The LAUREATE OF LJUBLJANA

 

Foto (c) Tihomir Pinter

 

MIOMBO TOP– The title laureate is not only befitting   for  Peter Semolic  but  a deserving one , poet of international class from Ljbuljana.The poet is extensively published with more than ten poetry collections under his golden literary belt. Poet Semolic is a master of rhythm and simplicity . His verses beat with the pulse of your heart as you read them . His use of captivating poetry to exhibit the serenity of nature ,its beauty and everything natural is amazing as the verse carver is armed with weapon of verbal dexterity his pen and his unbeatable metaphoric expression , his combat. He revives our optimism to continue embracing mother earth with positive resolute. The poems in this instalment are bilingual they are all in Slovenian and English languages for both local and International class of audience. Enjoy the verses of the LAURETTE OF LJUBLJANA .Time of the Poet invites comments ,likes and ideas for our articles. For submissions contact the Curator,MBIZO CHIRASHA at miombopublishing@gmail.com .Time of the Poet only feature international poets to inspire rising poets and the entire literary community.

Razglas
Sonce vzhaja iz morja. Kamorkoli greš,
sonce zmerom vzhaja iz morja. Zato
razglašam morje za sončev rojstni kraj.

To v temelju menja naš pogled na svet,
na celoten ustroj vesolja. Astronavti
niso več astronavti, temveč potapljači,

ki se potapljajo k zvezdam. In morske
in nebeške zvezde so samo zvezde in
ni več razlike med ljubeznijo in

ljubezenskim idealom. Vsi smo srečni
ljubimci. Bredemo plitvine, razbijamo
kamne in v črnih luknjah iščemo prstace.
Semedela, 27. julij 1999
Proclamation
The sun rises from the sea. Wherever one goes,
the sun always rises from the sea. Therefore
I proclaim the sea the sun’s birthplace.

This fundamentally changes our view of the world,
the whole structure of the universe. Astronauts
aren’t astronauts anymore, instead they are divers,

diving to the stars. The sea stars
and the sky stars are just stars and
there’s no more gap between love and

the love ideal. We are all happy
lovers. We’re wading in the shallows, breaking
stones and looking for date shells in black holes.

Semedela, 27. julij 1999

Translated by Barbara Jurša
Moč zapisa

Ko čakaš avtobus, najprej pripeljejo vse druge
številke, nekatere celo po večkrat, in šele potem,
čisto nazadnje, tvoja. Ni res, da je zmerom tako.
A dovolj pogosto je, da skepticizem popusti in že
študiraš ekliptike sonca, lune in planetov, vržeš
karte, poskušaš razbrati v medli svetlobi ulične
svetilke vse podrobnosti, vse kot las tenke črte,
ki se ti vejajo iz črte življenja.

Vzdrhtim. Ni res, da v letih, ko nisem pisal pesmi,
nisem pesnil. V mislih sem sestavljal verze, zdaj
v prozi, zdaj spet v metru, verze, vse krajše, vse
bolj ogoljene, neprozorne, vse temnejše, vse bolj
spominjajoče na uroke črne magije. Večino sem jih
sproti ali vsaj v nekaj dneh pozabil, nekateri pa
so se mi zadrli v možgane, mi vse bolj pritiskali
na misli in mi narekovali vedenje. Nič posebnega,
le to, kako naj si zavežem čevlje, zazeham, kako
naj se popraskam po čelu, kako naj držim dlan,
ko se rokujem, kako naj prekrižam noge. Nič posebnega.
A vsakič znova sem v svojih kretnjah ugledal tujca,
divjaka, nerodnega šamana, ki je uročil samega sebe.

Nekega dne sem zbral še zadnje moči. Zapisal sem
s konico čevlja v sneg, bel kot papir, svoje ime in
pregnal demona praznoverja.
Lavrica, 7. december 1999

 

Writing It Down

When you wait for your bus, all the others
come first, some more than once, before yours,
always the last. It isn’t true that it’s always like this,
but it’s often enough that your skepticism fades and before you know it,
you’re studying the ecliptics of the sun, the moon and the planets; you cast
the cards; you’re trying to trace, in the dim light of a streetlamp,
the uncountable hair-thin lines
branching out from your lifeline.

I tremble—it isn’t true that in the years I wasn’t writing poems
I wasn’t making poetry. I composed them in my head, some
in prose, some in meter, verses, each one shorter, each
more stripped, opaque, ever darker, ever closer
to the spells of black magic. I forgot
most of them right away, or within a few days, but some
got nailed into my brain, pressing harder and harder
on my thoughts, directing my actions. Nothing special—
just the way I lace my shoes, yawn, how I
should scratch my forehead, turn my palm
when shaking hands, how I should cross my legs. Nothing
special. But in each gesture, I saw again a stranger,
a savage, a clumsy shaman who had cast a spell upon himself.

One day I muster the last ounce of my strength. I write
with the tip of my shoe, in the snow, white as paper, my name.
Drive out the demon of superstition.

Lavrica, 7. december 1999
Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan
Verzi
Celodnevni potep po mestu, druženje z golobi.
Na plavem nebu se vse bolj čipkata črti reaktivcev.
V praznini računalniškega ekrana se vrti
barvast cvet – roža čudotvorna.
Še zmerom pišem na roko, v star blok, katerega
koledar me vodi v minulo stoletje.
Nekega dne – upam, da to ne bo tako kmalu –
mi bo kdo rekel, da sem človek prejšnjega stoletja,
pesnik minulega časa.
Rahel drget: sledi avionov sta dokončno izginili.
S Primorskega je prišla burja in maje staro jablano.
Cvetje je že skoraj minilo, plodov še dolgo ne bo.
Kaj počnejo golobi? Se odpravljajo spat?
Prečrtam neustrezen verz in napišem novega:
temna silhueta Krima je bila leta in leta moj horizont.
Zdaj nad njo plava oblak, škrlaten od zahajajočega sonca.
Večerna svetloba pada skoz okno, pada na te verze
in jih mehča.
Lavrica, 3. maj 2000

Lines

A whole day’s ramble in town, socializing with the pigeons.
Up in the blue sky two contrails unlace.
In the emptiness of the computer screen
a multi-coloured blossom spins—blossom of miracles.
I am still writing by hand, in an old notebook whose
calendar takes me back to the last century.
One day—I hope not too soon—
somebody will tell me that I am a man of the last century,
a poet of the past.
A slight tremble: the airplanes’ trails have completely vanished.
From Primorska the bora has come and shakes the old apple tree.
The blossoming is almost over, the fruit won’t come for a while yet.
What are the pigeons doing? Are they going to bed?
I cross out a badly written line and write a new one:
the dark silhouette of Mt. Krim was my horizon for years and years.
Now a cloud swims above it, scarlet from the setting sun.
The evening light falls through the window, it falls on these lines
and softens them.
Lavrica, 3 May, 2000
Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan

Barve

Tvoje oči so modre, modra je tvoja barva.
Na večer rumeni cvetovi forzicije in polna
luna nad bližnjimi nama bloki – storila si
korak in jaz, čeprav še rjav, hodim ob tebi,
nenadoma nič več opotekaje, tvoj korak
je dolg dvaintrideset let in diši kot oranža.
Nisem pričakoval, niti v sanjah – to noč sva
si delila v njih bel kruh in si potem priklicala,
nič več v sanjah, na obraz velike rdeče
cvetove. Katera barva ti je najljubša?
Kateri pevec? Katera pevka? Poletna žalost
je za nama in črni glas Lane del Rey ni več znak,
ampak samo še pesem kot vsaka druga.
Svetlo zelena trava, temno zelena v mesečini,
ti, ki še ne verjameš vase, jaz, ki sem verjel vate
od hipa, ko si prišla z rožmarinom in meto,
verjamem v naju. Barva tvojih oči se spreminja
s svetlobo, ponoči sijejo z lastno – zvezdi,
ki ju ne zastira več noben oblak temne snovi.
Colours

Your eyes are blue, blue is your colour.
Near the evening, the yellow forsythia flowers and a full
moon above the apartment blocks close by – you have made a
step and I, though still brown, walk by your side,
suddenly no longer staggering, your step
is thirty-two years long and smells like an orange.
I haven’t expected it, not even in a dream – tonight we
shared in it white bread and then called forth,
no longer in a dream, big red
blossoms to our faces. Which colour is your favourite one?
Which male singer? Which female one? Summertime sadness
is behind us and the black voice of Lana del Rey is no longer a sign,
but just another song like any other.
Light green grass, dark green in the moonlight,
you, who don’t believe in yourself yet, I, who have believed in you
from the moment you came with rosemary and mint,
believe in us. The colour of your eyes changes
with light, at night they shine with their own – two stars,
no longer shrouded by any cloud of dark matter.
Translated by Barbara Jurša

Shotokan

Za Katjo

Za zdaj si še vsa tu. Z mamo, očetom, sestro,
poročeno na kmete, najboljšo prijateljico.
Gledaš publiko, sodnike, trenerja, »ki ti določa
mero«, del popolnosti, ki ti pripada. Prikloniš
se, zavzameš osnovni položaj. Izvedla boš
kato Enpi. Zahtevna je, morda prezahtevna
za tvoja leta. Vsekakor ti je najlepša in kar ti
je lepo, ti je tudi dobro in se ti prilega kot po
meri skrojeno krilo. Verjameš v skladnost
lepote in vrednosti. Preideš v prvi položaj.
Imaš trinajst let in ujela te je negotovost
pubertete, prva vprašanja o smislu obstoja,
prve skrbi o tvojem videzu: »Sem res lepa
ali me je samo zafrkaval?« Vendar ne tu, ne
zdaj – lastovka v letu, rojena leta 1683 nekje
na Japonskem, morda celo v eni izmed 36-tih
kitajskih družin. Dihaš. Čutiš, kako te dihanje
osredinja nase: publika izginja vrsto po vrsto
in se ob prvem kriku razblini kot duh
umorjenega iz Rašomona. Položaji sledijo
z morilsko natančnostjo: udarec, ob katerem
izgine tvoj oče, obramba, ob kateri izpuhtita
mama in sestra. Prišla si zmagat, toda ob
skoku in obratu v zraku izgine tudi želja
po zmagi. Vse izgine. Si samo še ti, z vsem
svojim bistvom prisotna v svojih gibih,
vdihih, izdihih, občasnih krikih, samo še ti
tukaj in zdaj, v tej točki. Ni te več. Ušla si nam
onkraj pojmljivega – resnična lastovka, ki
je izginila za črto obzorja, ne vemo, ali se boš
še kdaj vrnila v svoje staro gnezdo. V svoja
spraševanja, tavajoče iskanje resnice o
sebi. In potem glasen pok, trenutek, ko
se spet rodimo v tvojem pogledu, v školjki
tvojega ušesa. Zardela kot po ljubljenju
stojiš pred nami – močno in krhko dekle
hkrati, lastovka, ki se je vrnila in nam pusti,
da se za hip dotaknemo njenega perja,
rosnega od nepredstavljivih daljav.

Shotokan

For Katja

For now you are still all here. With your mother, father, sister
married and living on a farm, your best friend.
You watch the audience, judges, your trainer “who gauges
your measure”, partial perfection, that is your due. You bow,
take up the basic position. You will enact
the kata Enpi. It’s demanding, perhaps too much
for your age. Certainly you find it most beautiful and what
you find beautiful you also find good and it suits you
like a tailored skirt. You believe in the harmony
of beauty and substance. You assume first position.
You’re thirteen, caught in puberty’s insecuries,
and first questions about the meaning of life,
misgivings about your looks: »Am I really beautiful
or was he just pulling my leg?« But not here, not
now – a swallow in flight, born in 1683 somewhere
in Japan, perhaps even in one of the 36 Chinese
families. You breathe. You feel how the breath
centres you: how the audience disappears line by line
and with the first scream vanishes like the spirit
of the murdered samurai from Rashomon. Positions follow
with deadly precision: the blow at which your father
disappears, the defence at which your mother
and sister vanish. You came to win, but with
the jump and the turn in mid-air the desire to win
disappears too. Everything disappears. There’s only you
with all your essence in every move, intake of breath,
exhalation, occasional shriek, only you here and now
in this very spot. You’re gone. Slipped away from us
beyond the comprehensible – a true swallow
faded into the horizon, we don’t know, will you
ever return to your old nest. Old ruminations, feeling
the way to your own truthfulness. And then crash,
again we’re born inside your gaze, in the shell
of your ear. Flushed as after lovemaking
you are standing before us – a strong, fragile girl
a swallow returned, and who for a moment
has allowed us to touch her feathers
covered in dew from unimaginable distances.

Ljubljana, 1st March 2014
Translated by Ana Jelnikar and Barbara Siegel Carlson

 

 

foto2.jpg

Peter Semolič, born in Ljubljana in 1967, studied General Linguistics and Cultural Studies at the University of Ljubljana. He is the author of fourteen books of poetry: Tamarisk (1991), The Roses of Byzantium (1994), House Made of Words (1996), Circles Upon the Water (2000), Questions About the Path (2001), Border (2002) The Bog Fires (2004), A place for You (2006), The Journey Around the Sun (2008), The Milky Way (2009), Poems and Letters (2009), Night in the Middle of the Day (2012, The Other Shore (2015) and Visits / Visite (bilingual Slovenian Italian book, 2016). He has received many prizes for his work, including the two most eminent awards in Slovenia, Jenko’s Poetry Prize and the Prešeren Prize (the National Award for Literature and Arts). In 1998 he also won the Vilenica Crystal Award. Peter Semolič also writes plays, children’s literature, essays and translates from English, French, Serbian and Croatian. He is co-founder and co-editor of first Slovenian online poetry magazine Poiesis (http://www.poiesis.si/

 

Peter Semolič se je rodil v Ljubljani leta 1967, študiral je splošno jezikoslovje in sociologijo kulture na Univerzi v Ljubljani. Do zdaj je objavil trinajst samostojnih pesniških zbirk: Tamariša (1991), Bizantinske rože (1994), Hiša iz besed (1996), Krogi na vodi (2000), Vprašanja o poti (2001), Meja (2002), Barjanski ognji (2004), Prostor zate (2006), Vožnja okrog sonca (2008), Rimska cesta (2009), Pesmi in pisma (2009), Noč sredi dneva (2012, Druga obala (2015) in Obiski / Visite (2016). Za svoje delo je prejel več nagrad, med njimi Jenkovo nagrado in Nagrado Prešernovega sklada, leta 1998 je prejel tudi mednarodno nagrado Kristal Vilenice. Peter Semolič piše tudi drame, literaturo za otroke, eseje in prevaja iz angleščine, francoščine, srbščine in hrvaščine. Je soustanovitelj in sourednik prve spletne revije za poezijo v Sloveniji Poiesis (http://www.poiesis.si/).
poetry magazine Poiesis (http://www.poiesis.si/

 

CURATOR /EDITOR OF TIME OF THE POETMBIZO9– Mbizo Chirasha, Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer,
2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York. 2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund .Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. African Contributor to the Table of Words Dermer Press International Poetry anthology in Netherlands. Solidarity Member of Global Alliance for Politics and Arts. African Participant to the 2014-2020 World Poetry Almanac Anthologies series in Mongolia. Co-Editor of German Africa Bilingual Collection with German International Translator Andreas Weiland in 2016 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html).

http://www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mbizo_Chirasha
me.facebook.com/mbizo chirasha

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