Short Poems
1
At the edge of the wood
A wolf in love
A doe looks him straight in the eyesA willow tree bows over you
Are you a river?Whenever it enters your mind
Kiss me
Keep on doing it until you die2
Words behind closed eyes
Tell me a story
A tell-tale of love
3
Stars decorate the sky
Fish liven up the sea
Flowers colour the grass
You make me more beautiful
Ifigenija Simonovic writes: I am a Slovene writer. I have lived in London
for more than twenty years. Eight books of my poetry have been published in Slovenia, one (translated) in Britain. I have written books for children. I translate from the English. I write short stories, and I write essays about theatre, art and literature in London for a Slovene review, Nova Revija and for the main daily paper, Delo.“Why don’t you write in English?”, I am asked over and over again.
Poetry is not about saying something well enough, it has to be said
perfectly. A poem is a thought expressed in a unique way. A poem’s
essence cannot be conveyed to other people unless the poem is quoted
in full. Poetry is not to be understood by the reader, but felt. I’m not only
referring to grammar and vocabulary. In poetry, old words acquire new
meanings and colour: they become dramatic, urgent.“Yes, yes”, one says to oneself after reading a really good poem.
“This is exactly how things are! Why didn’t I put it on paper? I felt it but
I couldn’t find the words.” The poet’s thoughts are recreated by the
reader. They somehow rise from the paper and find their place in the
reader’s mind, mixed with his or her own thoughts. Without gut feeling
for the language one cannot write poems, one can only write notes for
poems which might get written later, but probably never will.My first excuse for not writing in English is awareness that my
knowledge of the language is insufficient to express anything deeper
than everyday practicalities. I can read, I can even laugh at Shakespeare’s
jokes, I can wonder at the beauty of masterpieces in the English
language, but I still can’t say much more than others have told me
already. I feel like a cow. I chew on old grass. I eat garlic, but I would
like to smell of roses.My first reactions to whatever happens are Slovene – not only
verbally, but also emotionally, temperamentally. I feel I use my eyes, my
hands, differently. I gasp, exclaim, moan, lament differently than
English people do. I dream and think in the Slovenian language. I am
always translating, I never say anything straightforwardly in English,
unless it is really something simple.But then I began to come across a certain kind of writing, which at
first glance is simplicity personified. I didn’t need to look up any words
in a dictionary and to my mind this was a sure sign that the writing was
simple. But sometimes simplicity is needed in order to express something
complex. Then I can’t get the balance in English.I became aware of this when I started translating my own poems. I
thought I wrote clearly – after all the poems are not that sophisticated.
I don’t go in for hermeticism or abstraction. What I want is to find a new
form for a recognisable thought, so that something already known shall
surprise us afresh and show itself in a new light, making the reader think
again, contemplate his or her own feelings about something familiar. I
am not inventing the feelings, I am trying to achieve new awareness of
the well known ones. Love, desperation, longing, solitude – who am I to
think I am the first person on earth to feel them!This is how Anthony Rudolf became my co-translator. He couldn’t
understand my translations. “What do you mean by this?”, he would
ask. Poetry shouldn’t make one question separate words, everything
should stand firm, nothing should be replaceable. A poem is finished
when all is done, when nothing can be changed. Anything less amounts
to notes, bits of diaries, exercises in rhyming and rhythm. Translating
poetry means rewriting everything. I couldn’t do it alone.A further consideration has always been my feeling that there are so
many English writers, perhaps I have nothing much to add in my bad
English. Having someone to edit my work is a constant reminder that
I am not really adequate. On the other hand I do have things to say! I
am an individual regardless of the language I use and I have unique
experiences and, what is more, a very non-English point of view when
it comes to writing about art, theatre, life in London . . .I have recently translated into English a novel by a Slovene writer
Rudi Seligo. He writes about post-communism differently than anybody
from the West could have written. He has experienced it, he didn’t
just hear about it. He is not writing a study of the life of an intellectual
in an undeveloped, chaotic semi-democratic state – he is that intellectual
and he is writing about his own life. In such cases the subject matter is
paramount and a few language-hiccups can perhaps be overlooked.But I continue to do my own writing exclusively in the Slovenian
language. To Slovenes, my writing is interesting mostly because of the
content, not so much for the language and form. Those who live there
write better. I have forgotten many words, I do not know the latest
trends, slang, I can’t use foreign words as they do. Unconsciously I
introduce English syntax, so that my writing in Slovenian seems as odd
to the Slovenes as my English writing does to the English.I do not agonise about this stuff every day, of course not. I write
when I can, I go through my writer’s dead-ends as patiently as possible.
Being a writer is the same as being myself. I can’t change my nature, I
can’t change the way I write.
Translated by Anthony RudolphIfigenija Simonovic
Page(s) 256-258
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