Ferida Duraković / Bosnia y Herzegovina

A WAR LETTER

[About the letter from before the war]

The Universe sent darkness to our humble home,
which is gone now. The letter, and every single book,
and dear things: they all burned like Rome.
But it is just an image! Have a look:

We aren\'t gone! And manuscripts never burn,
they say. It means that I\'ll read anew
that precious letter, whenever you turn,
whenever only those few syllables

change our agony into an endlessly dull
winter afternoon. In those hours everything\'s
so simple that I suffer I don\'t love anyone
[same old song], and the fear devours

me that passion, which brings back the first day
of love, the re-Creation, is finally gone
like the heart grown in a poplar tree! And may
only this flourishing pain stop! May everyone
alone

leave for good, to wherever they want: to
water, to air, to fire. And us? What fireside
awaits us in the times to come? Here is our home,
where Mother can never tire of planting

roses and fruit, and us, her poor ones, on her palm.


UNE LETTRE D’AVANT GUERRE

[A propos d’une lettre écrite avant la guerre]


L\'Univers a envoyé l\'obscurité dans notre humble maison.
A présent, elle n’est plus. Cette lettre, mes livres,
Tout ce qui était cher à mon cœur a brûlé comme a brûlé jadis Rome.
Mais tout cela n\'est qu’une image ! Regardez, me disent les gens,

Nous n’avons jamais quitté cet endroit ! Tes manuscrits n’ont pas brûlé !
Cela signifie que je lirai à nouveau
Cette précieuse lettre, que, où que j’aille,
Ses syllabes résonneront en moi

Et changeront ma lente agonie en un infini, en un morne après-midi
Hivernal. Pendant ces heures tristes tout sera
Si simple que je souffrirai de ne pas pouvoir aimer quelqu’un
[Ah, c’est sans cesse la même vieille chanson] et que la peur me dévorera

De sorte que la passion qui me rappellera le jour de mon premier
Amour [cette Nouvelle Création], finira par disparaître,
Comme disparaît le cœur gravé dans l’écorce du peuplier!
Ah, puisse cette croissante douleur prendre fin ! Puisse chaque être,
Seul

Trouver une meilleure vie là où il veut : dans
L\'eau, dans l’air, dans le feu. Alors nous ? Quel accueillant âtre
Nous offrira demain sa chaleur ? Voici notre maison,
Ici, Mère n’est jamais fatiguée. Elle prend soin

De ses roses, de ses arbres fruitiers et de nous, ses pauvres enfants
Qu’elle tient dans la paume de sa main.

Ferida Durakovic
Traduit en français par Athanase Vantchev de Thracy
Paris - France
Décembre 2010

A WRITER PERCEIVES HIS HOMELAND
WHILE A LEARNED POSTMODERNIST
ENTERS HER TOWN 1993

Cruelly and for a long time everything
has been repeating, and yet everything
happens for the first time: the face of
a young man whose life was flowing away
all night through your fingers, and through the hole
in his back. The face of a soldier,
near the bus station; his eyes wide open:
the mild May sky has settled down there -
you\'re imagining, I say - it\'s not
the calm and distant face of history you know.

And a pool of blood: in the middle, a bread loaf
soaked with blood as if with fresh morning milk.
You are imagining, I repeat, for the first time:

heavy Sarajevan clay which falls on a boy\'s
big feet in Reebok sneakers, leaning on
the too short tabut made of a cabinet door.
No, you should not be trusted.
You have arrived from the heart of darkness
which burst and gushed into the daylight.

You are an unreliable witness,
a biased one besides. So that is
why the Professor came, the Parisien one,
from head to toe: Mes enfants, he started,
and his fingers kept repeating: Mes
enfants, mes enfants, mes enfants...

In the Academy of Sciences
wise grey heads could think only about
his screamingly white shirt. Mes enfants,
Europe is dying here. Then he arranged
everything into a movie, images, great words
like histoire, Europe, responsabilité,
and naturally, les Bosniacs. So this is the way
to look into the face of history,

not like you: in crude irresponsible
fragments, in a sniper shot which stabs the skull,
in graves already covered with tireless grass...
In your palms, laid upon
Edward Munch, who once
invented everything, in vain.

Sarajevo, 1993, To B.H. Levy
cum grano salis

GEORG TRAKL ON THE BATTLEFIELD AGAIN IN 1993

Our dear Lord dwells above the planes, in the highest Heaven.
His golden eyes settle on the dark, on blackened Sarajevo.
Blossoms and shells are falling outside my window.
Madness and me: We are alone. We are alone. Alone.

MORNING GLORY, SARAJEVO
For M.H.

This town, catching up to us,
clasping us to its arms
and around our necks –
we watch it from above.
We are momentary Ceasers,
breathing in its breath: human
bodies, divine blossoms…
In the murmuring stations:
the calm of the Japanese cherry
in the State Museum Garden, and those
who were dear to us
and nested in our bosoms…

One of us waves his hand toward
the ruined tower high above in the air
as if giving his permission
for it to be built anew, and says:

Still, this is an incredible town.

Let us go, then…
down. The face of History
ought to be watched
with more modesty. Only thus
shall we be reflected
in ourselves: How big were we
amidst poverty and splendor?
Neither poor nor splendid, but… so-so
that – God forbid – neither befalls us.

Each of us tore off for himself
what the haughtier
and greater
had conquered, with a simple
and sublime account: addition,
multiplication, division, subtraction…

Let us go, then – we, the masters
of the air tower, let us go
down to the town, quiet
And hurt by everything.

Let us glide down the street’s palm
like raindrops, so our dreams do not come true-
they are all the same: addition,
multiplication, division, subtraction…

From “HEART OF DARKNESS” , POEMS BY FERIDA DURAKOVIC
TRANSLATED BY AMELA SIMIC & ZORAN MUTIC
EDITED BY GREG SIMON

BIOGRAFIA
FERIDA DURAKOVIĆ Poet, short story writer, children writer, translator, editor, proofreader
Executive Director of the PEN center of Bosnia-Herzegovina in Sarajevo since 1992.
Graduated from the University of Sarajevo, Philosophy Faculty - Language Department.
Worked as a teacher, bookstore manager , editor, proofreader, translator.
Lives with daughter and husband in Sarajevo.
Published books:

BAL PO MASKAMA [A Ball after the Masked Ball], poetry, Svjetlost Sarajevo, 1977.
OČI KOJE ME GLEDAJU [Eyes Looking at Me], poetry, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, 1982.
MALA NOĆNA SVJETILJKA [A Little Night Lamp], poetry, Svjetlost, Sarajevo, 1989.
SELIDBA IZ LIJEPOG KRAJA GDJE UMIRU RUŽE [Moving from a Beautiful Neighborhood Where Roses Die], proza i poezija, Vodnikova domačija, Ljubljana, Slovenija, 1994.
SRCE TAME [Heart of Darkness], Bosanska knjiga, Sarajevo, 1994.
SARAJEVSKI PISCI DJECI [Sarajevo Writers to Children], sa drugim autorima, Prag, Češka, 1995 [with other authors, Prague, Ckech Republic]
PROZA/Prose:
JOŠ JEDNA BAJKA O RUŽI [Another Fairy Tail on Rose], picturebook, Dom mladih, Sarajevo, 1989.
MIKIJEVA ABECEDA [Miki’s Alphabet], children prose, Vodnikova domačija, Ljubljana [Slovenia] 1993. i 1994. i IPC, Sarajevo, 1995.

AMILINA ABECEDA [Amila’s Alphabet], children prose, IPC, Sarajevo, 1999.
Online biblioteka BABILONIA: SRCE TAME [On-line book: Heart of Darkness], English/Bosnian: www.babylonia.com.mk/ferida.durakovic
LOCUS MINORIS, Sklonost Bosni kao melanholiji, [Locus Minoris – Inclinable to Bosnia as to Melancholy], poetry, Connectum Sarajevo 2007.
AMILINA I MIKIJEVA ABECEDA [Amila’s and Miki’s Alphabet], children prose, Bosanska riječ, Tuzla 2005.

Translated into foreign languages:
PREPROWADZKA Z PIEKNEGO KRAJU W KTORYM UMIERAJA ROZE, Sarajevo-Belgrade-Lublana-Sejny, 1995.
LAMENT NAD SARAJEWEM, sedmiu poetow z Bosni [7 poets from form Bosnia in Poland], preveo i uredio Julijan Kornhauser, Wydawnistwo 13 Muz, Szcecin in Fundacja Pogranicze, Sejny 1996.
ÇAGDAŞ BOSNA-HERSEK ŞIIRI [13 poets from Bosnia-Herzegovina in Turqey], trabnslated by Suat Engüllü, Çatalca Belediyesi Yayini, Istanbul, 1997.
HEART OF DARKNESS, poetry, White Pine Press, Fredonia, New York, U.S.A, 1998.
Translated from English:
Rosemary Mensies: NOVE PJESME ZA BOSNU [New Poems for Bosnia], HOD Sarajevo, 1998;
Rosemary Mensies: LOGOR OMARSKA [Omarska Camp], HOD Sarajevo, 1998.
Awards:
Youth Literary Award, Sarajevo 1978.
Svjetlost Publisher Award, Sarajevo 1978.
Hellman-Hammet Fund for Free Expression Award, New England, U.S.A. 1993.
Vasyl Stus Freedom-to-Write Award by P.E.N. New England, USA, 1999.
International Board on Books for Young People Honour List 2000.

- Ferida Duraković rođena je u 18. aprila 1957. u Olovu. Diplomirala je 1980. na Filozofskom fakultetu u Sarajevu. Poezija joj je prevedena na engleski, grčki, slovenski, turski, njemački i finski jezik. Živi u Sarajevu.

Bibliografija

* \'Bal pod maskama” [poezija, Sarajevo, 1977]
* \'Oči koje me gledaju\' [poezija, Sarajevo, 1982]
* \'Mala noćna svjetiljka\' [poezija, Sarajevo, 1989]
* \'Još jedna bajka o ruži\' [slikovnica, Sarajevo, 1989]
* \'Selidba iz lijepog kraja gdje umiru ruže\' [poezija i proza, Ljubljana, 1993]
* \'Mikijeva abeceda\' [proza za djecu, Ljubljana, 1994]
* \'Srce tame\' [poezija, Bosanska knjiga, Sarajevo, 1994]

Nagrade
* Nagrada Književne omladine BiH za zbirku pjesama \'Bal po maskama\' 1977.
* Nagrada Svjetlosti za najbolju prvu knjigu mladog autora za zbirku pjesama \'Bal po maskama\' 1977.
* Nagrada Fund for Free Expression USA 1993. za zbirku pjesama \'The Heart of Darkness\'
* Nagrada Vasyl Stus Freedom-to-Write Award 1999. za zbirku pjesama \'The Heart of Darkness\'

krugpen@bih.net.ba