sábado, 15 de diciembre de 2012

VESNA PARUN [8.833] Poeta de Croacia



VESNA PARUN

(Nació en Zlarin, una pequeña isla de Dalmacia, cerca de Sibenik, CROACIA el 10 abril 1922 y murió el 25 octubre 2010).
Vesna Parun es considerada uno de los más grandes poetas de la antigua Yugoslavia.
Interrumpió la Universidad de Zagreb, a causa de la guerra, en 1941, tomo lado de los partisanos de Tito, y finalmente abandonó sus estudios por la escritura. Sus tres canciones para la República, publicadas en 1945, se han dado a conocer de inmediato.
A la primera colección de poesía, Y la tormenta Alba (1947), la han seguido de una treintena de otros textos poéticos, libros para niños, obras de teatro.
Traducido a muchos idiomas, en 1995 también fue candidata al Nobel de literatura.

OBRA:

POESÍA.

"Zore i vihori", 1947.,
"Pjesme", 1948.,
"Crna maslina", 1955., hrvatska skladateljica Ivana Lang je uglazbila ciklus od 5pjesama.
"Vidrama vjerna", 1957.,
"Ropstvo", 1957.,
"Pusti da otpočinem", 1958.,
"Ti i nikad", 1959.,
"Koralj vraćen moru", 1959.,
"Konjanik", 1961.,
"Jao jutro", 1963.,
"Bila sam dječak", 1963.,
"Vjetar Trakije", 1964.,
"Pjesme", 1964.,
"Gong", 1966.,
"Otvorena vrata", 1968.,
"Ukleti dažd", 1969.,
"Tragom Magde Isanos", 1971.,
"Sto soneta", 1972.,
"I prolazim životom", 1972.,
"Stid me je umrijeti", 1974.,
"Olovni golub", 1975.,
"Apokaliptičke basne", 1976.,
"Ljubav bijela kost", 1978.,
"Čitač snova", 1978.,
"Izabrane pjesme", 1979.,
"Mapa Magdica", 1979.,
"Šum krila, šum vode", 1981.,
"Salto mortale", 1981.,
"Izabrana djela", 1982.,
"Grad na Durmitoru", 1988.,
"Kasfalpirova zemlja", 1989.,
"Indigo grad", 1990.,
"Sonetni vijenci", 1991.,
"Tronožac koji hoda", 1993.,
"Začarana čarobnica", 1993.,
"Izbor iz djela", 1995.,
"Ptica vremena", 1996.,
"Smijeh od smrti jači", 1997.,
"Pelin basne", 1998.,
"Spužvica i spužva", 1999.,
"Političko Valentinovo", 2000.,
"Grijeh smrti",2000..

PROSA.

"Pod muškim kišobranom", 1987.,
"Krv svjedoka", 1988.,
"Hrvatska kraljica", 1999.,
"Noć za pakost – moj život u 40 vreća", 2001.






LA CASA EN EL CAMINO

Yo estaba acostado en el polvo de la carretera.
Vi su rostro.
Tampoco vio el mío.
El pálido color de las estrellas y el aire se convirtió en azul.
Vi sus manos
Tampoco vio las mías.
El Oriente ha cambiado en color verde limón.
Le abrí los ojos de un pajarillo.
Entonces supe a quién
amaré una vida entera.
Así el supo, de quién eran 
las pobre manos que lo abrazaban.
Y el hombre tomó a su carga,
y dejó llorando a su casa.
Y su casa es el polvo de la carretera
que es también es mi casa.








L’OLIVERAR

No sé si fou la veu dels ocells
o el refilet del vent de l’est
que em dugué un capvespre a l’oliverar,
on encara dormia seré, en el llautó
de les capçades disperses, el reflex del dia.

Vaig baixar llavors a la badia amarga
d’herbes solitàries i el vaig veure a la vora
del mar brillant, a la platja de còdols
i llum de lluna, la seua figura encalmada,
envoltada del clapoteig i els murmuris de les ones.

Oh, si mai no n’hagués escoltat el bram!
Si m’hagués quedat vora el clos,
sota la figuera silvestre,
i no hagués baixat a l’ombriu boscatge,
a la platja d’argent
i als penyals blaus de lluna.

Tu t’hauries quedat assegut a la pedra,
esquiu i desconegut, a la riba arenosa,
i la queixa trista de les ones
hauria bressolat en el teu pensament ombrívol
les branques fosques i tempestoses.

I potser vagaries infeliç
pel turó tardorenc, transformat en ocell
aventurer, i en estel nu
que brilla amb brases inquietes
sobre un mar obert impetuós.

I jo ben prest m’hauria adormit, despreocupada,
sota la figuera silvestre, i no hauria estat trista
de no saber, per on ha marxat el jove
que mirava la mar, sol i llunyà
en la lluïssor de les ones, en el silenci de l’estiu.






MASLINOV GAJ

Ne znam da li me odveo glas ptica
ili cvrkut istočnog vjetra
jednom kasno u gaj maslinov,
gdje u mjedi krošanja rasutih
još ležaše mirni odsjev dana.

Siđoh tada u gorku uvalu
samotne trave i vidjeh na rubu
blistavog mora,na žalu od šljunka
i mjesečine, njegov blagi lik
obavijen šapatom i mrmorom valova.

O, da nikad ne čuh njihov šum!
Kraj ograde da sam ostala
pod divljom smokvom,
i da nisam sišla u gaj sjenovit
na žalo od srebra
i na plave litice mjeseca.

Ti bi sjedio na kamenu plah i neznan
na pješčanoj obali,
i talasa žalostiv huk
mislima bi tvojim oblačnim
ljuljao tmaste i olujne grane.

I možda bi lutao nesretan 
jesenjim brijegom pretvoren u pticu
pustolinsku, i u nagu zvijezdu
koja sija žarom nemirnim
nad pučinom plahovitog mora.

A ja bih rano zaspala bezbrižna
pod divljom smokvom,i ne bih bila žalosna
što ne znam, kud je otišao mladić
koji je gledao more,sam i dalek
u sjaju valova,u šutnji ljeta.





You Whose Hands Are More Innocent Than Mine
You whose hands are more innocent than mine
and who is as wise as nonchalance
and who removes slow shadows of doubts
from his face
like the spring wind removes
shadows of clouds floating over the hill.

If your hug gives courage to the heart
and your thighs stop the pain,
if your name gives peace
to his thoughts, and your throat
a shade to his berth
and the night of your voice, an orchard
still untouched by storms.

Then stay beside him
and be more devoted than anyone else
who loved him before you.

Fear the echo approaching
the innocent love nests.

And be gentle with his dream
bellow the invisible mountain
at the edge of the soughing sea.

Walk around his coast. Be seen
by sorrowful dolphins.

Wander around his woods. Kind lizards
won’t do you any harm.

And the thirsty snakes that I tamed
will be humble before you.

May the birds that I kept warm sing to you
in the nights of sharp frost.

May the boy that I protected from
stalkers on a deserted road
caress you

May the flowers that I watered with your tears
bring fragrance to you.

I didn’t witness the best years
of his manhood. His fertility
I haven’t received in my bosom
ravaged by looks
from cattle drivers at fairs
and from greedy thieves.

I will never take care
of his children. And the stories
that I’ve prepared for them long ago
I might tell, crying,
to little miserable bears
abandoned in black forest.

You whose hands are more innocent than mine
be gentle with his dream
that remained harmless.

But let me see him
his face when strange years
start to come down on it.

And tell me sometimes a thing or two about him
so that I don’t have to ask strangers
who find me silly, and neighbors
who pity my patience.

You whose hands are more innocent than mine,
stay beside his pillow
and be gentle with his dream!1




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