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Publisher online and owner: Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc Sarajevo & Bugojno, Bosnia and Herzegovina MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI... WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES |
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Učesnik 3. Poetskog maratona, 21.3.2013., Sarajevo, (BiH)
Participant of 3. Poetry marathon, 21.3.2013., Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Participant of 3. Poetry marathon, 21.3.2013., Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina
Kätlin Kaldmaa, Tallinn, Estonia
Kätlin Kaldmaa is an Estonian poet, writer, translator and literary critic. She has published four collections of poetry „Larii-laree” (1996), „One is None” (2008) and „Worlds, Unseen” (2009), „The Alphabet of Love” (2012), and two children books, „Four Children and Murka” (2010) and „The Story of Somebody Nobodysdaughter’s Father” (2012). She has written extensively on literature, mostly literature in translation, and has translated more than 30 works of world’s best literature from British Isles to Latin America. Amongst translated authors there are Jeanette Winterson, Aphra Behn, Michael Ondaatje, James Meek, Ali Smith, Meg Rosoff, Madeleine Thien, Goran Simic and Gabriel García Márquez. Her own poems have been translated into Arabic, German, Latin, Japanese, Russian, English, Spanish, Finnish, Slovenian, French and Korean. In 2012 she won the annual Friedebert Tuglas short story award. Kätlin Kaldmaa is the President of Estonian PEN. She is currently working on her first novel.
VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33,
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Svjetlost mraka
Tiho i jasno, kao pročišćena rijeka vlastitih nadanja, pred nama se otvaraju različiti horizonti istovjetnoga neba. Koje ne vidjesmo. Od magle svakodnevnice u očima. Našim. Kätlin Kaldmaa je pjesnikinja trenutka, detalja, a njena snaga je upravo u razlučivanju jednostavnih istina. Usmjeravajući se objašnjenju, ali i razjašnjenju ljubavi i...smrti. Bar na trenutak zastanimo. I zasadimo drvo. Iskrenosti. Što ona čini ni jednoga trenutka ne govoreći o sebi. To njena poezija govori umjesto nje. Svjetlošću mraka. Riječ urednika Sabahudin Hadžialić 26.12.2012. 
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The light of darkness
Calm and clear, like a purified river of own hopes, in front of us are openning a different horizons of the identical sky. Which we have not seen. From the fog of everyday life in the eyes. Our own. Kätlin Kaldmaa is the poet of momentum, of detail, and her strength is precisely within distinguishing of the simple truths. Focussing towards explanation, but also clarification of love and... death. Let us make a pause for a moment. And plant a tree. Of sincerity. That is what she does not for a moment speaking about herself. Poetry speaks instead of her. With the light of darkness. Editor's word Sabahudin Hadžialić 26.12.2012. |
between
we do not have each other languages
we do not know
what we have is something in-between
somewhere between the continent and the ocean
between us
beware
for stronger the between is oft than
link between
as i stare at someone talking to you in your language
you stare at someone talking to me in mine
and what we are in is loss
battle, sadly, lost in past
tristesse in bone, tristesse in flesh
tears out what’s left of heart
(not yours as you ain’t got one)
what’s left of one we’ve got between us
and we share it, we marvel at it, we try to cling to it,
this one little bundle,
heavy as lead
falling away between our fingers
as little streams of quicksilver would
this one little bundle
we have,
we know
this diamond of a while
Darkness of love
I
Between light and light
the atoms of darkness split,
taking over
ångström after ångström.
If you make holes into darkness, will the light protrude?
Is darkness the sieve of light? Does it purify the light?
Of darkness? Or light?
You say words in the dark become scarce.
Darkness, the great consumer, will ingest all sounds,
and keep to itself every wee little squeak. Therefore no sounds.
If you need to speak, come out. Come out and say it. Say it. Come out.
Come into the light and be brave. Into the broad daylight.
In the dark there are just dark soft touches,
hand by cheek by neck by calf by back by shoulder by blade
by the unimaginable by the untouchable, by body, by.
Can we take the sun back tomorrow?
Can we?
II
Mother Earth keeps light in her womb,
letting it out every now and then,
every Eyjafjallajökull and every St Agnes
is the perfect evidence of her intentions,
her power. She is the allmighty and undying.
We are temps,
we are temporary warriors of darkness and light,
meant to conciliate the two.
I'll wait for darkness,
for bleed, for blade, for bone.
For bleed, for blade, for bone.
I am light.
I am light.
And I will go to the great darkness.
III
We choose the kingdom,
we choose the day,
we choose the dark.
We enter the no man's land
where anything can happen.
Anything. Shame will leave.
Everything. What will come?
Give me the darkness under your fingers.
IV
The stream of dreams, one after the other.
Big ships, dead and free.
The darkness, the wind, the sea,
no you, no me.
We are nothing, and we are everything.
Death
When you die
I’ll plant a tree
I’ll plant a tree in front of your feet
I’ll plant a tree in between your fingers,
the four-branched apple tree,
and the four-branched pear tree
between the fingers of your other hand
I’ll plant a red maple tree above your head
And when I’m sad,
and yearning,
I’ll lay down on you,
red maple tree above my head
four-branched fruit trees
between my fingers
I’ll listen to earth and sky and I am the tree
And I’ll wait until
the tree softly sheds its leaves on me
as you, now and then
and the second and the third tree
drop pears and apples on me
as you, now and then
and I am and I’ll wait for you
as you never
And look,
then I’ll look at the almost-naked trees
and weep,
a little
geography of love
i have loved you in the palaces of Buda
and hamams of Pest,
i have loved you in wine cellars of Tokaj,
almost
getting married
to an uighur in Tállya
i have loved you head over heals in Keflavík
and in the bookshops of Reykjavík,
i have loved you under the cries of krías
and in the early morning herring smell of Sigló.
i have loved you when dumpsters were flying like seagulls
and men played football in 8-knot-wind
i have loved you in a country, green and abundant,
perfectly fit for dinosaurs,
i have loved you in Tokyo.
there is no Tokyo
for a very short day,
i have loved you in Helsinki.
that one was rather a fling
i have loved you in z,
the world capital of arab poetry and sleeplessness
i have loved you in Berlin,
o, i have loved you in Berlin,
for the world to come i have lit the now,
the fire turned red the whole district
briefly and fleetingly,
i have loved you in Stockholm, twice,
in between those two times,
i have loved you in Visby.
that was the sweet love of small town bourgeouis,
full of forget-me-nots, to the point of amnesia
rich, full of scampi, gelato and wine,
was the love i had for you in Bologna.
i nearly forgot you.
that’s Italy
for the week
that was shorter than seven days,
i have loved you in London.
the baby volcano was almost erupting.
we really wished that it would
passionately but not for the last time
I have loved you in Paris,
in the windy rooms
above the boulangerie & patisserie.
there i had to share you
with incredibly jealous and vicious
bedbugs
but most of all,
yes, most of all i have loved you in this town
wherefrom snow ever leaves,
whereto sun ever comes,
and where longing
is the most common feeling
The declaration of longing
How to recognize this longing?
It starts as a soft ticking in the left side of your chest,
then starts moving around your body as a wasp,
buzzing around in the lungs,
humming in your ears, flying in front of the eyes,
sending butterflies round and round your stomach,
until you're dizzy and pale.
How to live with this longing?
You make your brain remember every instant,
you make your eyes take pictures every blink,
you make your ears record each tiny sound,
you make your hands feel every touch anew,
you make your feet
walk every street & stone & road,
you take the longing,
send it wirelessly into the space,
and pray, it won't return.
How to express this longing?
Out of the million words of one language,
out of the billions, trillions, quadrillions words
of all the other languages,
it can only be said:
i you
Murder
Read my poems
rip them naked
with your big clumsy fingers
pluck away the pappus and poplar cotton,
stuck in thorns
tear them to pieces
so that the blood of my heart would seep
and leak through the thin walls
of my veins
hurt me
so that, grinding the teeth,
I should regrow my bones
and recreate my dermis, and sinews,
and the heart
kill me
that I could
be born again
in a word,
and rest
on the seventh day
the river of love
i wish i could stand at the beginning of the river with you
as i have once been standing
up, high, on the mountain,
by the blue water,
slowly trickling out of the translucent ice,
clean white snow,
and drink it,
cold as eternity
no youth to be gained,
only
patience,
worthy of
gods
Sonnet
Crammed into seconds, minutes and etcetera
these counted moments, worthy of all diamonds
(will somebody believe me if I say
to have remembered and dreamed
each one of them
before they chose to happen),
you take me off the coast, off all the Rivieras,
and offer queendom (not the one of bees)
of your inherent grounds.
I have not begged for thee (and yet I take you
as my own, an apple and a tree,
a garden plot,
the new reform of ways of old, infirmary), nor any key
out of these rooms. There are no eloquent
ways to explain the inner rhythm or gear
that hasten change. Behold! Reminds of quite
not of what your mother told of breaking
out of boundaries (or father, sister, brother,
anything is out of range
of this ‘quite not‘)
of burning flesh.
It is with hands and fingers of your rings,
new territ’ries will be rebuilt afresh,
before the time of temporary bliss
blends into terra cotta walls, amiss.
we do not have each other languages
we do not know
what we have is something in-between
somewhere between the continent and the ocean
between us
beware
for stronger the between is oft than
link between
as i stare at someone talking to you in your language
you stare at someone talking to me in mine
and what we are in is loss
battle, sadly, lost in past
tristesse in bone, tristesse in flesh
tears out what’s left of heart
(not yours as you ain’t got one)
what’s left of one we’ve got between us
and we share it, we marvel at it, we try to cling to it,
this one little bundle,
heavy as lead
falling away between our fingers
as little streams of quicksilver would
this one little bundle
we have,
we know
this diamond of a while
Darkness of love
I
Between light and light
the atoms of darkness split,
taking over
ångström after ångström.
If you make holes into darkness, will the light protrude?
Is darkness the sieve of light? Does it purify the light?
Of darkness? Or light?
You say words in the dark become scarce.
Darkness, the great consumer, will ingest all sounds,
and keep to itself every wee little squeak. Therefore no sounds.
If you need to speak, come out. Come out and say it. Say it. Come out.
Come into the light and be brave. Into the broad daylight.
In the dark there are just dark soft touches,
hand by cheek by neck by calf by back by shoulder by blade
by the unimaginable by the untouchable, by body, by.
Can we take the sun back tomorrow?
Can we?
II
Mother Earth keeps light in her womb,
letting it out every now and then,
every Eyjafjallajökull and every St Agnes
is the perfect evidence of her intentions,
her power. She is the allmighty and undying.
We are temps,
we are temporary warriors of darkness and light,
meant to conciliate the two.
I'll wait for darkness,
for bleed, for blade, for bone.
For bleed, for blade, for bone.
I am light.
I am light.
And I will go to the great darkness.
III
We choose the kingdom,
we choose the day,
we choose the dark.
We enter the no man's land
where anything can happen.
Anything. Shame will leave.
Everything. What will come?
Give me the darkness under your fingers.
IV
The stream of dreams, one after the other.
Big ships, dead and free.
The darkness, the wind, the sea,
no you, no me.
We are nothing, and we are everything.
Death
When you die
I’ll plant a tree
I’ll plant a tree in front of your feet
I’ll plant a tree in between your fingers,
the four-branched apple tree,
and the four-branched pear tree
between the fingers of your other hand
I’ll plant a red maple tree above your head
And when I’m sad,
and yearning,
I’ll lay down on you,
red maple tree above my head
four-branched fruit trees
between my fingers
I’ll listen to earth and sky and I am the tree
And I’ll wait until
the tree softly sheds its leaves on me
as you, now and then
and the second and the third tree
drop pears and apples on me
as you, now and then
and I am and I’ll wait for you
as you never
And look,
then I’ll look at the almost-naked trees
and weep,
a little
geography of love
i have loved you in the palaces of Buda
and hamams of Pest,
i have loved you in wine cellars of Tokaj,
almost
getting married
to an uighur in Tállya
i have loved you head over heals in Keflavík
and in the bookshops of Reykjavík,
i have loved you under the cries of krías
and in the early morning herring smell of Sigló.
i have loved you when dumpsters were flying like seagulls
and men played football in 8-knot-wind
i have loved you in a country, green and abundant,
perfectly fit for dinosaurs,
i have loved you in Tokyo.
there is no Tokyo
for a very short day,
i have loved you in Helsinki.
that one was rather a fling
i have loved you in z,
the world capital of arab poetry and sleeplessness
i have loved you in Berlin,
o, i have loved you in Berlin,
for the world to come i have lit the now,
the fire turned red the whole district
briefly and fleetingly,
i have loved you in Stockholm, twice,
in between those two times,
i have loved you in Visby.
that was the sweet love of small town bourgeouis,
full of forget-me-nots, to the point of amnesia
rich, full of scampi, gelato and wine,
was the love i had for you in Bologna.
i nearly forgot you.
that’s Italy
for the week
that was shorter than seven days,
i have loved you in London.
the baby volcano was almost erupting.
we really wished that it would
passionately but not for the last time
I have loved you in Paris,
in the windy rooms
above the boulangerie & patisserie.
there i had to share you
with incredibly jealous and vicious
bedbugs
but most of all,
yes, most of all i have loved you in this town
wherefrom snow ever leaves,
whereto sun ever comes,
and where longing
is the most common feeling
The declaration of longing
How to recognize this longing?
It starts as a soft ticking in the left side of your chest,
then starts moving around your body as a wasp,
buzzing around in the lungs,
humming in your ears, flying in front of the eyes,
sending butterflies round and round your stomach,
until you're dizzy and pale.
How to live with this longing?
You make your brain remember every instant,
you make your eyes take pictures every blink,
you make your ears record each tiny sound,
you make your hands feel every touch anew,
you make your feet
walk every street & stone & road,
you take the longing,
send it wirelessly into the space,
and pray, it won't return.
How to express this longing?
Out of the million words of one language,
out of the billions, trillions, quadrillions words
of all the other languages,
it can only be said:
i you
Murder
Read my poems
rip them naked
with your big clumsy fingers
pluck away the pappus and poplar cotton,
stuck in thorns
tear them to pieces
so that the blood of my heart would seep
and leak through the thin walls
of my veins
hurt me
so that, grinding the teeth,
I should regrow my bones
and recreate my dermis, and sinews,
and the heart
kill me
that I could
be born again
in a word,
and rest
on the seventh day
the river of love
i wish i could stand at the beginning of the river with you
as i have once been standing
up, high, on the mountain,
by the blue water,
slowly trickling out of the translucent ice,
clean white snow,
and drink it,
cold as eternity
no youth to be gained,
only
patience,
worthy of
gods
Sonnet
Crammed into seconds, minutes and etcetera
these counted moments, worthy of all diamonds
(will somebody believe me if I say
to have remembered and dreamed
each one of them
before they chose to happen),
you take me off the coast, off all the Rivieras,
and offer queendom (not the one of bees)
of your inherent grounds.
I have not begged for thee (and yet I take you
as my own, an apple and a tree,
a garden plot,
the new reform of ways of old, infirmary), nor any key
out of these rooms. There are no eloquent
ways to explain the inner rhythm or gear
that hasten change. Behold! Reminds of quite
not of what your mother told of breaking
out of boundaries (or father, sister, brother,
anything is out of range
of this ‘quite not‘)
of burning flesh.
It is with hands and fingers of your rings,
new territ’ries will be rebuilt afresh,
before the time of temporary bliss
blends into terra cotta walls, amiss.
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Kätlin Kaldmaa is participating poetess at III Poetry marathon,
Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina 21.3.2013.
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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
