|
NA LISTI Od 04.8.2010.g. /
LISTED SINCE August 4th, 2010 among leading European magazines: 
|
All Rights Reserved
Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
|
Preporuka za 2014 - Narudžba knjiga / Purchasing of the books / Bücher bestellen
|
|
|
|
|
Bojana Stojanović Pantović, Beograd, Srbija
Bojana Stojanovic Pantovic was born in Belgrade, Serbia (1960). Critic, poet and translator. Full Professor at the Department of Comparative literature, Faculty of Philosophy in Novi Sad. Researcher in the Expressionistic Movement in Serbian, South-Slavonic and European literature, Gender Studies, Genealogy of the short prose genres, Contemporary poetry. Visiting professor in Halle, Hamburg, Berlin, Ljubljana and Wroclaw. In 1995-2001 she also lectured at the Faculty of Philology in Belgrade, where she lives.
Selected works: Serbian Expressionism (Srpski ekspresionizam 1998), Heritage of Sumatraism (Nasleđe sumatraizma, 1998), Morphology of the Expressionist Prose (Morfologija ekspresionističke proze, 2003), Rebellion against the Centre (Pobuna protiv središta, 2006), Spans of Modernism (Rasponi modernizma, 2011). Editor and co-author of the Conscise Dictionary of Comparative Terminology in the Literature and Culture (Pregledni rečnik komparatističke terminologije u književnosti i kulturi, 2011), Prose-poem or prozaida (Pesma u prozi ili prozaida, 2012).
Poetry collections: Endless-She (Beskrajna 2005), Fiancées of Fire - prose poems (Zaručnici vatre 2008), Shining (Isijavanje 2009); upcoming: Lections about Death (Lekcije o smrti, 2013).
Her papers and poems are translated in english, german, french, greek, slovenian, macedonian, polish and spanish language.
See also: http://sl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bojana_Stojanović Pantović
Selected works: Serbian Expressionism (Srpski ekspresionizam 1998), Heritage of Sumatraism (Nasleđe sumatraizma, 1998), Morphology of the Expressionist Prose (Morfologija ekspresionističke proze, 2003), Rebellion against the Centre (Pobuna protiv središta, 2006), Spans of Modernism (Rasponi modernizma, 2011). Editor and co-author of the Conscise Dictionary of Comparative Terminology in the Literature and Culture (Pregledni rečnik komparatističke terminologije u književnosti i kulturi, 2011), Prose-poem or prozaida (Pesma u prozi ili prozaida, 2012).
Poetry collections: Endless-She (Beskrajna 2005), Fiancées of Fire - prose poems (Zaručnici vatre 2008), Shining (Isijavanje 2009); upcoming: Lections about Death (Lekcije o smrti, 2013).
Her papers and poems are translated in english, german, french, greek, slovenian, macedonian, polish and spanish language.
See also: http://sl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bojana_Stojanović Pantović
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
|
LP vinyl sell from
|
|
Čitalačko bdijenje mrtve pjesme
Da, poezija Bojane Stojanović Pantović u prvom, zbunjujućem, čitanju kao da rabi odu, opelo poetici par excellance...Ali, kada se vratimo ponova čitanju predočene poezije (što kvalitetna poetika uvijek čini obrazovanom čitaocu) pred nama se otvara sasvim drugi svijet. Svijet ljudskih težnji za razumom, raciom, objašnjenju svekolikih svakodnevnica, ljudi, misli...promišljanja. O sebi, svijetu. I o poeziji, Naravno. Njeno čitalačko bdijenje čak i "mrtvoj pjesmi", kako i sama veli, je ipak usmjereno buđenju novonastalih vizija. Vlastitih apriori. A aposteriori? Osjetićete. Ne dok čitate, već kada iščitate poruke razumnih težnji autorice. Vrijedi. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 12.4.2013. |
Reader's wake of the dead poem
Yes, poetry from Bojana Stojanovic Pantović in the first, confusing, reading looks like she uses the ode, requiem to the poetics par excellence ...But when we come back again to the reading of presented poetry (which quality poetics always does to the educated reader) in front of us opens a whole different world. World of human aspiration towards reason, racio and explanation of the overall daily life, people, thoughts ... reconsiderations. Abouth herself, about the world.And about poetry, of course. Her reader's wake even for "the dead poem", as she states, is still focused towards awakening of the emerging vision. Her own apriori. And what about aposteriori? You will feel. Not while reading, but when your read through the messages of reasonable aspirations of the authoress. Worth. Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 12.4.2013. |
|
IZ CIKLUSA ARIJADNINO KLUPKO
1. S.Antonio di Padova prega per noi govorili su pred počinak Snežana i sedam patuljaka, Uspavana lepotica šaputali bi nam pred spavanje mi smo bili patuljci skrivali se pod suknju Zle veštice sisali joj krv lomili purpurne potpetice iščekivali trenutak kada će Zver od ruže postati princ sanjali Velikog Oza vezanih nogu koračali putem Žutih opeka Yellowbrick Road Gle! Kuća od Zlata 2. rozete ušne školjke glava u utrobi Casa D Oro preslikavaju prozore u karlice beonjače liče na golubove iz leta Gospodnjeg 1508. po gležnjevima hodu i ostalom tiho polažu njihova jaja u svoju kožu na očne kapke rozete ušne školjke 3. U Kući od Zlata strašni Oz poklonio nam je veliku mrežu od inja Istorija se ponavlja rekao je tada Nismo ga više sanjali valjda se pretvorio u ribu puža meduzu zrno peska krije se u našim bočicama lavabou akvarijumu dobri Oz nevidljivi Oz Oz Oz pada kosi sumrak LEDENO DOBA 1. paprat palme pinije skeleti morskih zvezda na koralnim sprudovima ljušture puževa uronjenih u sedefastu limfu veliki pauci pletu mreže od inja zubi slonova kost ždralovi izvijaju duge vratove i osluškuju sneg paprat palme pinije 2. umesto lica imaš oči pod ledom ih držiš širom otvorene 3. izmena vida drukčiji raspored glasnih žica otvrdnjavanje nutrine 4. čeona kost bedro nožni članak sada su samo pećinski ukrasi 5. uramiti lice isisati krv uvoštiti otisnuti u krečnjaku ................................ potom sastrugati U KRATKOM IZDISAJU Između redova samo slovnih mesta razrokih pogleda slepljenih listova skoro nevidljivih proreda Mogu biti šta god želim sve što od mene može biti Od nas u kratkom izdisaju Na sporednoj postelji ljubavničke margine koja se neprestano širi i uvećava da bismo se udobnije smestili među čaršave pod baldahine I čvršće priljubili telima jedno uz drugo u čitalačkom bdenju Kad jedan usni drugi svu noć govori naglas Ono što nikada pre ni posle toga neće reći čuti ni pročitati šapatom ili krikom Svejedno DRUGI PROLAZAK KROZ BRANDENBURŠKU KAPIJU Nije svaki ulazak u grad isti : nekada je dovoljno dotaći kožu neke stare kuće, pa da se vrata pećine otvore širom. Nekada se vodom do njega stiže: spajanjem obala jedne, ili dve reke, dubinskim kadrom kojim se moreuz pretapa u more. Al ovde moraš drugačije : prilagoditi korak talasanju oblaka i njihovom trenutnom snimku. Potapšati konja po sapima, ogrnuti plašt, isukati mač, pozdraviti uzavrelu gomilu. Proći, tako, nevidljiv, kroz vazduh. ŠKRINJA Zauvek će ostati skriveno Što ostavih duboko u šumi : Slomljeni krčag Progorelo krilo slepog miša Poruku od nepoznatog gosta I još više: Prepuna škrinja blaga Koje prebrojavam U tvom odsustvu I dugo zagledam taj pramen kose Udvajam se To sam ja Opet ja Ljubim svoje lice Milujem se nežno Da li sad vidiš da si to ti U šumi spletenih ruku Nalik našim Koje nisu ničije Zovem sebe Odazivaš se ti Opet ti Zamene su nepodnošljive Otkrivam svoje lice A znam da je tvoje Ljubim ga sa strahom I škrinja se polako Za nama Zatvara LEPTIRICA Onde gde prestaje sećanje Nema ni provalije Ni vinuća u nebo Ni ravne linije Ni koridora svetlosti Iz druge galaksije Samo beli povez Preko očiju Crna voštana tablica Na kojoj su svi znaci poravnani Sva glagolska vremena Preseljena u večni pasiv U trpljenje jezika Ničim izazvanog Osim hira promene U prvom licu Što bi da napusti telo Teskobnu čauru Iz koje pred svitanje Leptirica ne izlazi ISIJAVANJE Već danima niko me ne zove ne remeti dnevnu satnicu ne proverava jesam li napolju Ili možda nisam ne na granici nevidljivoj Jesam li dakle unutrašnja ili sasvim malo spoljašnja gde sam sebi unutra a gde spolja na rubu promenljivom Pred vratima u uglu ostavljen prazan čanak bez hleba i vode bez mesa i suza – dok posvuda veje sitna so.... Sklonih se zato među kućne stvari koje odavno ne koristim Postadoh spokojni deo Nameštaja Posuđa zamena za štafelaj Samujem kao srebrni samovar blistam se Iz mene navire medena tečnost al smrznut je moj lik na staklu Već danima niko me ne zove niko ne obilazi Špijunka je beznadno zaklopljena kvaka na vratima otpala na kapiji čami sasušen venac Samo u beloj samo u munjevitoj figuri svetla Neko tamom ka meni putuje OVO I ONO VREME Katarini, to England Razvući vreme kao ribarsku mrežu kroz koju propadaju sati kao u bunar bez dna a ipak se talože u rečni mulj u topljeno zlato Ovo i ono vreme Od juče Od pre nekog Trena Od uvek Može se odmotati kao folio drhtavih pejzaža starih mapa gde Zemlja je ravna i naporedna Može se useliti kao duh u lampu u napuštenu preslicu što obavlja tajni nalog tkanja ženske kose i bršljana – Kroz posvećeni čin zaruka pomalo incestuozan jer spaja poroke lepote i minulog Između dva čekanja desiće se: ono što već je prošlo i ono koje iščekujemo kao zavet mladenaca kao zauvek osmehnuto Dok u najvišim kulama ne odzvoni gong za završni nastup žrtve za poslednji urlik gomile I krv s gradskog trga Kao izvor U dubini Ne proključa OSTAJEŠ SAM U TAMI Ostaješ sam u tami tamo gde te obično ostavljam da sediš i zuriš u vrh zašiljene olovke u razjapljene čeljusti pištolja Niko ne može da prekine konopac koji te spaja s belim kavezom koji te štiti od ptica od sunca od nje Iščekuješ zvuk koraka koji te užasavaju uvek i uvek iznova ruka se tanji ključna kost se lomi u param parčad telo je već požutelo i sprženo Da li u čelu čuvaš previše svetlosti od koje se slepi ili suvih očiju padaš na zemlju u poslednje buđenje Ostaješ sam u tami CRNI PROZORI Crni prozori Na telu kuća Zure kao prazne oči U kojima niko ne stanuje U sebi skupljaju Gutljaj po gutljaj mraka Ponovljenih večeri Magle u kojoj nestaju šine I love prolaznike Što se upisuju korakom Crni prazni prozori Šire se preko fasade Zapljuskuju kolovoze I pločnike U kojima vide Sebe same Kao besne talase Kao crnu morsku penu Kao crno Samo crno VEČERNJA ŠETNJA Ostajemo konačno same ti i ja Ubledele i poluispavane sigurne da ovo predveče pripada samo nama Ti s jedne ja s druge strane ledenog ivičnjaka hodamo svaka za sebe I ćutimo da bismo ostale cele i odbacile svaku pomisao Kako bi nas još neko mogao voleti u ovo doba dana Kada i ti više ne daješ znake života Samoćo BIVŠI PUTNICI Sve dalje od svetla, sve bliže zazidanom prozoru u podzemnoj železnici, do kog se spuštam kao u rudarsko okno. Naučila sam da razaznajem nijanse mraka, spolja i unutra, i ne može me prevariti udaljeni plamičak što se zastrašujuće bliži Daleko sam od isijavanja: ono se dešava negde drugde, u železničkom hangaru, u mrtvačnici gde je svako konačno sam, hladan i definisan paljenjem sveće. Nema odraza, nema odsjaja na licu vagona, samo prazne table lebde na dolaznim peronima, i sumračni likovi bivših putnika nadiru u oblacima ugljene prašine SVE TO U sluhu su zamrle julske žege i ubrzo, sve će se preobraziti: kamen, brezov list, baštensko cveće, bogomoljka. Sve to, da bi se proživela mrtva pesma. Spušten je pogled iza planinskih vrhova i uspostavljena vladavina avgusta. Iz južnih luka pristiže krik galebova ukrštajući se sa zovom domaćih ptica. Nebo se mreška kao površina dubokog mora. Slatko je i podatno u šumi koja tone i izranja kao glava na krštenju. Raspored četinara zavisi od narasle strasti između plime i oseke. Sve to, da bi se napisala mrtva pesma. IZMEĐU DVA DOLASKA FERIBOTA U jedan letnji čas stane sve: kapelica sa temeljima pod zemljom, upaljena sveća za nepoznatog šetača što ne strahuje od mraka. Pun mesec teško pritiska more darujući mu bleštavu kožu; truli napušten vrt u Limenasu nadomak paganskog svetilišta. Između prstiju curi pesak i galebovi pričaju svojim nerazumljivim jezikom pučini: čujem mirni glas moje sestre u ravnomernim pauzama između dva dolaska feribota. Niko ne maše na rastanku, iako je rastanak konačan. Niko ne uzvikuje dobrodošlicu, iako svi hrle u zagrljaj. Ljudske figure su crvene i zbijene, kao konzerve na rafovima supermarketa. I samo taj jedan sat razlike čini da se sve razlije i vrati svom početku: Agori, ljubavi vode i kopna, vatre i vazduha, zračnom podneblju večnoga odmora. |
FROM THE CYCLE ARIADNA'S HANK
1. S. Antonio di Padova prega per noi they would say before sleep Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs The Sleeping Beauty they would whisper to us before sleep we were dwarfs we were hiding under the skirt of the Wicked Witch sucking her blood breaking her purple heels waiting for the moment when the Beast turns from a rose into a Prince we were dreaming of Oz the Great walking the Yellowbrick Road with our feet tied Yellowbrick Road Look! The House of Gold 2. rosettes earlobes head in the guts Casa D' Oro they trace the windows to the pelvis sclera they look like pidgeons from ana domini of 1508. similar ankles the walk and other they silently lay their eggs in their skin on their eyelids rosettes earlobes 3. In the House of Gold Oz the Great gave us a big frosting net History repeats he then said We didn't dream of him anymore I guess he turned into a fish a snail a jellyfish grain of sand he's hiding in our bottles in the sink in an aquarium good Oz invisible Oz Oz Oz the oblique twillight falls ICE AGE 1 fern palmtrees pines starfish skeletons on coral reefs shells of snails dipped into nacre lymph big spiders are knitting a frosting net teeth elephant bone waterbirds are craning and listening to the snow fern palmtrees pines 2 you have eyes insted of face under the ice you're keeping them wide open 3 change of sight different disposition of vocal cords hardening of the womb 4 frontal bone thigh ankle are now just cave decoration 5 to frame the face to suck out the blood to wax to print in the limestone ................................... then scrape IN A SHORT EXHALE Between the lines of only letter places cross-eyed looks glued sheets almost invisible spaces I could be anything I like everything that could be out of me Out of us in a short exhale On the side bed of lover’s margin which permanently broadens and magnifies so that we could place ourselves more comfortable in between the sheets under the canopies So that we could nestle to each other with our bodies in a reader’s wake Once one falls asleep the other speaks out loud throughout the night The things that they’ll never say hear read in whisper or scream before or after it It doesn’t matter THE SECOND PASSING BY THROUGH THE BRANDENBURG GATE Not every entry into the city is the same: sometimes it’s enough to touch the skin of an old house, so that the doors of the cave widely open. Sometimes we come to it by water: by merging the coasts of one or two rivers with a deep cadre by which the strait decants into the sea. But here it must be different : adjust the step to the swell of the clouds and to their current frame. Pat the horse on the croup, put on your cloak, draw your sword, salute the seethed crowd. To pass by, invisible, through the air. THE CHEST What I left deep in the woods Will forever be hidden : A broken jug A burnt wing of a bat Unknown guest’s message And even more: A top-full case of treasures That I count When you’re not here And I study that hair wisp for a long time I double myself It’s me Me again I kiss my face I caress myself Can you see now that it’s you In the woods of entangled arms That resemble ours That are nobody’s I call myself You answer back You again The substitutes are unbearable I uncover my face And I know it’s yours I kiss it fearfully And the chest closes Slowly After us BUTTERFLY (SHE) There, where the memory ceases There’s no abyss Or soar to the sky There’s no straight line Or the corridor of the light From another galaxy There’s only white blindfold A black waxen board On which all the symbols are aligned All the tenses Are moved to the eternal passive To the suffering of the language Unprovoked Except for the caprice Of the change In first person That wants to vacate the body An anxious cocoon From which the butterfly Prior to the dawn Doesn’t get out THE SHINING Nobody has called me in days disturbed the daily timetable checked if I’m outside Or maybe I’m not no on the invisible border Am I therefore internal or just a little bit external where am I (to myself) inside and where outside on a changeable edge In front of the door in the corner there’s an empty bowl left without bread and water without meat and tears – while powdery salt winnows everywhere... So I sheltered among home things that I haven’t used in a long time I became a serene part Of the furniture Of the dishes a substitute for an easel I spend my hours in solitude like a silver samovar I glisten A honey liquid gushes from me but frozen is my silhouette on the glass Nobody has called me in days Nobody has visited me The spyhole has been hopelessly shut the catch on the door has dropped off there’s a dried wreath languishing on the gate Only in the white Only in the fulminant figure of light there’s somebody in the darkness travelling towards me THIS AND THAT TIME to Katarina, in England To stretch the time like a fisher’s net through which the hours collapse as if into a well without bottom and still they store into river silt into melted gold This and that time From yesterday From a little while ago From forever Can be unwrapped like a folio of trembling landscapes of old maps where the Earth is plane and parallel Can move in like a ghost into a lamp into an abandoned distaff that fulfills the secret order of weaving the woman’s hair and ivy – Through a devoted act of engagement a little bit incestuous for merging the vices of beauty and the elapsed Between two waitings it will happen: what’s already been over and what we await like a vow of the newlyweds like an eternal smile Until in the highest towers the gong strikes the final performance of the victim the last scream of the crowd And until the blood from The city square boils In the depth Like a spring YOU STAY ALONE IN THE DARK You stay alone in the dark where I usually leave you to sit and stare into the peak of a tapered pencil into the snapping jaws of the pistol No one can break the rope that connects you to the white cage that protects you from the birds from the sun from her You expect the sound of the steps that always horrify you again and again the hand is thinning the collarbone is breaking into pieces the body is already yellow and seared Do you keep in your forehead too much light that blinds or you fall to the ground dry-eyed into the last awakening You stay alone in the dark BLACK WINDOWS Black windows On the body of houses Staring like empty eyes In which no one lives Collect in themselves Gulp per gulp of darkness Of the repeating evenings Fogs in which rails disappear Hunting passers-by Who inscribe their foot steps Black empty windows Spread over facades Wash the roads And pavements In which they see Themselves Like the furious waves Like the black sea foam Like black Only black NIGHT STROLL We’re finally alone you and me Pale and half-sleepy convinced that this early evening belongs to us only You on one side me on the other of an icy curb we walk each to our own And remain silent in order to stay whole and reject any thought So that there could be somebody else loving us at this time of the day When you won’t be giving any signs of life either Solitude FORMER TRAVELLERS Further from the light, closer to the walled window in a subway, to which I descend like into a shaft. I’ve learned to recognize the nuances of the dark, outside and inside, and I can’t be tricked by a distanced flicker that is scarily getting closer I’m far from shining: it’s happening somewhere else, in a railway hangar, in a morgue where everyone’s finally alone, cold and defined by lighting of a candle. There’s no reflection, no gleam on the face of the wagon, only the empty tables hover on the incoming platforms, and dark figures of former travellers surge in the clouds of carbon dust ALL THAT The July heats have died in the hearing and soon, everything will change: the stone, the leaf of a birch, garden flowers, the mantis. All that, in order to live a dead poem. The view behind the mountain peaks is falling down and the reign of August has been established. From the southern ports comes the cry of the seagulls crossing the call of domestic birds. The sky is rippling like the surface of a deep sea. It’s sweet and smooth in a sinking forest that emerges like a head on the christening. The disposition of the conifers depends on the grown passion between the ebb and flow. All that, in order to write a dead poem. BETWEEN TWO ARRIVALS OF THE FERRIES A summer moment contains everything: a little chapel with foundations underneath the ground, a lighted candle for an unknown wanderer who isn’t afraid of the dark. The full Moon is severely pressing the sea giving it a flare skin; a rotten, deserted garden in Limenas within reach of a pagan sanctuary. The sand is flowing between the fingers and seagulls are talking to the open sea in their opaque language: I hear the calm voice of my sister in even pauses between two arrivals of the ferries. Nobody is waving on the partition even though it’s for good. Nobody is cheering the welcome, even though everybody’s rushing into embrace. Human figures are red and compacted, like cans on supermarket shelves. And only that single hour of difference makes everything diffuse and return to its beginning: To αγορά , the love of the water and the land, the fire and the air, to the light zone of eternal rest. |
|
| ||||||||
Giorgio Bolla from Italy - on the left) and Editor in chief of DIOGEN pro culture magazine, Sabahudin Hadzialic at Svrzo house (Museum Sarajevo) during 3. Poetry marathon on 21.3.2013.
.
Copyright © 2014 DIOGEN pro culture magazine & Sabahudin Hadžialić
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina
Design: Sabi / Autors & Sabahudin Hadžialić. Design LOGO - Stevo Basara.
Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić
All Rights Reserved. Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić
WWW: http://sabihadzi.weebly.com
Contact Editorial board E-mail: contact_editor@diogenpro.com;
Narudžbe/Order: orderyourcopy@diogenpro.com
Pošta/Mail: Freelance Editor in chief Sabahudin Hadžialić,
Grbavička 32, 71000 Sarajevo i/ili
Dr. Wagner 18/II, 70230 Bugojno, Bosna i Hercegovina