STEVKA SMITRAN, ESCRITORA, POETA E TRADUTORA BÓSNIA [REVISTA BIOGRAFIA]

Stevka Smitran was born in Bosanska Gradiska a town in Bosnia-Erzegovina where she spent her childhood and this is considered the crucial event of her biography and poetry. She graduated in Belgrade and then she moved to Italy. Beside being a poet, she translates texts, writes essays and professor at the University of Teramo. She has published numerous essays on Slavic poetry (Serbian, Croatian, Russian, Macedonian); she has translated and introduced the works of Ivo Andric, Miodrag Pavlovic and other authors to the Italian public. She has won the Calliope Prize (1996) for the translation of the Antologia della poesia dell’ ex Yugoslavia (Anthology of the ex-Yugoslavian Poetry).

She has published the following collections of poems: in 2000 Slavica (1966-1999) in Serbo-Croatian; Le mie cose (Moje stvari) (My things), 2003, a bilingual collections in Italian-Serbo-Croatian; Italica e oltre (Italica and beyond) (2004), and Dall’ impero (From empire) (2007) in Italian. She published a history book Uskoks. Pirates, rebels, warriors among the Ottoman, Habsburg Empires and the Republic of Venice.

Her poems can be found in many anthologies in Italy and in other countries.

She has instituted the international “NordSud” Prize in Literature and Science with Pescarabruzzo Foundation. In 2007 she received the recognition “Great Women of the 21st Century” American Biographical Institute, Raleigh, North Carolina. 

Poemas de Stevka Smitran

GRIEF

And I suddenly

Like March buds

At once frozen

Wait for the end.

Nothing I feel anymore – neither warmth

nor cold

Just a moist tickling

Pushing me further dawn

In the abyss.

TO MY MOTHER

It is ages since you have been

Preparing to go

Because life is only made of recollections

Life is only made of loneliness

“time has become short”

Daughter of small landowners

You have been clever at sowing words

I eat with your cutlery

You gave me

For a picnic

You have seen the moon vomiting

Therefore all must be used, spent, consumed

Before the arrival of our worries

O mother,

You weep in each line of mine,

It is part of your teaching –

How sad the lost joys are.

Stevka Smitran

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