Polina Kopylova


POLINAKopylova

Polina Kopylova on Pietarista kotoisin oleva kaksikielinen  ”sitoutumaton” runoilija, toimittaja, kääntäjä ja tulkki.

Polina tekee runoistaan myös suomenkielisiä versioita ilmaisun rajojen kokeilemiseksi. Venäjäksi Kopylovan runoja on ilmestynyt Venäjällä mm. Deti Ra ja Novyi Mir -aikakauslehdissä sekä Novyi vremennik Kamery hranenija -kokoelmassa, ja Suomessa Literarus -lehdessä. Suomeksi häneltä on ilmestynyt joitakin runoja Literaruksen suomenkielisessä versiossa ja Kirjailija -lehdessä.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

[РУССКИЙ]

 

METKU

Tunti ja kahdeksan minuuttia. Lyhyt lento — kuin kaupunkilomalle.

Hänen tapauksessa reiluun tuntiin mahtui myös paluumatka Volgan mutkalle.

Yhdeksi palkkioksi hän sai Volgan, siis auton, joka muistutti hiukan Chrisleria ja avaruusalusta, etenkin takakontin siivekkeet. Silloin oli tällaista muotia.

Avaruus kutsui takaisin turhaan — hän jumittui maalliseen maineeseensa, eikä voinut sille enää mitään. Muut lentelivät ohitse, kiertoradalle, avoimeen avaruuteen, jopa kuuhun.

Tosin, siitä hän ei elävänä ehtinyt iloita.

Kostoksi avaruuden pettämisestä hän sai turhan kuoleman ja ikuisuuteen.

Mitään ei enää pitänyt. Avaruus kutsui. Oli pakko mennä, vaikka jäljelle jäi itsestään pelkkä muisto.

Siellä ylhäällä oli hiljaista.

Alhaalta vähitelleen nousi leijumaan roska: satellitteja tuli ja hajosi, eikä kukaan siivonnut, radioaallot toivat pistävän terävää musiikkkia, vilkkuvia kuvia ja hämäriä numeroita, enemmän ja enemmän huminan asti, joten alkoi tehdä mieli lähteä kauemmas vaikka kuuhun.

Joskus hän tapasi muita hänen kaltaisiaan: ensin onnettomuuksiin, sittemmin vanhuuteensa menehtymeitä. He juttelivat harvoin. Hiukan enemmän sen opettajan kanssa, jonka oli tarkoitus pitää kiertoradalla tunnin. Kumpiki ikävöi lapsiaan — tyttäriä ja oppilaita.

Hän ikävöi myös avaruusraketteja. Niitä valkoisia pylväitä, jotka leikkasivat jännittynyttä ilmaa ja raivasivat liekeillä tietä tulevalle.
Hän ikävöi niitä, vaikka niitä nousikin tihenevään tahtiin, melkein kuin lentokoneita, tavallisen tapaan. Niiden sisällä oli lastia, satellittiroskaa ja jännittyneitä ihmisiä, jotka menivät pyörimään kiertorataa töiksi.

Lisäksi hän ikävöi isänmaataan, joka jäi ikuiseksi tulevaisuuteen, mihin ei enää ollut pääsyä eikä asiaa: todellisuus valitsi yksinmielisesti toisen tien ja jätti avaruuden vain niille, jotka pyörivät siellä työksi. Niin kuin pyörii muukin maailma ainakin siinä paikkoin, joissa ei ole sotaa…

Auto meni hiljaa, sen punaiset kylkeet loistivat auringonlaskussa, se muistutti kesästä, imelästä punaviinin tuoksusta, tuntemattoman naapuriseurun naurusta ja sitä sisältä kasvaavasta hiljaisesta ja lämpimästä varmuudesta, että ajan nopeus on ylitetty. Tulevaisuus on tässä ja nyt. Ratissa istui joku suojapuvussa, tumma lasi kasvojen päällä. Eikun pelkkä suojapuku. Nukke. Lelu. Se tuntui hieman väärältä, vaikka hauskaa olikin. Eikös voitu lähettää ihminen? Jopa hänhän aikoinaan kesti.

Sitten hän sai ajatuksen.

Hän lähestyi autoa ja vilkaisi ilkikurisesti ympärille: jospa joku huomaisi ja toruisi? Mutta ketään ei näkynyt. Sitten hän livahti pukuun ja sanoi tuttuun tapaan ”Поехали!”.

Ja vilkutti, tietenkin.

 

Tanya Tynjälä

TANYA2
Tanya Tynjälä (Perú) es una escritora de ciencia ficción y de fantasía, especializada en niños y adultos jóvenes que reside en Finlandia. Tiene una Maestría en francés como lengua extranjera. Además de libros para niños, Tanya ha publicado el libro de microficción SUM (2012) e (Ir) Realidades (2017). Su relato “El Ritual” (Rituaali) fue incluido en el libro Suomalaisia Saunanovelleja (2017, Aviador). También escribe un blog de viajes: Piedra que corre sí que coge moho y es editora en jefe en idioma español de la revista Amazing Stories.
Sivuvalo se siente muy honrado de publicar Ley cero y Como los unicornios traducidos por Marlon James Sales. No apagues la luz fue traducido por Tommi Tynjälä


 [English

LEY CERO

Recibir el premio Nobel solo agudizó su esquizofrenia.

Esa misma noche le confesó a Ajeeb (el único capaz de escucharlo sin juzgar) que vivir le hacía daño y se puso a llorar como un niño. Ajeeb no lo abrazó, pues pensó que su cuerpo de acero solo le causaría más frío al ya estremecido Genio.

La autopsia rezaba: “muerte por sobredosis de benzodiazepinum bio modificado”. Ajeeb se encargaba de administrárselo todas las noches. Era lo único que lograba mitigar el insomnio crónico del que sufría el Genio.

Cuando la fuerza del orden lo interrogó, Ajeeb solo dijo, lanzándoles su inexpresiva mirada y con esa voz calma y monótona que lo caracterizaba:

— ¿Acaso no se matan a los caballos?


NO APAGUES LA LUZ

Pedrito solo pide que no le apáguenla luz cuando va a dormir y se niega a dar explicaciones. Sus padres han tratado de todo, que se encomiende al ángel guardián, burlarse de él diciéndole que ya está grande, amenazarlo, psicoterapia. Nada parece dar resultado. El psicólogo no cree en un trauma. Aparte de ese detalle, Pedrito se ve muy relajado y feliz. El psicólogo aconseja a los preocupados padres que esperen, que seguro pasará con la edad.

Pedrito solo suspira y pide que no le apaguen la luz sin decir porqué. Sus padres no lo entenderían. Él no le teme a nada. Es ese tonto monstruo peludo que se esconde debajo de su cama quien le teme a la oscuridad. Si apagan la luz, él se mete de un salto bajo las mantas del pobre Pedrito. ¿Y quién quiere dormir con un monstruo tembloroso y llorón?


COMO LOS UNICORNIOS

La niña se asomó tímidamente, lo suficiente como para ver a la inmensa criatura observar un orificio en el frágil hielo. ¿Lo habría hecho ella? Acompañaban a la criatura dos iguales a ella pero más pequeños, sus crías supuso la niña.

La criatura esperaba paciente a que sucediera algo que la niña no lograba comprender. Sus crías daban vueltas alrededor, jugando por ratos a empujarse y morderse. La niña sonreía. De pronto uno de los pequeños levantó la cabeza y miró directamente hacia donde ella se escondía. Tuvo miedo, quiso huir, pero algo más fuerte que el temor – la curiosidad – la hizo mantenerse inmóvil, casi sin respirar. El pequeño se acercó, también curioso hacia ella. ¿Tendría también miedo? Una vez frente a frente él acercó su hocico – que ella imaginó muy frío- olisqueándola. La niña pudo observar sus ojillos negros y su pelaje blanco como la nieve alrededor. Ella pensó que jamás había visto algo tan hermoso y deseó poder tocarlo.

La criatura lanzó un rugido que hizo estremecer a la niña. El pequeño se dirigió trotando hacia su madre.

La niña corrió lo más que sus pequeñas piernas le permitieron. Al llegar a la escotilla de su refugio, puso fervorosa la palma de su mano enguantada sobre ella. La escotilla la reconoció y la dejó entrar. Ni siquiera se detuvo en la cámara descontaminante. La computadora le lanzó una advertencia. Ella no podía esperar, tenía que contárselo a todos. Su familia se encontraba tomando sus alimentos vespertinos. Todos voltearon a verla. Apenas si logró quitarse la escafandra.

—¡Vi un oso polar! ¡Vi un oso polar!—Gritó emocionada.

Su madre quiso reprenderla por entrar con el traje, lleno de sabe dios qué radiaciones externas, pero ante su inocencia solo pudo sonreír. Sus hermanos mayores fueron los que empezaron a burlarse de ella.

—¡Todos saben que los osos polares no existen! ¡Pronto vas a ver fantasmas!

 

 

Saad Hadi

SAADHadi

[Suomeksi]  [عربي]

 

Matryoshka

She opened the plastic bag, not larger than a fist, and emptied the powder in a small glass bowl, then poured a cup of water over it and continued to stir the mixture until it dissolved. She did not need to read the instructions on the bag again. The process was easy – like preparing a cup of tea or coffee, or mixing a glass of juice. After the mixture started clotting, she would add a few drops of liquid from a small bottle that she got with the plastic bag, and keep stirring it. She would then have to put the bowl in the refrigerator for ten hours, after which she would find a small man in it. This strange creature should be carefully lifted, washed under the kitchen faucet, and dried. She would then have to take the creature to the bedroom, gently place it on the edge of a pillow, switch off all the lights, close the door and stay out. After a few hours, she would find, on her bed, a perfect man in the specifications she selected before.

Today she would try to do the things she normally did. She carried out the procedure, the steps of which she already knew by heart, and sat on the kitchen chair closest to the bedroom. It was ten in the morning now. The man would be ready in his first form at eight p.m., after which she should get him from the refrigerator and take to the bedroom. At dawn or soon after, she would receive from him a first touch, a first kiss, or maybe more, if the mixture was of good quality. Yet, she remembered that, because of her financial situation, the powder she had bought was average.

The previous weekend, she had gone to her favourite bar and inserted coins in a machine one by one. She was soon displayed options, which, however, were not the options she had expected, but much less. She was not able to select the skin color, height, chest circumference, weight, the penis size or erection period. She made the selections that were available: black color for the eyes, short toenails, medium stature, curly hair, normal sweat smell, copper skin, thick hair in the chest and the pubic area. Then she pressed ok. In a short while, a milky powder poured down from a tank at the top of the machine. She saw small, blue, green and violet pellets in it. The powder fell into a plastic bag that was lifted by a metal lever and placed in a small cardboard box. The same lever pulled out a small bottle from the back of the machine and inserted it in the box. The box was then closed and pushed out from a slot in the bottom of the machine’s glass cover, behind which the woman witnessed everything.

She made a cup of tea, smoked a cigarette and opened the radio. There was a story about a plane crash somewhere, a story about a calf born with three heads and a news story about the theft of a statue. When she changed the station, she heard strange music. What should she do then? She closed the radio, went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet seat. She took off her clothes, bathed, walked to her bedroom naked, and lay down on the bed. She then put on her best clothes, sprayed on perfume, took her umbrella and went out.

She did not really know where to go, so first, she entered a super market, wandered its floors, then called one of her friends from a public telephone, but the line rang with no replay. For a while, she sat on a bench in a bus stop next to a small garden, and watched the leaves fall around her, as the autumn wind carried them from one place to another. Time went slow, so she went to her favorite bar, and sat alone in a dark corner. There was a mirror in front of her. She looked at her pale face while slowly sipping a glass of beer with lemon; her gray hair, her withered eyes behind dark glasses, her slender neck hidden in a collar of an old pink shirt. She turned and saw the machine from which she got the man powder few days ago. She wondered to herself how happy were the women who could go to the machine at any time, who just put the money in and chose a man in the specifications they wished, and did with him whatever they desired. Then, when his body became weak and started to wilt, they put it in a garbage bag for disposal, or put it in the refrigerator with the hope that he might resurrect again, or mummify the small corpse inside matryoshka box forever.

She asked for another glass of beer. The old waiter carried it to her and said some words; she either didn’t pay attention to them or she didn’t hear them. When the waiter left, she asked herself if the man had perhaps tried to flirt with her or simply ask her something. Not that there was anything wrong with that; he would do that with all lonely women. When the man opened an old voice recorder beside him and chose a song that she loved, she looked at him and smiled gratefully. A man and a woman entered the bar and sat on the other side. After a while, they were followed by two women and man, who sat near the machine’s glass cover. She could not help thinking that she really needed somebody to talk to. It did not matter what she would say, she simply wanted to open her lips and stir her tongue and say things. Would she be able to come here with her creature tomorrow? Would she sit with him in one of the corners, allow him to talk and listen, or talk and force him to listen; would his body, with its weak specifications, resist until tomorrow or would it crumble and fade? She would try to not to exhaust him so much. What about the man who was sitting on the other side of the bar? Was he able to satisfy the wishes of the woman sitting in front of him, no matter how wild or strange? Was he real or just a temporary creature she had made with her own hands? In any case, he had what women like: he was handsome, elegant with charming black eyes. But how is the tone of his voice? Was it strong or soft? She could not hear those tones, as he was speaking in a low voice while bend on the table all the time. She tried to draw his attention, but he did not look to her. Nothing in her shape drew other people’s attention. She was the remains of a woman or, rather, the shades of these remains.

She emptied her glass and went out. While she looked in the eyes of men who passed her, she continued to imagine the shape of the creature she would have tonight; the man who was created by her own hands, who cost her months’ savings. She was not intoxicated; she simply walked in remote streets to pass the time. When she arrived home, she looked at the clock. Only a half an hour, maybe less, separated her from her date. She changed her clothes and went to the kitchen, looked outside through the window. The street was dark. Shades of hasty people passed on the sidewalk. She opened a bottle of wine and poured a small glass, taking short sips as she looked anxiously at the clock. Exactly at eight, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out the glass bowl. As she put the bowl on the table, she saw a small creature, the size of a mouse, lying at the bottom, covered in thick, dark liquid. She felt a sense of humiliation as she looked at this strange body. Was this a sin? How could she deal with such a creature after all those long years of loneliness? How would she deal with him outside the bed? How would he behave with her? How could she explain his existence, his emergence from nothing? Should she invent a history for him? What does history mean to a temporary object? An amorphous creature lying inside a bowl, opening his legs with a pin-line protrusion between them, his belly inflated, his curly-haired head resting on his chest, smeared by thick liquid.

She took the bowl to her bedroom, put the creature on the pillow and turned off the light. She returned to gulp her wine slowly and continued her mad bodily dreams. She would do such and such with him, would bend into the positions she had dreamed of for years, whisper in his ear the wild words she had never pronounced before, lick drops of sweat off his neck, move her tongue over his arms, rub her nose on the hair of his chest. She would let him do what he wanted; he might have wild desires, too. Desires that started from nil and reached climax within minutes, as written in the instructions on the box cover; the woman should only know how to stir the creature’s instincts. These dreams took her far away, to wander in dark forests, going into unprecedented depths, flying with small angels, each with more than one face.

After the wine glass became empty, there was no point pouring another, since she did not want to be drunk. After reaching the edge of her lust, no more wine was needed. For a few minutes, she stood near the balcony door, breathed fresh air, then reeled to the bedroom. For a moment, she waited in front of the mirror, put drops of perfume behind her ears and lipstick on her lips. Then she took off her clothes, put on a short nightgown and lay on the bed. She tried to comprehend the mysterious lump that lay beside her. Was it real or imaginary? Had she carried out the steps correctly? What if she had made a mistake, what would happen then? Would the man turn to ashes or into a monster? Who knew? Questions were pointless now; she would discover everything when she woke up.

The man opened his eyes, not knowing where he was. He tried to remember where he had come from or when, but couldn’t. His whole memory was muddled. He only knew that he was in a dark room, laying on a narrow bed and that there was a mysterious body beside him, breathing in with loud, squeaky breaths. He removed the sheet that covered him and sat on the edge of the bed. He stretched out his hand, found a matchbox, opened it and stroke one of the matches. In the faint glow of light, he saw a woman’s face; it was wrinkled, stained with dyes, with white tufts covering the forehead. It looked like a block of wax melted over the pillowcase. The man got up, opened the door and went to the kitchen. It all felt like coming out from a long nightmare, in which his body was passed in endless tubes and dissolved into glass balls that kept changing their colors as the body continued to break down and dissolve. In the dark, the sequenced tubes carried microscopic objects that looked exactly like him.

He found a bottle and a glass on the table in the middle of the kitchen, poured some wine and drank it quickly, which soon relaxed him. The kitchen was clean and tidy but there was a strange smell coming from somewhere, similar to that of rotten food. After a while, he discovered that the smell came from a cardboard box on the table. On the cover of the box, he saw a picture of a naked man, a lookalike, with words written in a language he could not understand. He wanted to eat something, so he opened a wooden cupboard at his side, and found glass cans, each of them with a female head. When he opened the first can, he found a smaller one, then another smaller one, and so on, down to nothing. The same happened with the other cans. In another cupboard, he found cans with male heads with large, open eyes. He continued to open them one by one, but he did not find anything. In the refrigerator he found colorful flasks and rectangular bowls, with small creatures laying in them, surrounded by liquid that looked like coagulated blood.

He went to the balcony and stayed there for a few minutes. There was no one on the street, only trees that looked like a giant black heads. He realized he was alone and didn’t know what to do. He returned to the bedroom and switched on the light. On the bed, he found a small body, the size of a doll; yet it looked like the body of the woman he had seen when he woke up. He lifted the body carefully. It was covered in a viscous liquid that smelled just like the cardboard box in the kitchen. He went to the kitchen again, put the body in a white rectangular bowl on the table and sat in front it. After a while, he asked himself: was it possible to eat a body like this? Outside, the rustling of the trees carried on and turned into a sorrowful sob.

_______

Saad Hadi is an Iraqi writer Born in Baghdad in 1956. He has worked as a journalist since 1975 and holds a Master’s Degree in Art History from the College of Fine Arts, University of Baghdad. He has issued six books in Arabic: four novels and two collections of stories. Currently, he lives in Espoo, Finland.
Translation into English: Saad Hadi and Anne Ketola

 

Zoila Forss

ZoilaForss2

 

Zoila Forss
Unpublished poems
Translations: Anne Ketola


[Suomeksi  [Español]

 

Noughts and crosses

 

You, father,
who are everywhere but stand nowhere,
I tie your gaze
to this three by three board.
Three of paper by three of ink.
Let’s play forgiveness.

Today there’s no escape.
The aurora is a boomerang
that ran away from us yesterday,
and arrives to my fist
when the bet with the sun has been won.

May the edge of this journal be the grid.
May the nine boxes receive
the hoops of your willfulness
and the crosses of my loneliness.

We play forgiveness,
the one that weighs in my pocket,
the one that annoys in your shoe.
Two dimensions with a taste of old paper
won’t define the end of the game.

.Be the surviving wheat ear
under the effervescent rain.
I will be the flower of verbena
in the revenge of the sun.
I tell you,
oblivion’s magma
cannot melt us.

Father,
the house sings being free without being it
and I plow its chest
to make room to a seed
not yet named.

Three by three board,
a circle for a cross.
Smoke rings escape from your mouth
and the windmill of my index catches them.
Ink and paper
without truce or excuse.


 

Perhaps it’s the same

Linked by love,
bound by hate.
Sailor of mine,
you strand or rise up.
Perhaps it’s the same.

Caramelized blindness,
delicious deafness.
Asthmatic life blows,
Unknown death scorches.
Perhaps it’s the same.

Tied to be untied,
dead of love in the same grave.
With no headstone, but with memory.
Born on all fours or hustled out.
Perhaps it’s the same.

I’ve swiped off the shore from you,
and out of envy
I steal all the hidden sand from your feet.
And out of apathy
I let your torso go cold.
Perhaps it’s the same.

We are an interrupted concert.
Sitar and violin, guitar and cajon,
isolated by the contempt,
united by the excuse.
Perhaps it’s the same.

We are an interrupted agenda
under an unknown regiment.
It was my turn to be the absent ocean,
it was your turn to be the lost sailor.
Perhaps is the same.

I am a sea dying of love in your shut mouth.
And its white soldiers invade me,
they stain my roar,
they discolor your moan.
Perhaps it’s the same.

Onion’s brine,
your cascade of knifes
has opened my eyes,
and has fenced yours with wire.
Perhaps it’s the same.

Zoila Forss

ZoilaForss2

 

Zoila Forss (Perú – Finlandia)
Poemas inéditos

Estos dos poemas forman parte de mi segunda colección de poesía. Nacieron en español sin especial intención de ser traducidos. Sin embargo, el ambiente y la etapa fuertemente multilingüe en los que me deselvuelvo me llevaron a hacerlo.

Para lograr la versión al finés tuve que “reescribir” los textos, recitarlos, cantarlos y sumergirme en la gramática del finés. Esta última tarea junto a mi esposo y corrector. Decidir entre las tantas alternativas y gozar de la nueva estructura que el finés me ofrecía fueron clave.

La versión al inglés la confié a Anne Ketola, quien pudo basarse en las versiones finés y español. Gracias a sus acertados comentarios y decisiones, el segundo poemario trilingüe quedó felizmente cerrado.

 


[Suomeksi]   [English]

 

Tres en raya

 

Padre,
que estás en todo lugar sin pisar alguno,
ato tu mirada
a este tablero de tres por tres.
Tres de papel por tres de tinta.
Juguémonos el perdón.

Hoy no hay fuga.
La aurora es el bumerán
que se nos escapó ayer,
y a mi puño llega
al ganarle al sol la apuesta.

El filo de este diario sirva de cuadrilátero.
Las nueve cajas reciban
los aros de tu voluntad
y las aspas de mi soledad.

Nos jugamos el perdón,
aquel que me pesa en el bolsillo,
aquel que te estorba en el zapato.
Dos dimensiones con sabor a papel viejo
no marcarán el fin del juego.

Sé la sobreviviente espiga
en la efervescente lluvia.
Seré la flor de verbena
en la venganza del sol.
Ya te digo,
el magma del olvido
no sabe derretirnos.

Padre,
la casa canta ser libre sin serlo
y le aro el pecho
para hacerle lugar a una semilla
todavía sin nombre.

Tablero de tres por tres,
un círculo por un aspa.
Los aros de humo se escapan de tu boca
y el molino de mi índice los atrapa.
Tinta y papel
sin tregua ni excusa.


 

Acaso es lo mismo

 

Engarzados por amor,
engranados por odio.
Marinero mío,
encallas o remontas.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Acaramelada ceguera,
exquisita sordera.
Sopla la asmática vida,
calcina la muerte incógnita.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Anudados para ser desanudados,
muertos de amor en la misma tumba.
Sin lápida, pero con memoria.
Paridos a gatas o a empellones.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Te he quitado la orilla de un manotazo,
y por envidia
a tus pies les robo toda la arena escondida.
Y por apatía
a tu torso dejo ir frío.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Somos un concierto interrumpido.
Sitar y violín, guitarra y cajón,
aislados por la displicencia,
unidos por la excusa.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Somos una agenda interrumpida
bajo un regimiento desconocido.
Me tocó ser el océano ausente,
te tocó ser el marinero perdido.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Soy un mar muerto de amor en tu boca cerrada.
Y me invaden sus soldados blancos,
ensucian mi rugido,
destiñen tu gemido.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Salmuera de cebolla,
tu catarata de navajas
me ha abierto los ojos,
y ha alambrado los tuyos.
Acaso es lo mismo.

Mohsen Emadi

18834701_10211589386283844_806968876_n

Mohsen Emadi
Traducción: Clara Janés


[Suomeksi]    [English]

El poema

I

Las palabras son el cementerio de las cosas.
El trote de un caballo en estas líneas
es un sonido que no oía desde mi infancia.
Durante mi adolescencia tu risa se marchitó.
Escribo
como si peregrinara a la ciudad de los muertos.
Si el tiempo pudiera dar marcha atrás,
los murmullos de mi padre resonarían
en los oídos de este texto, el sonido de una bala
estorbaría el sueño de estas líneas
y un poema de crin salvaje marcaría el paso
en una habitación cerrada durante años.
Las palabras se han colocado a lo largo de las descoloridas líneas de una casa:
aquí está la ventana,
más allá de la ventana, un patio. Nadie sabe
qué pesadilla despierta el poema. Ve
a veces, en la ventana, la mirada de la novia del vecino,
a veces el columpio y la bicicleta,
o el muro con sus dibujos inocuos.
Los contempla
hasta que cobran vida.
Sólo entonces, inhalando y exhalando cosas vivas
vuelve a dormirse.

II

Hace años que los murmullos de mi padre
se perdieron en el texto del sueño
y el poema encendió tres mil velas,
modeló tres mil barcos de papel
y los ofreció todos al mar.
Ahora que ya he hecho las maletas
y espero el primer tren
que no me devolverá a este lugar,
el poema monta en bicicleta;
temblando y con precipitación
pedalea sobre baches y charcos,
toca el timbre de una puerta,
contempla los susurros y los sollozos
temiendo que le oigan.
Pero los susurros suenan tan alto
que es imposible oír el pitido de un tren.
Estoy todavía en la estación
y el poema en Khavaran
protege a los muertos de estos años pasados
de la mirada de los guardias.

III

Hace un año
el poema se coló por una alambrada
donde los soldados patrullaban por las colinas de tu pecho,
robó tus labios,
tus manos;
y te recreó pieza a pieza.
Este año, los soldados apenas vigilaban:
tu cuerpo robado ya hace tiempo.
En la estación
mi banco lo ocupa un muerto
cuyo nombre el poema desconoce.
(tampoco aprendería el tuyo.)
Balas y sangre caliente
encuentran su camino en estas líneas—
no hay papel que pueda detener este desangrarse.
La estación está repleta de pasajeros que están muertos.
Los pelotones de ejecución
y las sogas
no esperan ningún tren.
A regañadientes, los enterradores
tocan los timbres de tres mil casas.
Tres mil bicicletas abandonadas
están esparcidas por los callejones.

IV

El poema no está parado ante un pelotón de ejecución.
Tampoco el pelotón de ejecución,
en el poema, sabe hacia dónde tiene que apuntar.
Ellos sólo han subido el precio de los servicios básicos,
el alquiler, y los gastos del entierro.
No puedo comprar cigarrillos para tres mil muertos
pero puedo devolverles la vida.
No quiero que el poema
los devuelva a un cementerio
que ha dejado de existir,
sólo quiero recordar
que todas las bicicletas abandonadas se han estropeado ya,
que nadie volverá nunca a escuchar el sonido de sus timbres.
Los muertos se quedarán en la estación
y si el poema puede asegurar un billete para cada lector
se lo enviará en el primer tren de ida.
En mi país
es normal tres mil muertos en una estación.
Tres mil muertos en un tren es normal.

V

En las estaciones de frontera
ellos arrestan nuestras lenguas.
Nuestras palabras se estropean cuando cruzan esa línea.
Yo me suelto de tus manos fuera de la estación,
el pitido del tren apresura mis palabras.
Las palabras han ocupado todas las cabinas,
tienen tres mil pesadillas.
Mis palabras son jóvenes,
apenas tienen treinta años,
pero se han ido acumulando
capa a capa
bajo este uniforme de preso.
El amarillo no fue el color de mis zapatos del colegio,
tampoco era rojo el color de mi hucha
ni azul el color de mi primera bicicleta.
Las palabras han crecido con los colores de tu uniforme;
eran una manada de caballos huyendo
un arco iris que tú arrancarías
y enviarías con una larga curva por los aires
haciéndolo caer en la suciedad y el barro,
en las esposas, en la oscuridad y en la orden de disparo.

VI

No estoy en esta larga fila esperando pan y leche.
Estoy aquí para entregar mi lengua
Todo lo que atraviesa la frontera pierde peso.
Estoy aquí para ser traducido.
Una bicicleta recorre mis fronteras
por baches y charcos.
El poema tiene en cuenta conjunciones y preposiciones,
la distancia entre yo y yo,
mi a-ante-cabe-con-contra mi.
Llueve
sobre conjunciones y preposiciones,
sobre las relaciones.
En la lluvia
la distancia entre nosotros se amplía,
y a esta distancia, Khavaran se va ensanchando.

VII

En mi lengua
cada vez que nos callamos de repente,
nace un policía.
En mi lengua,
detrás de cada bicicleta asustada
se sientan tres mil palabras muertas.
En mi lengua
la gente murmura confesiones,
va vestida de susurros negros,
se la entierra
en silencio.
Mi lengua es silencio.

¿Quién traducirá mi silencio?

¿Cómo voy a cruzar esta frontera?

 

  • Khavaran es una localidad al sudeste de Teherán, fue un cementerio Bahai usado para enterrar a los prisioneros de conciencia asesinados en la ejecución en masa de 1988. Fue demolido por el gobierno iraní en enero de 2009.

Mohsen Emadi

18834701_10211589386283844_806968876_n

Mohsen Emadi
Translation: Lyn Coffin


[Suomeksi]   [Español]

The Poem

I

Words are the burial ground of things.
The sound of the horse galloping in these lines
is a sound I haven’t heard since childhood.
And your laughter decayed in my adolescence.
I write
as if on a pilgrimage to the city of the dead.
If by chance time travels backward,
the murmurs of my father
resound in the ear of the text,
and the voice of a bullet disturbs the dream of the lines,
and the poem with mussed up hair
walks around a room decaying for years.
Words are scattered on the faded blueprint of a house.
Here is the window.
Outside the window is the courtyard. Nobody knows
which nightmare awakens a poem.
Sometimes the window and the secret glance of a neighbor’s bride.
Sometimes the swing and the bicycle,
or the wall with all its cheap paintings.
It looks at them hard in order to become alive
and in the space between the inhalation and the
exhalation
of living things
it goes back to sleep.

II
Years ago, the murmurs of my father
got lost in the dream of a text
and the poem lit three thousand candles,
made three thousand paper boats,
and gave them all to the ocean.
Now that I’ve packed my bags
and am waiting for the first train
that won’t bring me back,
the poem is riding a bicycle.
Trembling, rushing headlong,
it pedals over potholes and through puddles,
rings a doorbell, stares at whispers
and moans, afraid of being heard.
In the ear of the text, the whispers are so loud
that it’s impossible to hear the whistle of a train.
I am still in the station
and the poem in Khavaran
pushes people who’ve been dead for years
out of eyesight of the guards.

III
A year ago
the poem slipped through a gap in barbed wire
where the soldiers stood guard on the hills of your breasts.
It stole your lips
and it stole your hands,
in order to recreate your body.
This year, the soldiers stand guard on the edge of nothingness: your body has been stolen.
In the station,
a dead person is in my seat,
whose name the poem doesn’t know.
(It can’t learn your name, either.)
The bullet and warm blood
sink into the lines.
No paper can stop the bleeding.
The station is full of travelers, all dead.
The firing squads
and hanging ropes
aren’t waiting for a train.
The murmur of the gravediggers
rings the doorbell of three thousand houses.
Three thousand bicycles are abandoned
in the alleys.

IV
No poem ever stood in front of a firing squad.
And the firing squad
does not know at which part of the poem it must aim.
It just increases the price of water and electricity,
rent, and the cost of being buried.
I cannot buy cigarettes for three thousand dead,
but I can make them all alive.
I don’t want to force the poem
to return them to a cemetery
that no longer exists.
I just want to remind the poem
that nobody will listen to the repeated ringing of the doorbell,
and all the abandoned bicycles have decayed.
They will stay at the station.
And if the poem can take a ticket from each reader, it will put them on the first one-way train.
In my homeland,
three thousand dead in a station is natural,
three thousand dead on a train is natural.

V
At checkpoint stations,
they detain our language.
Our words decay when passing that border.
I let go of your hands outside the station,
the whistle of the train flusters my words.
Words occupy all the compartments.
They have thousand-year-old nightmares.
My words are young,
just thirty years old.
But under these prison clothes,
layer upon layer,
they keep accumulating.
Yellow is not the color of my first school shoes.
Red, not the color of my piggy bank,
blue, not the color of my first bicycle.
The words ripened with the colors of your skirt.
They were a herd of weeping horses,
a rainbow you were taking off
to send arcing through the air,
falling into mud
and handcuffs, darkness, and the command, Fire!

VI
I’m not standing in this long line for bread and milk.
I’m standing here to turn over my language.
Everything gets lighter when it crosses the border.
I’m standing here to be translated.
A bicycle patrols my borders,
pedaling over potholes and through puddles.
The poem gazes at conjunctions and prepositions,
in the distance between I and I,
I to from on I.
It’s raining
on conjunctions and prepositions,
on relations.
In the rain,
I distance myself from you.
And Khavaran, in the distance between me and you,
expands.

VII
In my language
every time everybody suddenly falls silent,
a policeman is born.
In my language
on the back of each frightened bicycle,
three thousand dead words are sitting.
In my language,
in murmurs, they make confessions,
in whispers, they wear black,
in silence,
they get buried.
My language is silence.

Who will translate my silence?

How can I cross this border?

 

  • Khavaran is a town located at the southeast of Tehran, where there was Bahai, a cemetery used to bury prisoners of conscience murdered in the 1988 mass execution. It was demolished by the Iranian government in January 2009.

FUTURIBLE: Poetry from another present era | 26.8. 2016 | Runokuu Literature Festival

Futurible
Ahmed Zaidan
Ahmed Zaidan
Elizabeth Torres
Elizabeth Torres
Nyein Chan Aung
Maung Nyein Chan
Moritz Cartheuser
Moritz Cartheuser
none
26.8 klo 21:30 | Gloria Kulttuuriareena
[ Pieni Roobertinkatu 12, Helsinki ]

Facebook Event


What happens when literature breaks time and space? Futurible: Literature from another present era invites on stage local poets, international poets and poets from the non-place.

Invited authors: Ahmed Zaidan (Iraq), Elizabeth Torres (Colombia) and Maung Nyein Chan (Burma) | Music: Moritz Cartheuser (Germany) | Photography and Video: Jaime Culebro (Mexico) | Edition: Stephany Mazon (Mexico) | Sound/narrative: Alejandro Olarte (Colombia).

ABOUT THE POETS:

Maung Nyein Chan (Pathein, Myanmar, 1987) is a Burmese poet, columnist and human rights activist based in Finland. In 1996, Maung became a former soldier of the student army at the age of 18 and was imprisoned time later.

He arrived at Finland in the end of 2000 and, since then, Maung has worked as a translator and caretaker, currently studying practical nursing. As a writer, Maung Nyein has published poetry and articles in several magazines in Burma for more than a decade. He is currently residing in Kuopio.

Elizabeth Torres (Bogotá, Colombia, 1987) is a poet and multi-media artist. Elizabeth is director of Red Door Magazine and co-director of Red Door Gallery in Copenhagen.

She was recipient of the National Poetry Award ‘Best book of poetry of the year’ by the Colombian Book Chamber, winner of the Spirits in the Words poetry contest by Daimler Chrysler and, previously, Poet in Residence at Kean University where she studied Media & Film.

Elizabeth is the author of 20 published works and she is currently working on the poetry selections ‘To enter and exit through the memory of the living’ and ‘Bodies of Water‘. Her most recent book, “ATEMPORAL”, is a bilingual selection of poetry (Spanish-English) that was published in NY in 2015 and has been presented in the US and in Denmark.

Ahmed Zaidan is an Iraqi poet and journalist from the city of Mosul in Northern Iraq. Graduated from the collage of arts, department of translation, in Mosul University, his first poetry collection ‘Play on strings of female‘ was published in 2009 in Baghdad.

Ahmed was awarded for two times with a literary price from Mosul University and his poetry and articles has been published in different newspapers and websites in Iraq. At the end of 2009, he joined the media industry working as a journalism and host for literary shows in national TV, interviewing a lot of poets and writers from the Arabic world.

In 2013, he moved to Finland for political reasons and is currently living in Turku. Since then, Ahmed has been working in organizations as an activist in human rights, and conducts a radio show in Arabic for radio Robin Hood.

MUSIC:

Moritz Cartheuser is a German guitarist and improviser who bases his music on its potential to interact in terms of dialogue and monologue with the audience as well as with cooperators. He studied at the Jazz-Institut-Berlin with such great musicians as Kurt Rosenwinkel and John Hollenbeck. He has worked as a musician and composer in several projects of different genres, including dance and film.

The night atmosphere includes audio-visual material leaded by Jaime Culebro (MX), Stephany Mazon (MX) and Alejandro Olarte (COL). Who’s the host? Discover all the possible futures inside the wonderful Gloria Theater.

Futurible is organized by Sivuvalo Project for the Runokuu international poetry festival.

FR33MHZ: Mutanttikieltä Electro Poetry Night – 18.3.2016

Mutanttikieltä_FR33MHZ

 

Bosse Hellsten
Bosse Hellsten
Diana Mistera
Diana Mistera
Hamdam Zakirov
Hamdam Zakirov
Anirsur Rahman
Anirsur Rahman
Manal Al-Sheikh
Manal Al-Sheikh

none

Mazen Maarouf
Mazen Maarouf
Harri Hertell
Harri Hertell
Inger-Mari Aikio
Inger-Mari Aikio
David Kozma
David Kozma
Romulus Chiciuc
Romulus Chiciuc

Join Matkalla Pohjolaan

 

 

 

 

 

FR33MHz: Mutanttikieltä Electro Poetry Night
18.3.2016
hr.19.00

Auditorium Caisa Cultural Centre
[Mikonkatu 17 C / Vuorikatu 14, Helsinki]
Free entry

FR33MHz – MUTANTTIKIELTÄ is an Electro-Poetry Night where freedom and human rights are more current than ever before. The political changes in Finland as well as the financial and humanitarian crises are pushing people to the extremes. So we have to stick together and not let hatred, violence and extremism win. Language itself might be our best ally. The event will focused on transcultural and multilingual poets and writers living in the Nordic countries and writing in their mother tongue.

FR33MHz is an original project developed by David Kozma, Romulus Chiciuc and the European theatre collective created in 2012. It represents a tribute to freedom of speech using the radio signal as a tool to connect people.

MUTANTTIKIELTÄ is an experimental language program created by Sivuvalo project in 2015. It looks to acknowledged the problematic of literary translation as a core subject for writers in times of Diaspora: The right to be listened, the right to be read. Which will be the literary corpus in the following decades, in which languages?

Languages: Arabic, Russian, Italian, Bengali, Sami, Finnish, Swedish and English.

 

POEMS and texts will be performed by:

Mazen Maarouf is a Palestinian-Icelandic writer, poet, translator and journalist. He has       recently published his first short story collection titled Jokes for the Gunmen (2015) that received positive feebacks over the Middle East. He lives between Reykjavik and Beirut.

Manal Al-Sheikh. Born in Iraq. She has published poetry and narrative works- Typo- Love File is her last poetry collection published in 2015. She currently resides in Stavanger, Norway.

Anisur Rahman is from Bangladesh. Anisur had a pioneer role in founding the Literary Centre in Uppsala. His debut collection of poems is Empty Glass, 2003. He currently lives in Uppsala.

Hamdam Zakirov. Poet, born in Uzbekistan and moved to Finland at 2001. Zakirov new poetry collection will be published by NLO a prestigious publishing house in Russia. A book of translations of his poems in Finnish will be published in the next month by Finnish publisher Ntamo.

Diana Mistera is an Italian author living in Finland. In 2011 she published her first novel, Il Signore delle Ombre. In 2012 Mistera joined Runokohtauksia a Finnish multilingual project.

Inger-Mari Aikio  is a Saami writer and filmmaker. Her poetry book Máilmmis dása (DAT 2001) was nominated for Nordic Litterature Prize 2004. Aurinko juo kermaa (2014) is her last book in Saami and Finnish language presented as a poetry concert with Miro Mantere.

Harri Hertell is a Finnish poet, spoken word artist, cultural producer and Dj. He made his literary debut with Kunnes oppii kävelemään. Hertell is founder of Helsinki Poetry Connection colective and is well known as organiser of spoken word and poetry clubs.

Bosse Hellsten  is a Finnish Swedish-speaking writer and poet. Hellsten studied Philosophy at Turku University. He made his literary debut as a poet with Tango baboons in 2005.

 

MUSIC:
Romulus Chiciuc is a Romanian Finnish musician actor and singer. He is a member of European theatre collective.

DIRECTION:
David Kozma  was born in communist Romania where Radio Free Europe was the only source to get real information. The people’s neediness for getting access to knowledge surpassed any threat, and almost everybody used to listen the station secretly despite the risk of being incarcerated.  “After several years [David says] I have realized that the truth cannot be hidden from us. The truth will always find its way to our ears and, the more we try to suppress it, the more power it will gain”

Organizers: Etc, Sivuvalo, CaisaSuomen Kirjailijaliitto r.yFinlands svenska författareförening.

FreeMHZ_Mutanttikieltä
Designed by Payam Abdolsamadi

Satakieliklubi 20.2.2016 | klo 19.00

Satakieliklubi

Aya Chalabee
Aya Chalabee
Payam Abdolsamadi
Payam Abdolsamadi
Muhaned Durubi
Muhaned Durubi
Daniel Bencomo
Daniel Bencomo
Outi Korhonen
Outi Korhonen

none

Zoila Forss
Zoila Forss
Moritz Cartheuser
Moritz Cartheuser
Joonatan Pitkanen
Joonatan Pitkänen
Josue Moreno
Josue Moreno

none

Satakieliklubi Multimedia Poetry Night
Sat. 20.2.2016  hr. 19.00

Tickets from 5 €
Vuosali, Mosaiikkitori 2 , Helsinki

International poets, artists and musicians join forces at the Satakieliklubi in a Multimedia Multilingual Poetry evening. Audiovisual material of the Sivuvalo Kanava will also be seen.

POEMS and texts will be performed by:

Aya Chalabee is an Iraqian emerging poet based in Helsinki. Satakieliklubi will be her debut as a writer on an international, multimedia and professional stage.

Daniel Bencomo (San Luis Potosí, 1980) is a Mexican poet and literary translator from German into Spanish. Is the author of ‘De maitines y vísperas’ (2008), ‘Morder la piedra’ (2009), ‘Lugar de residencia’ (FETA, 2010) which won the Elías Nandino prize, ‘Alces, Rejkyavik’ (Magenta, 2014) and recently ´Espuma de Bulldog’ (2016). He has translated books of Tom Schulz, Björn Kuhligk and Ron Winkler, and  selected fragments from the work of Hugo Ball, Friederike Mayröcker and Hans Arp. He lives in Leipzig, Germany. Daniel will be our special guest for this event.

Payam Abdolsamadi is an Iranian graphic designer and poet based in Helsinki. His work is mainly related with human rights and politics, developing poster design with social content. Payam has exhibited in several international design biennials and, in Finland, he has made graphic design for many organizations such as Amnesty International.

Zoila Forss  is a poet born in Peru and living in Kerava, Finland. She considers poetry as a key to share sensorial experiences and a pleasant practice linking words. Revontuli is her first book published in 2014.

Muhaned Durubi (Muhannad Mohamed Khorshid) is an Iraqi painter and writer born in Baghdad in 1979. He escaped into Finland in 2014 and is currently based in Helsinki. Muhaned is a BA in Fine Arts for the University of Baghdad. Currently, he is member of the ‘Iraqi Plastic Artists Society’ and ‘Helsinki International Artists Society’.

Outi Korhonen is a cultural coordinator and art educator. The texts she chose are attempts to describe the solitude of an unshareable world with three possible but uncertain inhabitants, a me, a you and the unpredictable animal they share.

Performed languages will be in Farsi, Spanish, Arabic, English and Finnish. Translation will be available in Finnish or English.

MUSIC:

Moritz Cartheuser is a German guitarist and improviser who bases his music on its potential to interact in terms of dialogue and monologue with the audience as well as with cooperators. He studied at the Jazz-Institut-Berlin with such great musicians as Kurt Rosenwinkel and John Hollenbeck. He has worked as a musician and composer in several projects of different genres, including dance and film.

Josué Moreno is a Spanish composer, sound artist and researcher. He has worked in a very wide range of projects which varies from purely instrumental music until sound installations, stage productions and interactive software. What defines the common ground of his artistic output is the metaphor of “sound as space/landscape to be articulated either by musicians or by process”.

HOST:

Finnish stand-up comedian and television host Joonatan Pitkänen likes to talk about the ideas that most people would rather ignore. Shining a crookedly optimistic light on current matters and society, Joonatan’s stories make us laugh at the very things that we all love to take oh-so-seriously. He will join the Poetry Night with a spoken word performance.

Length: 120 min, incl. intermission. Club Evening, Fully licensed bar. Doors open at 18.30.

Satakieliklubi inaugurates the second edition of Satakielikuukausi Multilingual Festival. Satakielikuukausi is an annual festival that celebrates mother tongues, multilingualism and language diversity. During the festival the importance of mother tongues and languages is examined through the arts, meetings and workshops. Satakielikuukausi was organized for the first time on 2015. Satakielikuukausi starts on February 21st, International Mother Tongue Day and ends on March the 21st, World Poetry Day and International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination. Please visit satakielikuukausi.wordpress.com for the complete program.

Organisers: Sivuvalo, Helsingin kulttuurikeskus, Taide on Arte.

Information in Finnish, in Spanish.

SataklubiPoster- Helsinki 2016
Satakieliklubi 2016

VAROITUS

COMING SOON! Sivuvalo & [Radiador] Magazine & Karu Kartonera with the help of six organisations, are preparing a compilation of works written by migrant writers living in Suomi. This book will be a handmade edition inspired by the “Latinamerican cartonero movement”, a multilingual book made of recycled material that will try to generate a strong discussion between local writers and foreigners. So, this is the first call!

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