Landscape through literature Le paysage à travers la littérature
Landscape through literature Le paysage à travers la littérature
Landscape through literature Le paysage à travers la littérature
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18<br />
C R O A T I A / C R O A T I E<br />
Dragutin TADIJANOVIC, born / né en 1905<br />
Oranje mog oca, 1954<br />
Drveni plug vuku krave, a za njima<br />
Gazi orač, po<strong>la</strong>ko, i katkada samo<br />
Vikne: Šarulja, Rumenka. Sjeęam se<br />
Svoga oca i njegovih povika na konje<br />
Kod oranja, i dubokih brazda: rodne<br />
Zemlje. Gdje je oranje i gdje je<br />
G<strong>la</strong>s moga oca?<br />
More u Meni, 1982<br />
Podigavsi pogled ugledam<br />
Nebo modro, s malo ob<strong>la</strong>ka<br />
Bijelih, i zelene borove<br />
Kako im krošnje miruju,<br />
A u njima cvrčci neumorno<br />
Cvrče kao cikada Anakreontova;<br />
čujem i muklo udaranje<br />
Mora u obalu, i mešu<br />
Granama staba<strong>la</strong> vidim ga<br />
Mreška se i svjetluca.<br />
A što je s mojim morem<br />
U meni? Njegovo muklo hujanje<br />
Samo ja osluškujem.<br />
My father’s ploughing<br />
Cows draw the wooden plough and behind them<br />
Plods the ploughman, slowly, and only occasionally<br />
Calls: “Spot! Reddy!” And I remember<br />
My father and his calls to the horses<br />
When he ploughed, and the deep furrows: native<br />
Earth. Where is the ploughing and where is<br />
My father’s voice?<br />
The sea in me<br />
Raising my eyes I catch sight<br />
Of the blue sky, with a few white<br />
Clouds and the green pine trees<br />
With their still heads<br />
In which crickets, tirelessly,<br />
Chirrup like the Anacreon’s cicadas;<br />
I hear the muted beat<br />
Of the sea on the shore, and between<br />
The branches I see it,<br />
Curling and shimmering,<br />
But what of my sea<br />
Within me? Its dull roaring<br />
Only I may hearken.<br />
Trans<strong>la</strong>tion: Edward Gay and Dennis Ward.<br />
n a t u r o p a n o 1 0 3 / 2 0 0 5<br />
Lorsque mon père <strong>la</strong>boure<br />
<strong>Le</strong>s vaches tirent <strong>la</strong> charrue de bois et derrière elles<br />
Chemine le <strong>la</strong>boureur, lentement; un cri de temps en temps:<br />
«Filou! Brunette!» Et je revois<br />
Mon père et ses cris <strong>la</strong>ncés aux chevaux<br />
Quand il <strong>la</strong>bourait, et les profonds sillons: terre<br />
natale. Où sont aujourd’hui les <strong>la</strong>bours, où est<br />
La voix de mon père?<br />
La mer en moi<br />
En levant les yeux, j’aperçois<br />
<strong>Le</strong> ciel bleu, quelques nuages b<strong>la</strong>ncs<br />
Et les pins verts<br />
Aux têtes immobiles<br />
Où les criquets, in<strong>la</strong>ssablement,<br />
Gazouillent comme les cigales d’Anacréon;<br />
J’entends le battement sourd<br />
De <strong>la</strong> mer sur le rivage et, entre<br />
<strong>Le</strong>s branches, je vois<br />
Son miroir ondu<strong>la</strong>nt.<br />
Mais, de <strong>la</strong> mer qui est en moi,<br />
Que dire? Son grondement monotone,<br />
Je suis seul <strong>à</strong> l’entendre.<br />
Traduction: Conseil de l’Europe, 2005.<br />
Visˇnja McMASTER, born / née en<br />
Photo-Haiga<br />
Ne ovim putem,<br />
leptiru – divlji su vali<br />
na crnoj hridi<br />
duž otoka<br />
moreplovni vjetar šapęe<br />
mnoge jezike<br />
p<strong>la</strong>vo – bijelo –<br />
zeleno: polegle oči<br />
po otoku<br />
s dna mora sunce<br />
sjaji u srebrnim ljuskama<br />
riba što šeęu<br />
s crvenog krova<br />
galebovi i dimnjaci<br />
u svakom smjeru<br />
sve g<strong>la</strong>snije<br />
bez sunca i kupača<br />
priča mi more<br />
bije<strong>la</strong> kaldrma<br />
zaobljena od nogu<br />
i kopita<br />
paralelno<br />
s trakom p<strong>la</strong>vog neba<br />
sjajna kaldrma<br />
oseka … plima …<br />
oseka … galeb i ja<br />
još smo na p<strong>la</strong>ži.
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