Klaudiju Kormartin / Claudiu Komartin

Klaudiju Komartin rođen je 1983. u Bukureštu. Debitovao je knjigom poezije Lutkar i druge nesanice (2003, 2007), za koju je dobio najznačajnije nagrade za debi u Rumuniji, uključujući i Nacionalnu nagradu „Mihaj Eminesku” Opera Prima. Za knjigu Kućni cirkus (2005, objavljenu uz CD sa autorovim čitanjem) dobio je Nagradu Rumunske akademije za poeziju. Slede knjige Godišnje doba u Berčenju (2009, 2010) i kobalt (2013), kao i dvojezična antologija na rumunskom i nemačkom jeziku Und wir werden die Maschinen für uns weinen lassen / I pustićemo mašine da plaču umesto nas (Edition Korrespondenzen, Viena, 2012, prevod Georg Aescht).

Njegova poezija je prevedena i objavljena u časopisima i antologijama na engleskom, francuskom, holandskom, švedskom, poljskom, bugarskom, korejskom, japanskom, srpskom itd. Bio je učesnik brojnih književnih radionica i međunarodnih festivala u preko 20 zemalja Evrope i Azije.

Preveo je pet romana sa francuskog jezika i poeziju sa engleskog, francuskog i italijanskog jezika.

Od 2010. godine je glavni urednik časopisa „Poesis international” i Izdavačke kuće Max Blecher. Uredio je oko 50 knjiga poezije i antologija, a koautor je dve pozorišne predstave, postavljene 2008, odnosno 2010. godine.

Claudiu Komartin was born in Bucharest in 1983. His first poetry collection, “The Puppeteer And Other Insomnia” (2003, 2007) won the most prestigious awards for literary debut (among which “Mihai Eminescu” National Award). He also published “Domestic Circus” (2005), which was awarded The Romanian Academy Poetry Prize, “A Season in Berceni” (2009, 2010) and “Cobalt” (2013). He is also co-author of two plays and of three antologies of Romanian contemporary poetry.

A selection from his work was translated in German by Georg Aescht: Und wir werden die maschinen für uns weinen lassen (Ed. Korrespondenzen, Vienna, 2012).

His poetry was translated into more than 15 languages and he participated in numerous international poetry festivals, residencies, book fairs and workshops (London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Belgrade, Praga, Zagreb, Bruxelles, San Sebastian, Novi Sad, Sarajevo, Göteborg, Poznan, Druskininkai, Istanbul, Tel Aviv, Seoul).

Since 2010, Claudiu Komartin is editor-in-chief of “Poesis international” literary magazine and of “Max Blecher” Publishing House. He is also coordinating a popular reading club in Bucharest, called “Institutul Blecher”.

He translated literature from French, English and Italian (most notable: Matthew Sweeney, Pier Paolo Pasolini, JMG Le Clezio, Tahar Ben Jelloun, Philippe Claudel).

Poeme sa taticom

priča za Ruslana

***

Četiri je sata ujutru i tatica neprestano kašlje.

Već ga satima slušamo kako hrkče, bori se,

moli za još jedan gutljaj vazduha.

Nasitili smo se, iako ne onako kako bi pomislio,

ali niko ništa ne govori.

Četiri je sata i tatica ne da nikome da spava –

njegovo je telo mrtvački sanduk od mesa

u kom su crvi već započeli dugotrajni posao.

Baš tako, gospođice:

tatica je samo polutka ćelija u raspadanju,

džak kože u kom

bolest sve više uzima maha

a đavo buši sve dublje i dublje, iz glave do grudi

iz grudi do stomaka

sve dok se kost iz paleozoika ne čuje da pršti.

Njegovi bi sinovi viknuli neka ćuti ili neka crkne već jednom,

zabili bi kolac u njegovo veliko nekrotično srce,

ali tatica još uvek donosi hleb, i bilo bi šteta.

Čak iako mi znamo da je on džak pun gnoja i govana.

Ali onda bi, zaista, mama trebalo da ode

na rad u Španiju, kao njena rođaka Maša.

 

***

Tata sedi na kraj kreveta, skoro je potpuno modar

i viče da ga pustimo na miru. Držim mu glavu među rukama

i ptica prelete kroz prostoriju u pokušaju da pronađe izlaz.

Tata me udara njegovom grubom dlakavom rukom

i pada na krevet iznova jecajući: o vi tamo, koji nas posmatrate

kroz prljav prozor i kliberite se, kad bi samo znali...

gnoj iz grudi zahvatio mu je i glavu.

Ništa, ništa ga više ne može spasti.

Sedim i dokono ga posmatram

kako me gleda i vidi sebe –

sve bi dao da u sebi ima bar malo života

tek toliko da mi teškom i velikom pesnicom razbije lobanju.

Tata je bolestan, džabe mu mama donosi lavor.

Stomak mu brboće i jeca na njegovom vlažno-lepljivom jeziku:

tatica je bardak u koji neko duva kroz plastično

crevo u 5 ujutru.

The Poems With Pop

a tale for Ruslan

It’s four in the morning and pop can’t stop coughing.

We’ve been listening for hours as he squirms,

begging for extra mouthfuls of air.

We’re fed up, though not as you’d think,

but no one says a word.

It’s four in the morning and pop won’t let anybody sleep –

his body’s a coffin of flesh

in which the worms are already doing their long slow work.

Just that, miss :

pop’s just a corpse of decomposing cells,

a leather sack in which

little by little

affliction makes its way

and the demon digs ever deeper, from the head to the chest

from the chest to the gut

until you hear a Paleozoic bone crack.

His sons would yell at him just to shut up or somehow to die,

would drive a stake through his big rotted heart,

but pop still brings food to the table so it’d be a waste.

Even though we know he’s a sack full of puss and shit.

But then, really, mum would have to go &

work in Spain, like her cousin Masha.

* * *

Pop sits on the edge of the bed, he’s almost purple

and he bawls at us to leave him alone. I cup his head in my hands

and a bird flutters around the room looking for a way out.

Pop hits me with his rough, hairy hand

and falls back on the bed moaning again: oh, all of you, watching

through a dirty window, and giggling, if you only knew …

The rot in his chest has spread to his head.

Nothing, nothing can save him now.

I watch him in jest

watching me and seeing himself –

he’d give anything to have some life left

to crack my skull with his big heavy fist.

Pop’s ill, in vain does mum bring him the washbasin.

His guts gurgle and sigh in their sticky-humid tongue :

pop’s a tub in which someone blows air through a plastic

hose at five in the morning.