Poem
Uroš Zupan
SOME ADVICE FOR A SUCCESSFUL LITERARY CAREER
No hanging around diplomatic receptions, handshaking with presidentsand kissing the hands of attaches.
No dinners with Kings and tribal elders, frightened that you will not
know when to use the silverware and when your fingers, and the snail
shell thus ends in the cleavage or the
permanent wave of the lady sitting at the next table
a denture in a champagne glass, and everything
in the memoirs or in the diary.
No festivals and readings – oh, what eminent society. Let
the light and the dynamite of Albert Nobel fall on me,
or at least the stardust from Pulitzer. I shall not
wash or brush myself for three days. Talent must be contagious.
No midnight calls to translators – Don’t you see those illuminations.
An invisible dynamo produces a new kind of energy. When
we run out of oil, this energy will fuel cars and planes.
I have been digging underground tunnels for years, making arrangements
and keeping up with my correspondence. Young fans rush me
and clear the dust from my feet.
I no longer trade three medium-long poems translated into
Lingua franca for two haiku translated into Slovene.
If you do not agree with the exchange rates, I can also hand over, if necessary,
my toothbrush, my wife, a proteus, traditional
lace and fairies.
No more portraits and mysterious solipsisms in the magazines Young Constructor,
Astrophysics for Beginners, Review for Breeding of Termites and Weasels...
No weighting of books and hiring cabbies, rickshaws, lorries
to take the books to the local newspaper – and before that
a circular letter – if thou wilt not immediately photocopy it
and publish it in all sections of the newspaper, including in “Around the Globe”,
“Entertainment and Hobbies”, Sport, Aphorisms and Obituaries,
your beds and computers will catch fire, you will be attacked
by swarms of locusts, your dubious so-called
journalistic inspiration will run dry.
No raising of glasses, cementing in generations,
– if you are persistent and nice you shall be canonised.
No “we have come to rule”, “we have fantastic salesmen,
they speak fifteen languages, including Swahili
and Sanskrit. Our secretaries can type 500 characters a minute.
We have made contact with Eskimoes, cannibal tribes in New
Guinea ant Atlantis. Not long ago we faxed a bottle
of typical Slovene wine and a Lippizaner horse to Ghana.”
We keep closing the windows of our studies over and over again,
but the wind finds the cracks and keeps messing up
the blank writing paper. No after-school activities.
No after-literary activities. No literary activities.
Let others carry on their shoulders Parnassus, the Pantheon,
the Academy, honorary doctorates and immortality. Be driven
in limousines with shaded windows. Let their clothes be torn off by
groupies. Let political corrections be. Putting the world and the state to rights.
Your task is to sit by the pond, watch the ducks, sip water
read the poems Prologue to the Baptism on the Savica* & Duma** and feed carp.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Poetry does not begin with a big bang, it begins with a whimper.
* Epic poem by Slovenian romantic poet France Pres
** Long poem by Slovenian poet Oton Zupancic
© Translation: 2002, Nike Kocijanèiè Pokorn, Philip Burt
NASVETI ZA USPEŠNO LITERARNO KARIJERO
NASVETI ZA USPEŠNO LITERARNO KARIJERO
Nic svetenja po diplomatskih salonih, rokovanja s presednikiin poljubljanja rok atašejem,
Nic vecerij s kralji&plemenskimi starešinami, ko si v zadregi,
da ne boš znal v pravilnem vrstnem redu uporabljati srebrnega
pribora in prstov in bo polzja lupina koncala v dekolteju
ali trajni ondulaciji pri sosednji mizi sedece dame,
celjust v kozarcu s šampanjcem, vse skupaj
pa v spominih in dnevniku.
Nic festivalov&branj - Oh, kakšna eminentna druzba.
Naj padeta name svetloba in dinamit Alfreda Nobela
ali pa vsaj zvezdni praz s Pulitzerja. Tri dni se ne bom
umival in krtacil. Talent je sigurno nalezljiv.
Nic polnocnih klicev prevajalcem - Ali ne vidite te iluminacije?
Nevidni dinamo proizvaja novo vrsto energije. Ko bo
zmanjkalo nafte, bo poganjala avtomobile in letala.
Leta sem kopal podzemske rove, se dogovarjal,
vzdrzeval korespondenco, trepetal pred boljšimi
in brezbriznejšimi. Nikogar nisem pustil zraven.
Mladi feni takoj pristopijo in mi vzamejo prah od nog.
Nic vec ne menjam tri srednje dolge pesmi, prevedene v
linguo franco, za dva haikuja, prevedena v slovenšcino.
Ce vam menjalniški tecaj ne ustreza, lahko po potrebi
odstopim še zobno šcetko, zeno, cloveško ribico, idrijske
cipke in vile.
Nic vec obraz in skrivnostni solipsizmi v Mladem konstruktorju,
Astrofiziki za zacetnike, Reviji za vzgojo termitov in podlasic …
Nic tehtanja knjig, in najemanja izvošcka, rikše, tovornjaka,
da jih odstavi na casopisno hišo - še pred tem
pa odposlano cirkularno pismo, ca ga nemudoma ne razmnozite
in objavite po vseh redakcijah&rubrikah, vkljucno s Svet,
Reportaze in zanimivosti, Šport, Iskrice in Osmrtnice,
vam bodo zgorele postelje&racunalniki, napadli
vas bodo roji kobilic, presahnil bo vaš tako ali tako
sumljiv novinarski navdih.
Nic dviganja kozarcev, zazidavanja v generacije -
ce boš vztrajen in prijazen, boš kanoniziran.
Nic prišli smo, da bi vladali, imamo fantasticne trgovske
potnike, govorijo petnajst jezikov, vkljucno s svahilijem
in sanskrtom. Naše tajnice zmorejo 500 udarcev na minuto.
navezali smo stike z Eskimi, ljudozerskimi plemeni na Novi
Gvineji in Atlantido. Zadnjic smo faksirali steklelnico
avtohtonega vina in lipicanca v Gano.
Še in še zapiramo okna naših studiov, a veter
vedno najde špranje in neprestano razmetava
po sobi nepopisane papirje.
Nic obšolskih dejavnosti.
Nic obliterarnih dejavnosti.
Nic literarnih dejavnosti.
Pusti drugim naj na ramenih nosijo Parnas, Panteon,
Akademijo, castne doktorate in nesmrtnost. Se vozijo
v limuzinah z zatemnjenimi stekli. naj groupies z njih trgajo
obleko. Pusti political correctness. Urejanje sveta in drzave.
Tvoje je, da sediš od bajerju, gledaš race, zuliš vodo,
bereš Uvod h Krstu pri Savici & Dumo in futraš krape.
Nic. Nic. Nic.
Poezija se ne zacne z velikom pokom, ampak s cviljenjem.
© 2003, Uros Zupan
Poems
Poems of Uroš Zupan
Close
SOME ADVICE FOR A SUCCESSFUL LITERARY CAREER
No hanging around diplomatic receptions, handshaking with presidentsand kissing the hands of attaches.
No dinners with Kings and tribal elders, frightened that you will not
know when to use the silverware and when your fingers, and the snail
shell thus ends in the cleavage or the
permanent wave of the lady sitting at the next table
a denture in a champagne glass, and everything
in the memoirs or in the diary.
No festivals and readings – oh, what eminent society. Let
the light and the dynamite of Albert Nobel fall on me,
or at least the stardust from Pulitzer. I shall not
wash or brush myself for three days. Talent must be contagious.
No midnight calls to translators – Don’t you see those illuminations.
An invisible dynamo produces a new kind of energy. When
we run out of oil, this energy will fuel cars and planes.
I have been digging underground tunnels for years, making arrangements
and keeping up with my correspondence. Young fans rush me
and clear the dust from my feet.
I no longer trade three medium-long poems translated into
Lingua franca for two haiku translated into Slovene.
If you do not agree with the exchange rates, I can also hand over, if necessary,
my toothbrush, my wife, a proteus, traditional
lace and fairies.
No more portraits and mysterious solipsisms in the magazines Young Constructor,
Astrophysics for Beginners, Review for Breeding of Termites and Weasels...
No weighting of books and hiring cabbies, rickshaws, lorries
to take the books to the local newspaper – and before that
a circular letter – if thou wilt not immediately photocopy it
and publish it in all sections of the newspaper, including in “Around the Globe”,
“Entertainment and Hobbies”, Sport, Aphorisms and Obituaries,
your beds and computers will catch fire, you will be attacked
by swarms of locusts, your dubious so-called
journalistic inspiration will run dry.
No raising of glasses, cementing in generations,
– if you are persistent and nice you shall be canonised.
No “we have come to rule”, “we have fantastic salesmen,
they speak fifteen languages, including Swahili
and Sanskrit. Our secretaries can type 500 characters a minute.
We have made contact with Eskimoes, cannibal tribes in New
Guinea ant Atlantis. Not long ago we faxed a bottle
of typical Slovene wine and a Lippizaner horse to Ghana.”
We keep closing the windows of our studies over and over again,
but the wind finds the cracks and keeps messing up
the blank writing paper. No after-school activities.
No after-literary activities. No literary activities.
Let others carry on their shoulders Parnassus, the Pantheon,
the Academy, honorary doctorates and immortality. Be driven
in limousines with shaded windows. Let their clothes be torn off by
groupies. Let political corrections be. Putting the world and the state to rights.
Your task is to sit by the pond, watch the ducks, sip water
read the poems Prologue to the Baptism on the Savica* & Duma** and feed carp.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Poetry does not begin with a big bang, it begins with a whimper.
* Epic poem by Slovenian romantic poet France Pres
** Long poem by Slovenian poet Oton Zupancic
© 2002, Nike Kocijanèiè Pokorn, Philip Burt
SOME ADVICE FOR A SUCCESSFUL LITERARY CAREER
No hanging around diplomatic receptions, handshaking with presidentsand kissing the hands of attaches.
No dinners with Kings and tribal elders, frightened that you will not
know when to use the silverware and when your fingers, and the snail
shell thus ends in the cleavage or the
permanent wave of the lady sitting at the next table
a denture in a champagne glass, and everything
in the memoirs or in the diary.
No festivals and readings – oh, what eminent society. Let
the light and the dynamite of Albert Nobel fall on me,
or at least the stardust from Pulitzer. I shall not
wash or brush myself for three days. Talent must be contagious.
No midnight calls to translators – Don’t you see those illuminations.
An invisible dynamo produces a new kind of energy. When
we run out of oil, this energy will fuel cars and planes.
I have been digging underground tunnels for years, making arrangements
and keeping up with my correspondence. Young fans rush me
and clear the dust from my feet.
I no longer trade three medium-long poems translated into
Lingua franca for two haiku translated into Slovene.
If you do not agree with the exchange rates, I can also hand over, if necessary,
my toothbrush, my wife, a proteus, traditional
lace and fairies.
No more portraits and mysterious solipsisms in the magazines Young Constructor,
Astrophysics for Beginners, Review for Breeding of Termites and Weasels...
No weighting of books and hiring cabbies, rickshaws, lorries
to take the books to the local newspaper – and before that
a circular letter – if thou wilt not immediately photocopy it
and publish it in all sections of the newspaper, including in “Around the Globe”,
“Entertainment and Hobbies”, Sport, Aphorisms and Obituaries,
your beds and computers will catch fire, you will be attacked
by swarms of locusts, your dubious so-called
journalistic inspiration will run dry.
No raising of glasses, cementing in generations,
– if you are persistent and nice you shall be canonised.
No “we have come to rule”, “we have fantastic salesmen,
they speak fifteen languages, including Swahili
and Sanskrit. Our secretaries can type 500 characters a minute.
We have made contact with Eskimoes, cannibal tribes in New
Guinea ant Atlantis. Not long ago we faxed a bottle
of typical Slovene wine and a Lippizaner horse to Ghana.”
We keep closing the windows of our studies over and over again,
but the wind finds the cracks and keeps messing up
the blank writing paper. No after-school activities.
No after-literary activities. No literary activities.
Let others carry on their shoulders Parnassus, the Pantheon,
the Academy, honorary doctorates and immortality. Be driven
in limousines with shaded windows. Let their clothes be torn off by
groupies. Let political corrections be. Putting the world and the state to rights.
Your task is to sit by the pond, watch the ducks, sip water
read the poems Prologue to the Baptism on the Savica* & Duma** and feed carp.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Poetry does not begin with a big bang, it begins with a whimper.
* Epic poem by Slovenian romantic poet France Pres
** Long poem by Slovenian poet Oton Zupancic
© 2002, Nike Kocijanèiè Pokorn, Philip Burt
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