, samo sjedinjenje crnog i bijelog dominira, a to nisu boje.
Povijest se ponavlja, rime su prošlost. Približavamo se pocecima opet, stoga uberi jabuku i razreži je.
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N.
I love you so much that it makes me throw up
From the bowels of the earth to the ozone's holes.
And if I could show you
How much I love you
I would embrace you
So that your lungs break down
And you suffocate with your own blood.
And then I would drive the stake into that fucking spoiled ass,
Smash that disgusting fainthearted face,
Ruin every dream you have,
So that you bleed just like me
From day to night to day.
(like yours)
That is my love for you.
N.
Volim te toliko da mi se povraca
Od utrobe zemlje do ozonskih rupa.
I kad bih ti mogao pokazati
Koliko te volim jako
Zagrlio bih te
Tako da pluca ti popucaju
U vlastitoj krvi da ugušiš se.
A onda ti zabio kolac u tu jebenu pokvarenu guzicu
I razmrskao to odurno malodušno lice
I uništio svaki tvoj san
Da krvariš kao i ja
Iz dana u noc u dan.
(baš kao i tvoja)
To je moja ljubav za tebe.
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INCOMPLETE
This is becoming impossible,
To make a halt constantly because of the same impediments.
If i could...
but it's too late for redemption of sins.
All that remained is absence of belief
that she'll come and make me complete,
painting my portrait with bright colors.
She's so far away...
Damaged and depressed
I hear the voices within my head
inviting me to join his holy temple of devotion
and to be baptized once again
but I cannot though it doesn't mean I would not want.
This is sentenced to decline, just like everything else,
nothing will change in the end
but I...
I'm keeping straight on.
NEPOTPUN
Ovo postaje nemoguce,
Neprestano zaustavljati se zbog istih zapreka.
Kad bih mogao...
ali prekasno je za otkupljenje grijeha.
Sve što je preostalo jest odsutnost vjerovanja
da ce ona doci i ispuniti me,
slikajuci moj portret svijetlim bojama.
Ona je tako daleko...
Oštecen i potišten
cujem glasove u glavi svojoj
što pozivaju me da pridružim se njegovom svetom hramu odanosti
i krstim se nanovo
Ali ne mogu iako to ne znaci da ne bih htio.
Ovo je osudeno na propast, baš kao i sve ostalo,
ništa se na kraju nece promjeniti
ali ja...
Ja idem ravno dalje.
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THE SMELL OF SERENITY
Staring through the window
I enjoy the night sirens as they tinge the sky
Giving me hope that
We'll soon leave this shell and
Find the sea and its waves
And for once in our lives
Dreams will come true
MIRIS SPOKOJA
Buljeci kroz prozor
Uživam u nocnim sirenama dok krase nebo
Dajuci mi nadu da
Uskoro cemo napustiti ovu ljušturu i
Pronaci more i njegove valove
Te da ce jednom u našim životima
Snovi se ostvariti
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DISTIMIA
I have lost all my radars
I don't feel your frequency
I can't understand what you transmit to me
Why we don't see what we have close to ourselves
Why we aspire after things that don't fit us
Perhaps we lost our radars
Or perhaps we never had them at all
But every time that the moon
Break us wings
Our sailing ends
With endurance-test of the wall
DISTIMIJA
Izgubio sam sve svoje radare
Ne osjecam tvoju frekvenciju
Ne shvacam što mi odašilješ
Zašto ne vidimo što imamo pokraj sebe
Zašto smo skloni stvarima koje nam ne odgovaraju
Možda smo svi izgubili svoje radare
A možda ih nismo nikada niti imali
Ali svaki put kada mjesec
Slomi nam krila
Naša plovidba završi
Ispitivanjem izdržljivosti zida
--------
POET: SLADAN LIPOVEC
TRANSLATION: HELENA MOLNAR I SLADAN LIPOVEC
TRANSLATION CONSULTATIONS: IVAN LUPIC
Sladan Lipovec published his poetry and prose as well as some journalistic articles in Homo volans, Forum, Quorum, Vijenac, Sent, Konture (www.konture.com), where he was pronounced the poet of the year 2002, on the web sites www.litkon.hr and www.htnet.hr.
He is the participant, iniciator and coordinator of many different events in the field of urban culture.
His poems were published jointly with those of Evelina Rudan and Denis Pericic in the collection The Last Warm Night (2002). He published a collection of poems Emily Dickinson in My Town (2003).
He lives in Dereza.
Sladan Lipovec (1972) poetske, prozne i novinarske radove objavljivao je u Homo volansu, Forumu, Quorumu, Vijencu, Sentu, Konturama (www.konture.com), gdje je proglašen pjesnikom godine 2002, na Lit.kon-u (www.litkon.org), na portalu HTnet (www.htnet.hr).
Sudionik je, organizator, suorganizator i voditelj razlicitih dogadanja s podrucja urbane kulture.
Zastupljen je u zbirci stihova Posljednja topla noc, s Evelinom Rudan i Denisom Pericicem, Varaždinsko književno društvo, 2002. Objavio je zbirku pjesama Emily Dickinson u mom gradu, Naklada MD, Zagreb, 2003.
Živi u Derezi.
--------
najbrže tonu u mrak mali
gradovi što manji
to brže padaju kao i
covjek koji hodajuci kroz
sumracje primijeti
da mu ponestaje
tragova
the quickest to sink into darkness are small
towns the smaller
the quicker they fall like
the man walking through
twilight noticing
that he's running short
of tracks
--------
u ovom se gradu tjeskoba
odbija od šupljikavih zidova nocu
ulice se uvijaju u dugocasno prošlo
stoljece osjeca se samo mrklina kako
se mrvi kao pijesak pod tvojim nogama
kada se suspregne dah u koraku
a tko ce
mlijecnoj djeci moci
objasniti kamo je nestalo
nebo na kojem Cesmicki je
gledao rojeve mušica citajuci
ih kao latinske stihove?
in this town anxiety
rebounds from porous walls by night
streets twist inwards into the long-winded last
century you can feel only darkness
crumbling like sand under your feet
when you hold
your breath as you step
and who
will be able to explain
to milky children where did disappear
the sky in which Pannonius was
looking at clouds of flies reading
them as Latin verses
--------
EMILY DICKINSON U MOM GRADU
u gluho doba još jedne noci
bez vedrine ona se budi
baš u trenutku kada sanja
svog šarenog covjeka
naviklim
pokretima odijeva
gacice
grudnjak
carape
kombine
vezenu košulju
suknju
pregacu obuva
lagane cipele i
kroz muklu tišinu zidova
gustoga mraka samo
prosijava prozirna
bjelina njenih
ruku dok piše
grafite
EMILY DICKINSON IN MY TOWN
in the dead of one more night
without serenity she is waking up
just at the moment when she's dreaming
of her colourful man
with the usual way
she's putting on her
panties
bra
stockings
slip
embroidered blouse
skirt
apron
her light shoes and
through the deaf
silence of walls of thick
darkness only the transparent whiteness
of her hands is shining through
while she is writing
graffiti
--------
LEPTIROV UCINAK
otvorim li
prozor uplazit ce
još više praznine
u stan
svakom je besciljnom
kretnjom povecavam
(ali)
u kutu koji se
razdvaja nepripitomljene
zakonima fizike tvoje malene
papuce u rastu
je preneražavaju golim koracima
one prosijavaju
sumracje - premda ne otvaramo
prozore i ne razmicemo
zastore burkamo
atmosferu uzrokujuci
bar jednu dobru
oluju
THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT
if I open
the window even more
emptiness will crawl
into the flat
with every pointless
motion I enlarge it
(but)
in the corner that
goes apart untamed by
physical laws your little
slippers in growth
astound it
their bare steps
shine through the
twilight - although we don't open
the windows and we don't draw
the curtains apart we disturb
the atmosphere causing
at least one good
storm
--------
MJESTO NA KOJE CE
PONOVO DOCI
kao što
ptice pred
polazak po najtanjim
granama slice
živim plodovima
breza i kada prhne
vjetar padaju
uvis
tako i njihov
lepet zaostao u treptanju
zakašnjelog lišca cini
živu tišinu -
- mjesto na koje ce
ponovo doci
THE PLACE WHERE THEY WILL COME AGAIN
as
the birds before leaving
swarming over the thinnest
branches resemble
live fruit of birch-trees
and when the wind flits
they fall skyward
so their
flutter left behind
in the blinking of late leaves
makes live silence - the place
where they will
come again
--------
JASENI
njih nemoj dirati
kaže mi stara kad
misli da se previše
uživim u iskrcivanje
oni su bili ovoliki i kad
sam ja došla
ja ugasim pilu
pa ih nekoliko trenutaka
u tišini gledamo zadivljeno
kao bica mnogo starija i veca
od naših sjecanja zajedno
a ponekad
obgrlimo ih priljubivši lica
uz njihove sitno
naborane kore
i dozovemo vjetar da ih ziba
sa svih njihovih 25 metara
iz cistoga zadovoljstva
THE ASH-TREES
don't touch them
my mother says to me
when she thinks I got carried away
with grubbing up
they were this big
when I came here
I turn off the chain-saw
and we look at them
for a few moments in silence
admiring them as beings older and bigger
than our memories together
and sometimes
we embrace them nestling our faces
to their finely wrinkled bark
and we call the wind to rock them
the whole of their 25 metres
out of pure pleasure
--------
POSLJEDNJA TOPLA NOC
kolika bi bila
praznina iznad
dvorišta da nema
ovoga oraha
kažeš
ovo je možda
posljednja topla noc
ove godine i u tišini
koja se zavlaci u razgovor
sa slutnjom skoroga
putovanja i zime slušamo
kako vjetar kruni
suhe listove rijeci
šumno ih sunovraca
u kosome padu
na podlozi
mjesecine pomiješane
s tankom naoblakom
praznina izmedu fraktalnih
grana postaje sve
vidljivija
THE LAST WARM NIGHT
how great would be
the emptiness above
the yard if it weren't
for this walnut-tree
you say
this may be
the last warm night
this year so in silence
which is sifting into the conversation
with presentiment of forthcoming
travel and winter we are listening
to the wind husking
the dead leaves of words
it topples them down rustling
in a slanting fall
on the pad of
moonlight mixed
with thin clouds
the emptiness between the fractal
branches is becoming more and more
visible
--------
MJESECAR
mjesecina je pas bijesan
od nesanice umnažaju se
glasovi
u glavi stroboskopske slike
vrište nošene naletima
ludoga juga
ma i zatvorio
prozore praznina zapocinje
vec tamo gdje završava
tijelo na beskrajnoj kochinoj
krivulji duž koje te nacinje
strah
saving your settings...
windows is shutting
down
ali od
mjesecine nema
skrivanja nema
bježanja od njenoga
reskoga režanja i nema
ti sna
THE SLEEPWALKER
moonlight is a dog mad
with insomnia voices are multiplying
in the head
stroboscopic images
are screaming carried by gusts
of frantic southern wind
even if you close
the windows the emptiness is beginning
where the body ends
on the indefinite curve of van koch
along which fear
is beginning to break you
saving your settings...
windows is shutting
down
but from
the moonlight there's no
hiding there's no
running away from its
biting growl and there is no
sleep