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Gauč

Petr Borkovec

Když jsem se dozvěděla, že Jiří umřel
(z Karlových Varů přišly dva telegramy,
jeden, že nežije, druhý, že je po pitvě),
nevím jak, sedla jsem si v pokoji na křeslo
a zírala na gauč před sebou a viděla,
že je modrý, viděla, že je evidentnĕ modrý,
a pro sebe si opakovala: Je modrý,
modrý, to přece každý vidí –
neboť ode dne, kdy jsme ho přivezli,
o jeho barvě jsme se nikdy nedohodli,
Jiří vždycky mluvil o zvláštní zelené.
seděla jsem jako hloupá v pokoji
a říkala si dokola: jak jsi mohl být tak slepý,
vždyť ten gauč je modrý jako modř,
to jsi nemĕl, to jsi tedy neměl,
říkat mi, že je zelený. Pak jsem s hrůzou
uslyšela sama sebe, a jako bych se byla probudila,
dala jsem se do strašného pláče.


Petr Borkovec

from Polní práce (Praha: Mladá fronta, 1998)

Reproduced by permission of the author and translators.

Tags:

bereavement colours Czech death Gaelic German Grief & Sorrow Polish Translations

Translations of this Poem

Tapczan

Translator: Jakub Ekier


Kiedy dowiedziałam się, że Jiři umarł
(z Karlowych War przyszły dwa telegramy,
jeden, że on nie żyje, drugi, że była sekcja),
siadłam, sama nie wiem kiedy, w tym fotelu w pokoju,
wpatrywałam się w tapczan i zobaczyłam,
że jest niebieski, jest niebieski, ewidentnie,
i mówiłam tak do siebie: jest niebieski,
niebieski, to przecież każdy widzi –
bo już od przywiezienia, od pierwszego dnia
nie mogliśmy dogadać się, jaki ma kolor,
Jiři ciągle powiadał, że to dziwna zieleń.
Nic tylko siedziałam w pokoju jak głupia
i w kółko powtarzałam: że też byłeś taki ślepy,
toż trudno o coś bardziej niebieskiego niż ten tapczan,
jak mogłeś, jak mi kiedykolwiek
mogłeś mówić, że jest zielony. Aż mnie przeraził
własny głos i, jakby zbudzona ze snu,
raptem się okropnie rozpłakałam.

An Langasaid

Translator: Rody Gorman


Nuair a chuala mi gun do dh’eug Liam
(Thàinig dà phost-dealain bho Mhurchadh,
An dàrna fear ag ràdh gun do h’fhalbh e
‘S am fear eile mun sgrùdadh-bhàis),
Chan eil fhios agam ciamar
Ach rinn mi suidhe sa chathair,
A’ spleuchdadh air an langasaid air mo bheulaibh
Is chunnaic mi gun robh i gorm, seadh,
Gun robh i gorm a rèir coltais
Is thuirt mi rium fhìn uair is uair: tha i gorm,
Chì duine dall sin,
A chionn, on là a thug sinn a-steach i, cha tigeamaid
Gu rèite riamh mun dath.
Bheireadh Liam uaine neònach oirre daonnan.
Shuidh mi nam sheòmar nam amadan
Ag ràdh rium fhìn gun stad –
Ciamar a bha thu cho dall,
‘S ann a tha i cho gorm ri gorm fhèin.
Cha robh còir agad, cha robh còir agad idir
A ràdh rium gun robh i uaine.
‘S an uair sin,
Air mo sgrathadh le mo ghuth fhèin
Is, mar gun robh mi ‘g èirigh às mo chadal,
Thòisich mi a’ sruthadh nan deur.

Die Couch

Translator: Esther Kinsky


Als ich erfuhr, daß Jiri gestorben war,
(Zwei Telegramme kamen aus Karlsbad,
eins informierte von seinem Tod, eins von der Obduktion)
ließ ich mich irgendwie im Zimmer auf den Sessel sinken
und schaute auf die Couch vor mir und sah,
daß sie blau war, daß sie eindeutig blau war,
und ich wiederholte für mich: Sie ist blau,
blau, das kann doch jeder sehen –
denn seit dem Tag, als wir sie hierher brachten,
hatten wir uns auf die Farbe nie einigen können.
Jiri nannte sie immer komisch grün.
Wie ein Tölpel saß ich da im Zimmer
und sagte immer wieder: Warum warst du so blind,
diese Couch könnte nicht blauer sein.
Du hättest mir wirklich, wirklich niemals
sagen sollen, sie sei grün. Dann, entsetzt
von meiner Stimme und als sei ich aufgewacht,
fing ich schrecklich zu weinen an.

The couch

Translator: Alexandra Büchler


When I heard that Jiří had died
(two telegrams arrived from Karlovy Vary
one saying he’d gone, the other mentioning the autopsy),
I don’t know how, I sat down in the armchair
staring at the couch before me and saw
that it was blue, I saw that it was evidently blue
and repeated to myself: It’s blue
blue, anyone can see that
because since the day we brought it in, we could never agree
on its colour. Jiří always called it a strange green.
Now I sat in the room stupidly
saying to myself over and over again: how could you have been so blind,
That couch is blue as blue can be
You shouldn’t have, you really shouldn’t have
Told me that it was green. Then, horrified
by my own voice, and, as if coming round from sleep
I wept waterfalls of tears.

About this poem

‘Voyages & Versions / Tursan is Tionndaidhean’ was the title of the translation workshop run by the Scottish Poetry Library and Literature Across Frontiers 12-18 May 2003. The group consisted of Petr Borkovec (Czech Republic), Mererid Puw Davies (Wales), Jakub Ekier (Poland), Matthew Fitt (Scotland), Rody Gorman (Scotland), Milan Jesih (Slovenia),  Doris Kareva (Estonia), Esther Kinsky (England) and Aled Llion (Wales). The group spent days at Moniack Mhor writing centre in the Highlands, returned to the Library in Edinburgh and went up to Dundee Contemporary Arts, and gave multi-lingual readings, producing what was, in effect, an hour’s sound-poem. Several of the poets mentioned their sense of renewed faith in poetry – how refreshed they felt by the chance to look closely at their own and others’ work in company with people whose aesthetics might be quite different but whose skills and passion were recognisably similar.

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Petr Borkovecb.1970

Petr Borkovec was born in Louòovice, central Bohemia, and lives in Cernosice, southwest of Prague. He was editor with the weekly cultural journal Lidove noviny  from 1995 to 2000, and is now a freelance writer and translator of poetry. His...
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