Aquesta nit podreu veure el reportatge que la Marina Espasa va fer unes hores abans de la presentació oficial d’Un bàrbar al jardí, de Zbigniew Herbert, per a l’Hora del Lector. El programa comença a les 22.40, pel canal 33.

Aquí, una crònica de l’acte de presentació del llibre que LaBreu va organitzar a l’Horiginal [aquí i allà]

Od tego się “filmiku” się wszystko zaczeło:

siedziałem w nocy i zobaczyłem nowy film Rogvista – postanowiłem zebrać wszystkie ciekawe  filmy z YT

i innych zasobów w jedno miejsce gdzie ludzie czujący i myslący podobnie mogli by je łatwo znaleźć

Wiecej informacji na temat Żołnierzy Wyklętych

http://podziemiezbrojne.blox.pl/html

Polish Underground Soldiers 1944-1963 – The Untold Story

http://www.doomedsoldiers.com

quick story below:

Després de l’èxit de La zona del nostre admirat Serguei Dovlàtov, LaBreu edicions us convida a acompanyar-nos un cop més en l’aventura de La intrusa, la nostra col·lecció de narrativa, aquest cop de la mà de Zbigniew Herbert i el seu imprescindible Un bàrbar al jardí, una joia de l’assagistíca europea que inexplicablement encara era inèdita en la nostra llengua. Nosaltres hem quedat embadalits amb l’equilibri just d’erudició, bellesa i simplicitat de la mirada del polonès Zbigniew Herbert, que recorre el bressol de la cultura europea en un viatge en el temps i en l’espai d’una bellesa insuperable; des de les coves de Lascaux, la magna Grècia, la ciutat francesa d’Arle, el Duomo de la ciutat d’Orvieto, Siena i la Itàlia del Trecento, la construcció de les grans catedrals del gòtic, l’heretegia dels càtars, els templers, la figura del pintor Piero della Francesca i finalment els jardins de Valois. Llenceu les vostres guies de viatge! Llenceu els vostres avorrits manuals d’història i art! Uniu-vos al bàrbar en el seu camí, que passa per Ocata el dia 10 de novembre, i per l’Horiginal de Barcelona el dia 12!

10 de novembre, a les 20.30_ Ocata, Vins i divins, Carrer Barcelona 3 (davant l’abaixador d’Ocata)

12 de novembre, a les 20.30_ Bar Horiginal, C/ Ferlandina, 29, davant del MACBA

Album będący hołdem Artystów dla Zbigniewa Herberta w przypadającą w tym roku 85. rocznicę Jego urodzin.

Pomysłodawcą projektu i kompozytorem muzyki jest Karim Martusewicz, lider międzynarodowej grupy muzycznej Karimski Club oraz basista legendarnego zespołu Voo Voo. Jego zaproszenie do śpiewania i recytowania poezji Herberta przyjęli: Sylwia Wiśniewska, Gaba Kulka, Jan Nowicki, Wojciech Waglewski, Adam Nowak, Muniek Staszczyk, Sebastian Karpiel Bułecka, Maciej Stuhr oraz przyjaciele z Karimski Club, którzy w swoich ojczystych językach interpretują twórczość Mistrza. Dzięki archiwalnym nagraniom Polskiego Radia na płycie można też usłyszeć głos samego Poety.

UN BÀRBAR AL JARDÍ

ZBIGNIEW HERBERT

Traducció i pròleg: Manel Bellmunt

Núm de col·lecció: 2

ISBN: 978-84-937152-2-9

PÀG: 304

PVP: 20 euros

Zbigniew Herbert, un dels més destacats poetes, assagistes i lliurepensadors que ha donat l’Europa del segle XX, defineix els assajos que conformen Un bàrbar al jardí com un «conjunt d’esbossos, el relat d’un viatge»: una definició senzilla i humil que l’honora, però que de cap manera no li fa justícia.

Aquests esbossos són una de les fites de l’assagística europea i aquest viatge que encetem no és un viatge qualsevol, sinó un bellíssim camí que recorre la història i l’art de la Mediterrània, bressol de la cultura d’occident.

Amb suprema elegància l’escriptor transita entre els mestres anònims de les coves de Lascaux i atorga una vitalitat sorprenent a les seves pintures; exerceix la millor defensa imaginable dels templaris davant del Tribunal de la història; posa tota la seva erudició per tal d’escatir els condicionants artístics i humans sobre els quals s’alçaren les grans catedrals gòtiques, o traça inquietants i subtils paral·lelismes entre la fulminant inquisició que patiren els càtars i els totalitarismes contemporanis.

Un bàrbar al jardí obre les portes de les muralles pretesament insuperables que l’academicisme clàssic ha alçat en el terreny de la crítica de l’art, i amb talent i destresa enlluernadora —quan convé amb subtil i sorneguera ironia—, allibera l’art de rigideses i aporta una mirada plena de sensibilitat arreu on el viatge el porta.

Gràcies a l’excel·lent traducció  de Manel Bellmunt, el lector en català té a la seva disposició  una de les obres mestres del segle XX, un monument literari que no es pot deixar perdre, un viatge inoblidable a les arrels de la nostra cultura.

Índex: Lascaux – Entre els doris – Arle – Il Duomo – Siena – La pedra de la catedral – Sobre els albigesos, inquisidors i trobadors – La defensa dels templaris – Piero della Francesca – Records de Valois

Zbigniew Herbert va néixer a Lwów, a l’actual Ucraïna, malgrat que l’any 1924 formava part de  Polònia. En plena Segona Guerra Mundial inicià estudis superiors en les universitats clandestines  del temps de la ocupació. La seva polifacètica formació inclou títols en economia, dret i filosofia.  Herbert comença a escriure poesia en els temps durs de l’estalinisme, però s’absté de publicar cap  llibre, doncs es nega a realitzar cap mena de concessió moral, ideològica o artística al règim.  Només després de la fi del realisme socialista publica els seus poemes, esdevenint un dels millors  poetes de la seva generació. A finals dels anys 50 fa el seu primer viatge a l’Europa Occidental, i el  1962 apareix la primera edició d’Un bàrbar al jardí, llibre traduït a nombroses llengües. L’any  1974 publica el poemari El senyor Cogito, donant origen a un carismàtic personatge que recorrerà  la seva obra poètica posterior.  Zbigniew Herbert mor a Varsòvia l’any 1998.

Jaume Subirana, El Periódico

[...] ¿Torna el temps dels versos? Passa fins i tot en àrea de risc, la de la traducció: a la llibreria podran trobar un volum de Poesia eròtica d’Ovidi (coeditat pel Grup 62 i l’Institut Cambó) al costat de les Finestrals de Philip Larkin, aquest darrer a càrrec dels mateixos valents que anuncien l’assaig Un bàrbar al jardí (LaBreu Edicions, en castellà a Acantilado) de l’immens i desconegut Zbigniew Herbert. [...]

Jaume Subirana, El Periódico de Catalunya, 14 d’octubre de 2009

Amics, falta ben poc per poder llegir l’extraordinari Un bàrbar al jardí. Repassem les darreres proves d’impressió i sentim un orgull esclatant, una alegria immensa de poder oferir-vos una obra tan valuosa com la del polonès Zbigniew Herbert.

Abans, però, deixeu que pengem aquí una fantàstica ressenya de La zona, de Dovlàtov, que en Jesús Casals va escriure fa uns mesos per a la revista Quimera. Aprofitem per donar la benvinguda a la traducció castellana de La zona, que ha publicat recentment l’editorial basca Ikusaguer. El seu editor va ser el primer en portar en Dovlàtov per aquestes dissortades terres. És un mestre, i Labreu edicions volem felicitar-lo.

As always, my morning trawl through the papers sent me to my book case looking for the real news. The book that reached out to me was The Collected Poems of Zbigniew Herbert. It’s a book that delivers its truths stripped bare of the editorial politicism that is crippling the art of journalism. So if, like me, the news leaves you uninformed; if you are still out there on this Sunday morning looking for knowledge, take a read of I Would Like To Describe by Zbigniew Herbert. This poem delivers.

I Would Like to Describe
by Zbigniew Herbert
 

I would like to describe the simplest emotion
joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say—I love
I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face

and anger
different from fire
borrows from it
a loquacious tongue

so is blurred
so is blurred
in me
what white-haired gentlemen
separated once and for all
and said
this is the subject
and this is the object

we fall asleep
with one hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morning
we tear out painfully

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Peter Dale Scott

And if you want more… here’s more.

20 Leute hatten sich eingefunden, um der Lesung des bekannten Literaturprofessors Bernd Jentzsch beizuwohnen. Mit der 122-bändigen Reihe „Poesiealbum“, die mehr als 5,5 Millionen Mal in 22 Ländern verkauft wurde, und seinen Gedichten, die in 16 Sprachen übersetzt worden sind, ist er laut Infoblatt des Theaters aus der Literaturgeschichte kaum noch wegzudenken. Jentzsch habe mehr als 40 Dichter der europäischen Moderne übersetzt und bisher 66 Bücher veröffentlicht. So habe der Berliner mehrere Auszeichnungen – unter anderem den Eichendorffer Literaturpreis – erhalten. Nachdem er erst in Berlin und dann in Zürich wohnhaft war, zog er 1989 nach Flamersheim. „Von Zürich nach Flamersheim – das ist jetzt nicht böse gemeint – ist wie: vom Himmel in die Hölle“, lachte Jentzsch. / Kölnische Rundschau/ Euskirchen

– Eichendorffer? Naja… Nicht der einzige Fehler. Genaugenommen ist “Poesiealbum” eine Lyrikreihe, von der soeben Heft 284 erschienen ist. 122 dürfte etwa die Zahl der von Bernd Jentzsch bis zur Ausbürgerung Wolf Biermanns herausgegebenen Hefte sein. Die Heftreihe wurde von Bernd Jentzsch im Jahre 1967 gegründet und erschien bis 1990 monatlich zum Preis von 90 Pfennig. Als Wolf Biermann ausgebürgert wurde, befand sich Jentzsch gerade in der Schweiz, wo er für eine Anthologie recherchierte. Er protestierte mit einem offenen Brief und wurde dafür mit einem Strafverfahren bedroht. (Der Staat hatte keinen Zugriff auf ihn und schikanierte dafür seine Mutter). Richard Pietraß führte die Reihe weiter, bis auch er gefeuert wurde. 1990 wurde der Preis erhöht, aber es half nicht. Kurz nach der Währungsunion wurde die Reihe mit Heft 275 eingestellt. 1991 erschien in einem anderen Verlag, aber in gleicher Aufmachung und mit Nummer 276,  noch ein Heft mit Gedichten von Jentzsch. “Das abschließende Heft”, stand auf einer Bauchbinde. Dabei blieb es aber nicht. Seit 2007 erscheint es wieder, zuerst drei Hefte, die in der DDR nicht erscheinen konnten: Peter Huchel, Ezra Pound und Ernst Jandl, ausgewählt von Jentzsch. Soeben erschien Heft 284: Wolfgang Hilbig, ausgewählt von Pietraß.

Die ersten Hefte erwarb ich als Schüler 1967: bei dem Preis kein Problem. Zusammen mit der ebenfalls 1967 begründeten “Weißen Reihe” vom Verlag Volk und Welt meine Einführung in die Weltlyrik. In der Weißen Reihe erschien damals Anna Achmatowa zweisprachig, eine Entdeckung! Im Poesiealbum wieviele Erstbegegnungen, oft DDR-Erstveröffentlichungen oder überhaupt Erstveröffentlichungen. Nach den Klassikern Brecht, Majakowski und Heine erschienen 1968 Wulf Kirsten, Günter Kunert, Reiner Kunze, Kurt Bartsch. Spätestens da muß er im linientreuen Verlag Neues Leben heftig angeeckt sein. Eine chronologische Auswahl, private Lese-Archäologie: 1969 Federico García Lorca, 1970 Robert Desnos, Ho chi Minh, 1971 Langston Hughes, Georg Maurer, Klopstock, 1972 Bobrowski, Neruda, Jessenin, 1973 Michelangelo, Jewtuschenko, Eich, Octavio Paz, René Char, 1974 Dylan Thomas, Barthold Hinrich Brockes, Marina Zwetajewa, Pietraß, Enzensberger, Zbigniew Herbert, Whitman, Ungaretti und Thomas Brasch (die Erst- war auch Letzt-Veröffentlichung fürs Ländchen), und so Jahr für weiter, Kramer und Leising, Inge Müller und Welimir Chlebnikow! Letzterer illustriert von Hermann Glöckner! Auch die grafische Ausstattung hat es in sich, kleine Reihe: Volker Braun / Carlfriedrich Claus, Eugenio Montale / Hermann Glöckner, Allen Ginsberg / Andy Warhol, Vicente Aleixandre / Gerhard Altenbourg, César Vallejo / Nuria Quevedo, Novalis / Tübke, Kathrin Schmidt / Uwe Pfeifer, John Keats / Johannes Jansen: Junge und Welt* – Lyrik + Kunst war zu entdecken!

Die komplette Reihe ist für junge, entdeckungsfreudige Leser heute unerschwinglich (2000 Euro, las ich, wollte ein Antiquar für eine annähernd vollständige Sammlung). Aber alles aus der Neuausgabe wär noch erreichbar und verspricht viel, nämlich bisher nach den drei Genannten: Uwe Grüning, Ludvík Kundera, Georg Heym, Seamus Heaney, Wolfgang Hilbig…

(Nicht zu verwechseln mit “Poesiealbum neu”, das ist etwas anderes, wenn auch in gleicher Aufmachung!)

Genaue Informationen über alle erschienenen Hefte (in einem eine Jugendsünde des L&Poe-Herausgebers) hier.

*) Und ist ein langes Wort (Georg Büchner)

]]> http://labreu.wordpress.com/2009/09/04/propers-titols-de-la-intrusa/ Fri, 04 Sep 2009 14:37:49 +0000 labreu http://labreu.wordpress.com/2009/09/04/propers-titols-de-la-intrusa/

Hola amics!

Després del parèntesi canicular, us volem donar notícia dels propers títols de la col·lecció de narrativa arriscada La Intrusa.

OCTUBRE 2009

UN BÀRBAR AL JARDÍ, Zbigniew Herbert

A mitjans d’octubre (ja falta poc!), La Intrusa publicarà la versió catalana de Barbarzyńcy w ogrodzie, o sigui Un bàrbar al jardí, del grandiós poeta polonès Zbigniew Herbert. Poeta, sí, però també un grandiós assagista per conèixer. Els seus assajos versen sobre art, història i viatges, i estan escrits amb una pulcritud i un sentit de l’humor admirables, a voltes fins i tot emocionants. La traducció, part de la qual ha rebut del primer premi de traducció del Consolat Polonès de Barcelona i el Departament d’Estudis Eslaus de la Universitat de Barcelona (2008), és de Manel Bellmunt.

***

MARÇ-ABRIL 2010

EL COBRADOR, Rubem Fonseca

Abans del proper Sant Jordi (què lluny queda!) LaBreu Edicions posarà en circulació, després de gairebé vint anys, una obra en català del gran narrador brasiler Rubem Fonseca, i a més, inèdita en la nostra llengua. Considerem que Fonseca és un dels millors escriptors llatinoamericans vius (malgrat no tingui tant ressó pel fet d’escriure en un idioma com el portuguès que es parla a Brasil). Quina prosa esmolada, agressiva, plena d’adrenalina! Però no només: tots els seus relats tenen un pòsit metaliterari i d’humanitat que els lectors estem segurs que sabran apreciar. És pura dinamita. Treballa dia sí – dia també en finalitzar la traducció el poeta, llibreter i traductor Josep Domènech Ponsatí, amant de la literatura i el poble del Brasil.

***

I bé, quina gran prova de foc seran aquests dos títols, per a nosaltres! La zona (Serguei Dovlàtov) va sortir força mesos abans que la seva versió en espanyol; Un bàrbar al jardí sortirà gairebé al mateix temps que la seva versió espanyola, i desafortunadament, el lector en català haurà d’esperar uns mesos més que el lector en castellà per comprovar que Fonseca i el seu El cobrador són una meravella.

Ens en sortirem? Amb la vostra ajuda i paciència, segur que sí!

Gràcies per estar a les trinxeres amb nosaltres,

cordialment,

LaBreu Edicions.

Foto: Alice Drogoreanu

XXVII. Povestea lui Vlador

Coborâsem ceva mai târziu pentru cină, nimerind tocmai când Vlador povestea Crescentiei şi Elisei scena din ajun, când mă uitasem, ros de curiozitate, în dosul oglinzii de pe hol, lacheul cel josnic pândind de nu ştiu unde:

- Să fi văzut ce mutră a făcut domnul Vania!… – îşi încheie veninoasa relatare, spre amuzamentul celor două femei.

- Felicitări, domnul meu! – intervenii. Aveţi incontestabile calităţi de femeie de serviciu. În Valahia, acelea sunt responsabile cu pânditul la gaura cheii, ceilalţi socotind josnic un asemenea comportament…

Fireşte, exagerasem, lucrurile stând un pic diferit în ţara mea natală. Elise simţi nevoia să medieze:

- Vai, dar Vlador nu te-a spionat! Abia acum s-a uitat pe înregistrările camerelor de supraveghere şi ne povestea cum urinezi în chiuvetă şi scena cu oglinda… Nu-ţi fă griji, toţi au muşcat-o cu oglinda!

„Au muşcat-o! Ce exprimare! Credeam că de la Vania i se trage, dar el nu vorbeşte aşa trivial… O fi stând la poveşti cu cine ştie ce alţi derbedei pe messenger…” – gândi contesa.

În ce mă priveşte, gândii cu repeziciune: „Vlador o să mi-o plătească, iar la acele casete trebuie să ajung la rându-mi!”.

- Primul impuls – zisei, mimând buna dispoziţie – a fost acela de a scrie dedesubt: Ba proastă eşti tu! Apoi, m-am adunat şi m-am amuzat de poantă…

Oricine poate înţelege cât de bine m-am simţit văzându-mă luat în râs, nici chiar faptul că între timp devenisem unic moştenitor nereuşind să alunge întrutotul sentimentul de disconfort. Presupun că nimeni nu se va mira aflând că am tocmit un om care să scotocească în trecutul lui Vlador.

…

Alfred Landskron făcu o treabă excelentă, înmânându-mi după doar câteva zile un raport amănunţit despre valet, poate puţin prea împănat cu poeme.

Vlador s-a născut în Salzburg, în urmă cu treizeci de ani. Se impregnă oarecum de atmosfera burgului, aceasta dându-i ca de la sine o spoială de cultură, însă cunoştinţele sale nu depăşeau cu mult construcţia de Wasserspiele, fiind eclectice şi de-un gust îndoielnic, ceva între Mozart şi Caffe-Concert. Incapabil de nobleţe, această spoială îl recomanda, în schimb, încă de timpuriu pe tânăr ca potrivit a deveni valet sau, cum preferam eu să mă exprim, lacheu.

Vlador era numele de scenă al individului, numele real fiind unul aproape imposibil de reprodus, tatăl său fiind polon (iar mama cehoaică). Anii de şcoală au trecut fără urmări adânci, băiatul ostenindu-se doar cât să se menţină pe linia de plutire, neresimţind vreo atracţie către Ştiinţă:

N-am să merg pe-această potecă,

Plină de frunze căzute:

La fiecare pas mă întâmpină,

Toamna ceţoasă, adâncă[1].

Timpuriu, în schimb, elevul observă interesul cu care este privit de către colege, alcătuirea sa atletică şi superficialitatea sa perpetuă părându-le acestora irezistibile. Astfel, nu prididi să profite de această situaţie, încercând, după puteri, să le aducă tuturor o alinare:

Fiecare zi o începem

cu Facerea Lumii

suntem alungaţi din Rai

înainte de-a ne da drumul în el,

îl omorâm pe Abel

fără să ştim că suntem în pielea lui.

Potopul ne aruncă pe malul nopţii,

în strălucirea nervoasă de stele,

ne amăgim,

numărând pe degete

loviturile inimilor noastre[2].

- Nu întâmplător exemplific cu poeme – explică domnul Alfred -, ci datorită faptului că personajul vizat s-a călăuzit întreaga sa viaţă după lirica poloneză.

În liceu, Vlador avu un bun prieten, pe Rainer. Acela, firesc, se îndrăgosti de-o tânără, ajungându-se la o legătură aproape ca o logodnă. Dar, cum uşor se poate anticipa, Vlador nu rezistă ispitei de-a încerca şi cu Brigitte – aşa se numea tânăra -, iar Rainer, aflând, a socotit că viaţa nu are sens. Într-un fel, avea dreptate, doar că el a ales soluţia disperată a unei supradoze. Vlador căută ulterior o consolare:

Am fost doi fraţi pe pământul pustiu:

Cain şi Abel.

Unul oile le păştea, altul pământul îl lucra,

unul era puternic, celălalt – slab[3].

Totuşi, Vlador nu era un cinic, decât într-o oarecare măsură, astfel că amintirea lui Rainer continuă să-l bântuie:

Am găsit într-un notes vechi

Numerele de telefoane

Ale prietenilor morţi,

Adresele caselor incendiate.

Formez un număr. Aştept.

Telefonul sună.

Cineva ridică receptorul.

Linişte. Aud respiraţia,

Sau poate şoapta focului[4].

Cum, în Salzburg, aproape orice loc îi amintea de Rainer, tânărul Vlador decise să fugă. Atunci, ca şi acum, Viena era magnetul perfect pentru sufletele zbuciumate, agitaţia perpetuă având darul să anestezieze angoasele ori remuşcările:

În zorii zorilor

aud zdrăngănitul bidoanelor de lapte

zgomotul primelor tramvaie

şi mersul autobuzelor somnoroase.

În zorii zorilor

oraşul deschide ochii

lustruieşte carâmbii lungi ai străzilor

îmbracă pieţele-n caftane

şi turlele-n căciuli înalte[5].

Aici, Vlador se pierdu în iureşul capitalei, însă, oarecum bigot, era încercat uneori de mustrări de conştiinţă, de care căută să se descotorosească prin abile paradoxuri:

am pierdut toate grădinile

toţi trandafirii şi toate visele

ajungând la maturitate

aici e bariera

mai departe-i adâncimea (sfârşitul orizontului)

trebuie să durezi şi să-ţi aduni forţele pentru roade

dar ce poate fi mai frumos

decât culesul roadelor?

şi când te prăbuşeşti

mii de copaci îţi ridică boaba[6]

Curând, Vlador îşi găsi locul în lumea vieneză, făcând ceea ce ştia mai bine încă din anii de şcoală şi mulţumind, deopotrivă, doamnele capitalei:

Laud pipăitul: simţul al cincilea

simţ de neînlocuit.

Înălţarea la cer a pielii.

Buricele degetelor pe harpa ascultătoare.

Iată muzica

concretă, trupească.

Goticul pipăitului.

Act păcătos

ramificat.

Coborârea în iad

a dragostei[7].

Fără a se putea dezbăra cu totul de catehismul romano-catolic, Vlador îşi compuse un fel de mistică epidermică, socotindu-şi îndeletnicirea drept o slujire. Devenit un soi de sacerdot al iubirii trupeşti, eroul nostru fu descoperit curând de către Eve care, prezentându-l la castel, îi găsi acestuia un nou templu în care să oficieze. Deşi ar putea să pară complet abrutizat şi cufundat în carnal, Vlador e bântuit şi astăzi de regretele unei vieţi irosite:

Poteca aleargă desculţă prin pădure. În pădure sunt copaci mulţi, cucul, Ionel, Marioara şi alte animale mici. Numai spiriduşi nu mai sunt, că au plecat. Când se întunecă, cucuveaua închide pădurea cu zăvorul, căci dacă pisica se furişează o să facă ravagii mari[8].

Foarte mulţumit de serviciile domnului Alfred, îi înmânai o sacoşă cu două sute de mii de euro. Deosebit de plăcut surprins, acesta adăugă:

- M-am gândit că s-ar putea să vă intereseze şi copiile casetelor de supraveghere din castel, după cum v-aş putea procura şi Jurnalul lui Vlador. Este interesant, deşi abuzează de citatele din diverşi poeţi…

Vicleanul detectiv va fi anticipat interesul pe care mi-l va stârni. Totuşi, socotii că, pe moment, îi dădusem suficient, rămânând să păstrăm legătura.

[1] Începutul poemului Sărbătoare de Leopold Staff, poet polon (!878 – 1957).

[2] Fiecare zi de Stanislaw Jerzy Lec (1909 – 1966)

[3] Începutul poemului Cain şi Abel de Kazimiera Illakowiczowna  (1892 – 1983)

[4] Notes de Antoni Slonimski (1895 – 1976).

[5] Începutul poemului În zorii zorilor de Jan Koprowski (1918 – 2004).

[6] Maturitate de Jan Gorec-Rosinski (1920 – ?).

[7] Al cincilea simţ de Ludmila Marianska (1923 – ?).

[8] Pădurea de Zbigniew Herbert (1924 – 1998).

Ayrılık Ağıtı

Sözcüklerde dalarız uykuya
uyanırız sözcüklerin arasında

bazen hoşturlar
basit adlardır
bir ormandır bir gemidir

bizden koparırlar kendilerini
orman hızla gider
ufuk çizgisinin ardına

yola çıkar gemi
bir işaret ya da neden olmadan

tehlikelidir sözcükler

düşmüşlerdir bir tümcenin bütün
parçacıklarından özdeyişlerden
unutulmuş bir ilahinin
başlangıç nakaratından

“onlardır kurtarılmış olanlar ki…”
“anımsa ki…”
ya da “gibi”
dalayıcı küçük bir iğne
ki birleştirir
dünyanın en güzel
kayıp metaforlarını

sabırla düş kurmalı kişi
içeriğin tamamlanmasını umut ederek
ki yitik sözcükler
girerler kötürüm tümcelerinin içine
ve beklediğimiz kesinlik
atar çapasını

Zbigniew Herbert (1924 — 1998, Polonya)
Çeviren: İsmail Haydar Aksoy

At first it seems like a flouting of the phony. A magician steps on stage, Mysterioso the Magnificent, set to amaze us with prestidigitation and conjugation, so the sign says—he’s even got his black cape on, he twirls an elongated mustache, bows to the audience, speaks with a wicked smile: ‘Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat’…we groan, ‘not that old hat trick’…and instead pulls out ‘flowered curtains thin and frayed’ and ‘a strip of building land,/ Tussocky, littered’ and ‘the same saucer-souvenir’ and ‘the Frinton folk/ Who put him up for summer holidays’. He digs in again: ‘and at his age’…

Conjugation?

Is there such a thing as a ‘thrill’ of sorrow, a ‘sad’ frisson? Is there a harrowing melancholy? A despair so ordinary you can wrap it up tight and put it in a poem?

The hat Mysterioso’s opening out is this poem by Philip Larkin:

'This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him.' Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,
Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.'Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook
Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie

Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try
Stuffing my ears with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.

I know his habits - what time he came down,

His preference for sauce to gravy, why

He kept on plugging at the four aways -

Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk

Who put him up for summer holidays,

And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.

But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed

Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,

And shivered, without shaking off the dread

That how we live measures our own nature,

And at his age having no more to show

Than one hired box should make him pretty sure

He warranted no better, I don't know.

Names must count for something. Name your protagonist ‘Maurice Conchis’ or ‘Mr. Cogito’—not to mention ‘Everyman’—and you’re suggesting to your reader something universal is going on here, something cosmic: consciousness itself is to be scrutinized, the fate of mankind is being weighted, so pay attention. Name your character ‘Mr. Bleaney’ and it’s not so obvious that you mean anything more than, you know, you opened the phone book and randomly pointed at ‘Harold Bleaney’. You’re going for the ordinary. You don’t know him; it’s just a name; because everyone has to have a name, don’t they?

Google ‘Mr. Cogito’ and you will turn up this poem by Zbigniew Herbert—at least it’s the one I got:

Mr. Cogito never trusted
tricks of the imagination

the piano at the top of the Alps
played false concerts for him

he didn’t appreciate labyrinths
the Sphinx filled him with loathing

he lived in a house with no basement
without mirrors of dialectics

jungles of tangled images
were not his home

he would rarely soar
on the wings of metaphor
and then he fell like Icarus
into the embrace of the Great Mother

he adored tautologies
explanations
idem per idem

that a bird is a bird
slavery means slavery
a knife is a knife
death remains death

he loved
the flat horizon
a straight line
the gravity of the earth

I’m sure it’s better in the original Polish, but it’s a good poem even in translation. Cogito is not ordinary, at least not in the way Bleaney is. He kind of prances out there, prompting a kind of philosophical con brio: slavery means slavery, death stays death—this has got to be the ultimate tautology, right? Death is death. Tautologies empty words of their content. Death empties out death, like mountains empty out gravity, or at least defy that straight line gravity would like if it got its way. So, Mr. Bleaney has emptied out into Mr. Bleak, and one wonders: When did that happen? At what age did young Bleaney, full of hope and promise, become this lonely middle aged old man? Was Mr. Bleaney Mr. Bleaney at age six? Sixteen? Thirty-six? Cogito thinks therefore he is. This is the old bid of consciousness, the old opposition of cogitation to matter, Descartes incarnate. Did Bleaney ever think? And therefore exist? This is the puzzle of the poem.

We are placed in very unsure hands, for the narrator is of course not Philip Larkin, but an unnamed bloke who has, for unnamed reasons taken Mr. Bleaney’s untenanted rented room—and seems not to think that his bleak assessment of Bleaney applies to him—though he’s in the same room stabbing his fags out in the same cheap souvenir ash tray, and he doesn’t even like listening to the wireless blearing—blaring—in the next room.

When do we measure our own nature? At what age do we get out the calipers and take a definitive reading of how we’ve done? And where we live, how we live, the stuff we surround ourselves with…is that the gauge? The narrator of Mr. Bleaney appears to think so, but Philip Larkin when he wrote this poem must have known he was creating an impossibility: a sour, unhappy soul who was capable of deep expression, gifted language, insightful and hyper-conscious. Philip, that’s not realistic. A poet should be able to enter imaginatively into the life of his characters—and this lug ends his little disquisition confessing that he knows nothing about the thoughts of the character he’s writing the poem about. Call him Mr. Mystery. Talk about your ultimate tautologies.

Of course, he’s been ‘moved’ now so Bleaney might incline to the absolute measurements a calipers will make, but suppose Bleaney, sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking a long and elegant cigar, counters our calipers approach to assessment with an understanding, via the Sorites Paradox, of his life as a graduated process, suppose he and Cogito get together over a bottle of expensive port to think about what it is to think about thinking about one’s life, suppose they manage to find a Vaughn-Williams concert on the wireless and spend a convivial evening talking about a brief but difficult passage from the late works of Martian Heidegger, suppose Bleaney has a strong interior life that our narrator friend knows nothing of, perhaps he does listen to the wind on cold nights and perhaps he does think that that wind might ‘tousle’ a cloud like a giant benevolent—suppose he thinks ‘benevolent’—hand on a young boy, what good then is this poem written by Philip Larkin, this emptying out of Bleaney into Bleak, this self-supporting nightmare of a poem?

But of course the portrait being painted in Mr. Bleaney is not of Mr. Bleaney and probably not of the unnamed narrator either—but rather it’s a landscape of the situation of self-fulfilling, self-sustaining assertions about…well…the self, even as we think of the self as someone else. The prison of the self dramatized in 28 lines.

Now, Mr. Cogito does not trust tricks of the imagination, never has, so he might be the one to sit and debate with Mr. Bleaney, except that Bleaney has his suspicions that Cogito might be the ultimate author of Mr. Bleaney and he’s not having any of it. Sees him for a fraud, is what he does.

“On the evidence of the poem, we’ve never met. Yet that same evidence is used to create not a presence, but an absence. You know very well the answer one is supposed to draw from the concluding supposition. I don’t know, indeed. You know very well what you intend the reader to conclude. It travesties the truth of my supposed existence.”

Cogito takes a moment, lighting his cigar. He admits to himself he did not know he and Bleaney share a love of Vaughn-Williams.

“My dear Bleaney, poetry by its very nature freezes. In that way it is like consciousness. It’s a moment in time, not a process. I admit, perhaps a longer narrative…the creation of Philip Larkin, you’ll admit, is a larger more complex project. He would not sit still for, ah, what you call the calipers approach.”

“The reference is of course to the Blake engraving. Cogito, insofar as you’re playing God, you’re liable to its limitations.”

“But also to its advances, its objectivity.”

They had a nice evening together, Bleaney and Cogito, talking, penultimately, about Larkin and Herbert, though ultimately about dwelling and thinking: that passage I mentioned before from Heidegger—

To free really means to spare. The sparing itself consists not only in the fact that we do not harm the one whom we spare. Real sparing is something positive and takes place when we leave something beforehand in its own nature, when we return it specifically to its being, when we “free” it in the real sense of the word into a preserve of peace. To dwell, to be set at peace, means to remain at peace within the free sphere that safeguards each thing in its nature. The fundamental character of dwelling is this sparing and preserving. It pervades dwelling in its whole range. That range reveals itself to us as soon as we reflect that human being consists in dwelling and, indeed, dwelling in the sense of the stay of mortals on the earth.

—is from Building, Dwelling, Thinking.

Bleaney: “I’m going to posit what I will call Sorites Thinking. The original source of the Sorites Paradox is Eubulides. ‘Soros’ means ‘heap’ in Greek, ancient Greek. You take a stone or two and put them together—that does not constitute a heap. You add one—that does not constitute a heap. In fact, it is difficult to specify a point—no, it is impossible—when adding one more stone to the group will turn it into a heap, yet if you keep adding one stone at a time, you will end up with a heap of stones. A serious paradox, yes, Cogito? A process you specify that does not yield a heap, in fact does yield one. This is the trouble with the poem. It doesn’t see poetry as a heap. It doesn’t see life as a heap. It doesn’t see the person as a heap. It doesn’t see the issue is how fast the stones accumulate.”

Cogito of course lives for paradox: “So you see that Larkin is, oh, hung up on the Law of the Excluded Middle…” He frowns. “No perhaps the Law of Noncontradiction.” A deeper frown. “And relate this to our text.”

“Cogito, Cogito, Cogito. Don’t you see? It’s you who has to get past the whole consciousness thing: Consciousness as a locus of experience.”

They both laugh: Cogito get past consciousness?

The wireless has begun to play A Lark Ascending. Cogito is surprised to see Bleaney close to tears as they listen. For a moment, philosophy is far away.

“Reminds me of my mother—” Bleaney smiles. “—and her locus of experience.”

Sorites thinking, huh? This is perhaps an eccentricity of Mr. Bleaney, an understandable venture into something that can seem specious. All ‘sorites thinking’ seems to assert is that there are many shades of grey in our picture. We knew this. But Bleaney is juxtaposing it next to some Heideggerian mysticism. The essay Building, Dwelling, Thinking is an attempt to broaden all three concepts—building becomes a more complex activity when one thinks of it as part of the triad, as do dwelling and thinking. Dwelling is the capstone to the arch. Building is really dwelling, and thinking is made more capacious and complex when it is seen as not being an activity of utilitarian intent only. Dwelling deepens thinking: Thinking needs dwelling to rescue it from thoughts men think with the mind alone: simple economic calculation, for example, the bottom line we base so many of our decisions and hence our thoughts on, and what Philip Larkin in his poem seems to be lording over Bleaney: that he wasn’t rich, that he was living in a rented room, alone, impoverished in both physical circumstances and in mental resources—for the sorites paradox cuts both ways: not only does it build a heap, it can characterize one’s loses as well. The everyday subtraction that is old age, the wearing away from chronic illness, the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. Learning to think out of a subtitle paradox may not be the worst thing in the world.

Bleaney smiles again. “Of course, Cogito, I too wanted to be a poet, a magician with words. And a poem like Mr. Bleaney, it hurts. Takes us into the mystery, you know. We all come to some end.”

The wireless has begun to play Thelonious Monk. Its late, the cigars have burned down, the port is gone. Cogito is fading. Mr. Bleaney is alone now—talking to whom?

“…for of course we don’t really know if Bleaney was a closet intellectual and poet and philosopher, or if he was a failed chartered accountant, or an alcoholic living out his spare final days, but we think we do, we think the narrator does, we even think that bastard Philip Larkin does—he plays the magician’s role here, doesn’t he, confusing our visual expectations with his sleight of hand…

“You know, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat…”

Yes, it happens fast.

Bezcenne

” Trwałem lata by poznać prostackie tryby historii,
monotonną procesję i nierówną walkę
zbirów na czele ogłupiałych tłumów
przeciw garstce prawych i rozumnych… “

~ Zbigniew Herbert

Cuenta J. M. Coetzee en una conferencia pronunciada en 1991 que, cuando él tenía quince años, mientras paseaba por el jardín de su casa en los suburbios de Ciudad del Cabo, oyó música en la casa de al lado. “Mientras duró la música - confiesa Coetzee -, me quedé helado, sin atreverme ni a respirar. La música me hablaba como nunca antes me había hablado. Lo que estaba escuchando era una grabación de “El clave bien temperado” de Bach para clavicémbalo.(…) Llegó aquella tarde en el jardín, y la música de Bach, después de la cual todo cambió. Fue un momento de revelación que tuvo una gran transcendencia en mi vida porque, por primera vez, recibía el impacto de lo clásico“.

Coetzee profundiza en qué es lo clásico. Horacio – recuerda el Premio Nobel – dice, de hecho, que si una obra pervive cien años después de ser escrita debe de ser un clásico. Pero Coetzee llega a algo más. Treinta y seis años después de aquella tarde en el jardín parece como si el profesor y el novelista se asomaran a la ventana del tiempo para verse a sí mismo recibiendo a Bach, pero tampoco a Bach, sino recibiendo a la música, pero tampoco a la música, sino recibiendo al fin la potencia y la supervivencia de lo clásico en su vida y en muchas otras más.

“¿Ha pasado desde 1955 suficiente tiempo, y he cambiado lo bastante, para empezar a comprender mi primera relación con el clásico - que es una relación con Bach - de un modo histórico?, se pregunta Coetzee. (…) En un primer sentido, el clásico es aquel que supera los límites del tiempo, que retiene un significado para las épocas venideras, que “vive”. En un segundo sentido, una buena parte de la música de Bach pertenece a lo que vagamente se denomina “los clásicos”, la parte del canon de la música europea que aún se interpreta con relativa frecuencia en todo el mundo, aunque no demasiado a menudo ni ante auditorios particularmente masivos”.

Pero quizá lo más interesante de la conferencia de Coetzee (“¿Qué es un clásico?.- “Costas extrañas” (Debate), sea el final, cuando se refiere a “nuestro gran poeta contemporáneo de los clásicos”, al  polaco Zbigniew Herbert. “Para Herbert - escribe Coetzee -, lo opuesto de lo clásico no es lo romántico, sino lo bárbaro; aún más, lo clásico frente a lo bárbaro no es tanto una oposición como una confrontación. Herbert escribe desde la perspectiva histórica de Polonia, un país con una cultura occidental asediada intermitentemente por vecinos bárbaros. No es la posesión de alguna cualidad esencial la que, según el punto de vista de Herbert, permite a un clásico soportar el asalto de los bárbaros. Más bien, lo clásico es aquello que sobrevive a la peor barbarie, aquello que sobrevive porque hay generaciones de personas que no se pueden permitir ignorarlo y, por tanto, se agarran a ello a cualquier precio”.

Cada uno tiene su clásico (o clásicos)  a los que acudir. En música, en literatura, en teatro, en cine, en arte. Cada uno habrá vivido quizá una tarde en un especial jardín, a cualquier edad - un jardín natural o íntimo -, en donde lo clásico se le habrá revelado de repente, con esa profundidad pasmosa que transmite la serenidad de la supervivencia por encima de los siglos, dominando a cualquier asedio de los bárbaros. Cada uno conocerá la barbarie que llega, con la polvareda que lo circunstancial levanta en el horizonte. Cada uno sabrá cómo se llaman los bárbaros y  en cuántos clásicos deberá refugiarse cada vez para no sucumbir a las inclemencias del tiempo.

(Imágenes: Juan Sebastián Bach.-wikimedia. Commons/ jardín botánico Kistenbosch.-Ciudad del Cabo.-mundoenred)

ABOUT MR COGITO’S TWO LEGS

The left leg normal
one could say optimistic
a little too short
boyish
with exuberant muscles
and a well-shaped calf

the right leg
God help us–
thin
with two scars
one along the Achilles tendon
the other oval
pale pink
shameful reminder of an escape

the left
inclined to leap
ready to dance
loving life too much
to expose itself

the right
nobly rigid
sneering at danger

in this way
on two legs
the left which can be compared to Sancho Panza
and the right
recalling the wandering knight
Mr Cogito
goes
through the world
staggering slightly

–Zbigniew Herbert

Translation by John Carpenter & Bogdana Carpenter

Photo: Detail from Life in Transit by caruba

I would like to describe the simplest emotion
joy or sadness
but not as others do
reaching for shafts of rain or sun

I would like to describe a light
which is being born in me
but I know it does not resemble
any star
for it is not so bright
not so pure
and is uncertain

I would like to describe courage
without dragging behind me a dusty lion
and also anxiety
without shaking a glass full of water

to put it another way
I would give all metaphors
in return for one word
drawn out of my breast like a rib
for one word
contained within the boundaries
of my skin

but apparently this is not possible

and just to say – I love
I run around like mad
picking up handfuls of birds
and my tenderness
which after all is not made of water
asks the water for a face
and anger
different from fire
borrows from it
a loquacious tongue

so is blurred
so is blurred
in me
that white-haired gentlemen
separated once and for all
and said
this is the subject
and this is the object

we fall asleep
with one hand under our head
and with the other in a mound of planets

our feet abandon us
and taste the earth
with their tiny roots
which next morning
we tear out painfully