Srečko Kosovel, Kalejdoskop

Korice za dvojezično izdanje knjige pesama Kalejdoskop (na slovenačkom i poljskom) Srečka Kosovela (1904-1926), slovenačkog pesnika.

Izdavač: Polica Dubova, Slovenija
policadubova.org
knjigarnapolicedubove.webnode.com

Pored njegove izuzetne i veoma aktuelne poezije (koja mi se toliko dopala, da moram ovde da stavim više pesama), zanimljivo je što je pravio i kolaže od isečaka iz novina, pa su oni i bili inspiracija za korice.




Cover for billingual issue of poetry collection Kaleidoscope (in Slovenian and Polish) by Srečko Kosovel (1904-1926), Slovenian poet.
Publisher: Polica Dubova, Slovenia
policadubova.org
knjigarnapolicedubove.webnode.com

Beside his extraordinary and very actual poetry, he was making interesting collages, so they were my inspiration for the cover.

Srečko Kosovel (1904-1926) je slovenački pesnik, esejist i novinar, i jedan od najvažnijih slovenačkih umetnika 20. veka. Studirao je slavistiku, romanistiku i filozofiju na Univerzitetu u Ljubljani. Umro je od meningitisa sa dvadeset i dve godine pre izdavanja svoje prve knjige "Zlatni čoln". Većina njegovog rada objavljena je posthumno. Pesme Kosovela spadaju u avangardnu umetnost, konstruktivizam, dadaizam, futurizam, nadrealizam i imaju veliki uticaj na savremenu slovenačku umetnost.

Srečko Kosovel, the strongest and the strangest poetical energy of the Slovenian people, a visionary and a contemporary to every reader in every time. Born in 1904, he died in 1926 at the age of 22, but his work is strong, deep and finished as if he had written and lived for a long, long time.

He is one of the most praised representatives of the Slovenian "historical avant-garde". During his life, especially in last four years of his life, he created more than one thousand poems which were left in manuscript and a couple of hundred prose works consisting of lyrical prose and sketches, literary criticism and essays on cultural problems, notes, diaries and letters, and published only some poems in some literary review, but not a single book.
After his death, Kosovel was discovered and rediscovered for several times: in 1927 (Poems - 60 poems), in 1931 (Selected Poems), in 1946 (Collected Works - the first book), in 1964 (Integrals - the edition was the most exciting literary events of that time: a group of Slovenian poets found in him their contemporary, the founder of their poetics in retrospect, a missing part of Slovenian literary history) and it has also continued today. The Kosovel's poetics traditionally is divided in three currents: impressionism, expressionism and constructivism, but this classification is too general for a complex poet such Kosovel. Each of these poetical, art lines is crossing with the others and completing with dadaist, surrealist and futurist elements.
"A kaleidoscope of the macrocosm / is the microcosm", he wrote, and this microcosm is him, as a human being, as a very personal, particular, deep voice of a poet who accepted the solitude as a dire, and, paradoxally, soteriological straits. With a perceptive, radiological interior sense he understood the world, the civilization as a negative human creation and the consequence of that are his verses "Since we live in chaos / we long for solitude", "Civilization hasn't got heart, the heart hasn't got civilization". Witty, ironical, deep and tragic, Srečko Kosovel is an eternal poet of the total existence, of the Integrals of the individual and because of that, collective mirror of the life.
(source: www.poetryinternationalweb.net )

My Poem

My poem is an explosion,
a wild raggedness. Disharmony.
My poem does not want to reach you
who by divine providence, divine will
are dead aesthetes, museum moths,
my poem is my face.

Above the Madhouse

A lunatic moon
is strolling above the madhouse,
across the white garden
a shadow is walking – a man
pondering his own sad beard.
In front of him
as in a kaleidoscope
currencies and shares are dancing
burning in a rainbow fire.
Once a banker,
a prisoner of papers,
he now strolls with the lunatic moon
behind the white walls of the madhouse.
This is freedom,
that horrible freedom
when you step behind the invisible walls
of the expanded  human consciousness,
diverging into a terrible
immensity.

KONS. KONS. KONS.

Mesecina je mrzla kakor sladoled.
Prazna kakor trubadurske pesmi.
Lepo je sedeti v senci noci.
Latrine, Pissoir. Tukaj.
Mož za vrati, kaj hoce on?
Kakor senca stoji
za prosojnimi vrati
mesecine.
Mesecina nad polji
je kakor okamenela bolest...
Tvoje telo blesti
v mesecini.

CONS:CONS:CONS

The moonlight is ice-cream cold.
Empty as the songs of troubadours.
It is pleasant to sit in the shadow of the night.
Latrine, Pissoir. Here.
The man behind the door, what does he want?
He stands like a shadow
behind the translucent door
of the moonlight.
Moonlight over fields
is like petrified sorrow...
Your body shines
in the moonlight.

KONS: XY

Skozi moje srce stopa veliki slon.
Cirkus Kludsky, vstopnina 5 din.
Ne obesi bolesti na veliki zvon!
Ona se smehlja: cin cin cin.
Srca ljudi so majhna in jece velike,
rad bi šel skozi srca ljudi.
Si pristaš te ali one klike?
Tisoc dinarjev ali zaprt 7 dni,
Roze v mojem srcu ne jocejo nikdar.
Kdo bi bil mlad, pa vendar potrt.
Kaj ce prihaja skozi vrata žandar.
Vojaški proces, vi boste v jeci zaprt.
Rože, ostanite same te težke dni.
Tvoje oci, žandar, so kot bajonet
neumne in zlobne. (Rože, zaprite oèi!)
Gandi je bil zaprt celih šest let.

CONS: XY

Across my heart a huge elephant slops.
Circus Kludsky; 3 dinars to see.
Don't shout your sorrow from the house-tops.
She is smiling: ring a ring ree.
Human hearts are small and prisons big,
through human hearts I'd like to sail.
Do you belong to this or that clique?
A thousand dinars or 7 days in jail.
The flowers in my heart cry no more.
Who wants to be young and despondent.
What if a gendarme comes through the door.
Court-martial, for you internment.
Flowers, stay alone in these hard hours.
Gendarme, your eyes are like spears,
stupid and mean.(Close our eyes, flowers!)
Gandhi was imprisoned for six long years.

CRVENA RAKETA

Ja sam crvena raketa, palim se, gorim, gasim.
Jao, ja u crvenoj odjeći!
Jao, ja sa crvenim srcem!
Jao, ja sa crvenom krvlju!
Trčim neumoran, kao da sam moram
u ispunjenje.
I što više trčim, tim više gorim.
I što više gorim, tim više trpim.
I što više trpim, tim se brže gasim.
O ja, koji bih htio vječno živjeti. Idem,
crveni čovjek, poljem zelenim,
nada mnom po sivom jezeru tišine
željezni oblaci, o, a ja idem,
čovjek crveni.
Posvuda tišina: na polju, na nebu,
u oblacima samo ja trčim, gorim
svojim ljutim plamenom i
ne mogu doseći tišinu.

The Red Rocket

—–I am a red rocket, I ignite
myself and burn and fade out.
—–Yes, I in the red vestments!
—–I with the red heart!
—–I with the red blood!
—–I am escaping tirelessly, as if
I alone must reach fulfilment.
—–And the more I escape, the more I burn.
—–And the more I burn, the more I suffer.
—–And the more I suffer, the faster I fade out.
—–O, I, who want to live forever. And
I go, a red man, over a green field;
above me, over the azure lake of silence,
clouds of iron, o, but I go,
I go, a red man!
—–Everywhere is silence: in the fields, in the sky,
in the clouds, I’m the only one escaping, burning
with my scalding fire and
I can’t reach the silence.