A POESIA BÓSNIA DA POETA, ENSAÍSTA E TRADUTORA, STEVKA SMITRAN [REVISTA BIOGRAFIA]

STVEKA SMITRAN was born in Bosanska Gradiska (Bosnia-Erzegovina / Italy). Shegraduated in Belgrade and then she moved to Italy. She is a poet, translator, essayist and university professor. She edited the first Italian translation of the poetical works by Ivo Andrić, Miodrag Pavlović and other authors. She published the following collections of poems: in 2000 Slavica (1966-1999) in Serbo-Croatian; My things (Lemie cose / Moje stvari), 2003, a bilingual collections in Italian-Serbo-Croatian; Italica and beyond (Italica e oltre), in Italian, 2004, From empire (Dall'impero), 2007 and Oriental Eyelashes (Le ciglia d'Oriente), 2013 in Italian, and Ode to the black day (Kara güne kaside), 2020 in Turkish. Her poems have been translated into Portuguese, Spanish, Bulgarian, English, Romanian, Greek and Chinese. In 1996, she received the Calliope Prize for Best Translation of the Anthology of the ex- Yugoslavian Poetry. She has received several poetry awards including: Petar Kočić, 2003, (Banja Luka - Belgrade), Bosnia/Serbia; Scriveredonna, 2015, Rome, Italy; Love letter, 2020, Torrevecchia (Chieti), Italy. She is co-cofounder of 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. In 2018 in her hometown she received the Diploma for Culture and Education Merit.

She writes on P21: www.pagina21.eu

 

POEMS BY STEVKA SMITRAN

AT THE BAR IN POTSDAM
                                  To Luigi


The same bar, the cappuccino, the marzipan
a year later everything is different in the hands of destiny.
now the fake fireplace is dead, with pieces of cut
                                                                       wood
taken from these Prussian forests
where the sky stains my very thoughts with blue
and nothing can be seen except in the plot of our story.
Here the sunny season has brushed away
last year’s snow,
                                                                for good:
the music resounds from the sky in every whistle
I am here without wanting to be
I look for you in all the verses we have been through together:
I leant everything about Poetry from you
before the end came -
it was not slices of toast that I saw
but the flame that burned.
here at the same bar I watch the people pass by,
unknown pilgrims who ignore me
and I would like to tell them that they do not know,
                                                                   about us.
Those who are seeking a handful of filial affection come to this place
oh no, we had no idea there was no main door behind the door
but a long thirsty staircase that you do not immediately recognise.
I unwrap the gifts you gave me
for our anniversaries and recoil from my guilt in memories.
Were we aware that this would be our last time in the snow?
a blue Prussian cloak.

Why don’t I escape and hide myself in the earthly suffering
                                                                       that knows me.
I quickly adapt my mind to renew my love for you
deluded we thought that everything could be hoped for with us and vanish in us.
Now who is going to finish the cake with the grace of the humble?
Who after you will think about the time in this bar?
Only I cherish that snow in a heart deserving the depths.
I write in shreds so they can approve the sadness of my eyes
which are no longer loved
in this bar, before drinking my cappuccino
the emptiness of your hand –

I know how unknown our joys are to others
who come in and go out and say nothing to me,
I split the light up into tiny blue lagoons,
and wear the necklace of a dead language.

***

 

THE LIBRARY IN GRADIŠKA IS BURNING


The library in Gradiška is burning
after Bagdad's
after Sarajevo's,

it is only in a different order
in times of peace, in times of war.

what I have seen will never explain
what will never be seen again:

there was Mr Lukić who was the first
to see me going into the library,
when I was seven he recommended Cuore
nothing wrong with that;
when I was seventeen, Dottor Živago
I chose the poetry of Pasternak,
which was very bold;
there was Mr Lukić who was the first
to see me going out of the Library happily,
with a conviction as fresh as dew.

The library in Gradiška is dead,
and all its inhabitants living flames

I had my communion with them
In the library in Gradiška
and now I clutch at grass roots
the poets conserve everything
even things out of nothing
of the mother-tongue
the language loved
saved.

 

 

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