Nació en 1972 en Belgrado (Serbia), donde estudió Literatura y estudios literarios comparativos. Ha publicado poesía desde que tenía 18 años. Ha participado en numerosos concursos de escritura y ganó varios premios, entre ellos el Branko-Radičević-Premio a la mejor poesía serbia debut »Snovidna voda" (1994). Esto fue seguido por otras cinco colecciones: »Uze od peska« (1997), »Zabava za dokone kćeri« (1999), »Život na razglednici« (2003), »Oko nula" (2006) y »PS" (una selección de su poesía, 2009). Ana Ristović ganó el Hubert Burda--Premio de poesía joven de Europa del Este en 2005. En el mismo año se le concedió una beca de residencia en el Coloquio Literario de Berlín.
Sus poemas han sido traducidos a numerosos idiomas. Después de haber pasado seis años en Ljubljana, Ana Ristović regresó a Belgrado en 2004, donde actualmente vive y trabaja.
POESÍA:
Snovidna voda (Književna omladina Srbije, Pegaz, Beograd, 1994)
Uže od peska (Gradac, Čačak, 1997)
Zabava za dokone kćeri (Rad, Beograd, 1999)
Život na razglednici (Plato, Beograd, 2003)
Oko nule (Narodna biblioteka Stefan Prvovenčani, Kraljevo, 2006)
P. S. (izabrane pesme) (Narodna biblioteka Stefan Prvovenčani, Kraljevo, 2009)
TRADUCCIÓN:
So dunkel, so hell (by Fabjan Hafner, Jung und Jung, Salcburg, Austrija, 2007)
Življenje na razglednici (by Jana Putrle & Urban Vovk, LUD Šerpa, Ljubljana, Slovenija, 2005)
Pred tridsiatkou (by Karol Chmel, Drewo a srd, Banska Bystrica, Slovačka, 2001)
MIRA ADENTRO
Todo el mundo se puede reducir
al contenido de un bolso femenino:
algo de maquillaje
algo de cambio
para el trayecto entre dos lejanías
un dólar, plegado
junto al DNI,
y un par de pañuelos
para los mocos ocasionales
los carnets y las llaves
para las cerraduras cambiadas
y para las que lo serán
las listas de lo comprado
y las listas de lo no encontrado,
y las tarjetas de un restaurante caro
como prueba de que estamos satisfechos,
pastillas tranquilizantes,
curitas para las heridas leves,
un depósito de entradas
de las películas vistas un año atrás,
y unas fotos para asegurarse
de que esas personas de verdad existen,
y un espejito para asegurarse
de que el otro tiene los días contados.
traducida al castellano
por Midica Milovanovic
NEUPOTREBLJIVI DAROVI
U vreme najave rata doputova
belgijski prijatelj:
njegov brod, danima oklevajući
slani dlanovi propuštahu kao popino prase.
Sa njim stigoše i neupotrebljivi darovi:
baštovanske makaze za nepostojeći vrt,
skijaško odelo za nepostojećeg skijaša,
planinarski ranac za nepostojeća putovanja,
mapa flandrijskog grada,
kao paučina pod staklom
za prazan zid koga nema.
I tanke, turske muštikle od ružinog drveta
koje sâm izdelja, tako dugačke
da su se pušači u maloj sobi sudarali
ukrštajući ih kao zapaljena koplja.
„Predviđene su za veća rastojanja –
dobra bi bila prostrana terasa, salon
ili piknik u polju.
I dim treba ispuštati polako, jer ovo je drvo
koje ga upija: gajeći sićušne larve
što dimom se hrane.“
Reče
dok mu je velika muštikla štrčala
kroz pustinjačku bradu i kosu
kao kljun pupavca koji pretražuje
nepostojeće gnezdo u vazduhu.
U vreme najava, i njegovi darovi
najavljivači drugačijih upotreba:
Nužnih rastojanja, jer sve manje beše
onih između kojih bi se moglo provući;
Zapaljenih stabala, prezasićenih dimom
što rastu na nepostojećoj zemlji;
Odsutnih primalaca.
USELESS GIFTS
On the eve of the outbreak of war
a Belgian friend arrived:
for days, hesitant salty palms
rubbed his ship like herd’s grass.
Together with him useless gifts arrived:
gardening scissors for a non-existent garden,
a ski-suit for a non-existent skier,
a mountaineering rucksack for non-existent journeys,
a map of a Flemish town, like cobwebs under glass
for an empty wall that does not exist.
And long thin Turkish cigarette holders made of rosewood
whittled by himself, so long
that the smokers in the tiny room collided
crossing them like burning spears.
“They were made for greater distances –
a large terrace would do, a drawing room
or a picnic in the field.
Also, the smoke should be exhaled slowly, for this wood
absorbs it: tiny maggots drown in it
feeding on the smoke.”
Thus spake he
while the cigarette holder stuck out
of his hermit-like beard and hair
like the beak of a hoopoe searching through
a non-existent nest in the air.
In a time of portents his gifts
portended different uses:
Necessary distances, as there are fewer and fewer
things that can be drawn in-between:
Burning trees, saturated with smoke,
growing on non-existent soil;
Absent recipients.
Translated by Novica Petrović
O KORISNOSTI MUZIKE
Tek što poče prevratničko doba
kad upravnik opere odabra ironiju
zatvorivši se u koncertni klavir
na kojem „beretom“ izbuši za vazduh četiri rupe.
Tih godina samo zidovi prazne hale
ponavljahu njegov solilokvij
kroz muzičko bure propušten u etar –
O korisnosti muzike u prevratničko doba –
Oboriti gong u polje umesto kazana,
spustiti zvona na vreće sa brašnom i solju,
zlatnike i dugmad u zevove truba
a tegle s pekmezom i mašću u klavire
postrojene u predvorjima
kao crne kornjače ukočene
pri uvlačenju glave pod oklop;
Tajne cedulje nanizati na violinske žice
smotane u klupko, ćušnute
u pribor za pecanje;
Dete što nema krevetac moglo bi
u preuređeni kontrabas
I vojska će srećnija biti ako joj se sledovanje
deli otvorenim tamburicama
umesto malom kutlačom
Bubnjarske palice ponuditi lokalnoj policiji
jer uvek postoji koža zategnutija od kože
Radi kontrole melodije
praporce sa sanki preseliti na kape
uostalom, i muzika evoluira seobom
iz donjeg u gornje
Što više tišine, to više i zvučnika
magnetofona da zabeleže nepriznat titraj
Rasturiti tržište prigušivača
O gudala okačiti zastavice
A povlašćen prostor prenosnika zvuka
umnožitelja već iščezlog tona
ostaviti samo ćutljivim stenama:
između njihovih amnezija
dovoljna rastojanja nikada narušena neće biti
Muzika lako odustaje od instrumenata
u prevratničko doba, njen celi je svet
zaboravi li na oruđa –
Tako je kloparao, suva semenka u klaviru:
upravnik opustele bine i zavesa
zauvek podignutih kao smotana jedra ...
Tek što odabra ironiju, kad spustiše ga u podrum
ložačka leđa, domarske ruke
jer polirano drvo dobro je za potpalu
kad halu treba zagrejati
za dolazak hora
A dirke – do domine – strpati u vreću:
uz njih neko već smisliće
pravila nove društvene igre.
ON THE USEFULNESS OF MUSIC
No sooner had a time of upheaval started
than the director of the opera opted for irony
by closing himself inside a concert piano,
having shot four air-holes in it with a Beretta
For a while the walls of the empty hall
echoed his soliloquy
sent into the air through the music barrel –
On the usefulness of music, in a time of upheaval –
The gong is to be placed in the field in place of a cauldron,
the bells are to be lowered onto the sacks of flour and salt,
the gold coin and buttons into the yawning openings of trumpets,
while the jars of jam and lard are to be placed into the pianos
lined up in well-lit entrance halls
like black turtles frozen
in the act of pulling their heads into their shells;
Notes containing secret messages are to be strung
along violin strings piled up and tossed
among the fishing rods;
A child without a cot might be placed
inside a modified double bass;
The Army, too, would be much happier if rations
were handed out using tambouritzas*
instead of small ladles;
Drumsticks are to be offered to the local police force
for there is always skin stretched tighter than drums;
For better control of the melody
jingle bells are to be moved from sleighs onto caps,
even music evolves when moved from lower to upper regions;
The greater the silence the more loudspeakers there are,
tape-recorders to record the unrecognized vibration;
The silencer market is to be busted,
flags are to be hung on bows;
And the privileged domain of sound carriers,
multipliers of the already-vanished tone,
is to be left to the silent rocks alone:
the distance separating their states of amnesia
will never be violated;
Music gives instruments up easily
in a time of upheaval, the whole world belongs to it
should it forget its tools –
Thus rattled he, a dry seed inside the piano:
the director of the empty stage and curtains
forever raised like folded-up sails …
No sooner had he opted for irony than he was lowered into the cellar
on the backs and by the hands of stokers and porters,
for polished wood is good for kindling
when the hall needs to be warmed up
for the coming of the choir
And the piano keys – like dominoes – are to be stuffed into a sack,
someone is bound to come up with
rules for a new game.
Translated by Novica Petrović
SNEG U CIPELAMA
Ne gradi se kuća na zbirkama escajga
mada koja kašika više
ponekad dobro dođe.
Ne gradi se kuća na novim zavesama
mada drugačije poglede
s vremena na vreme
treba zakloniti novim platnom.
Da bi dom bio dom, između ostalog
treba ti i mnogo toga
čega bi se unapred
odrekao, vrlo rado.
Slušaj šta kažu Eskimi:
da bi se sagradio dobar iglo
godinama moraš da nosiš
sneg u cipelama.
I špenadlu, zaboravljenu
u okovratniku kaputa,
blizu žile kucavice.
SNOW IN YOUR SHOES
One does not build a house collecting cutlery
even though a few extra spoons
come in handy sometimes.
One does not build a house from new curtains
even though different views
from time to time
should be shielded by new cloth.
For a home to be a home, among other things
you need a lot of things
you would gladly renounce
in advance.
Listen to what Eskimos say:
to build a good igloo,
for years you have to carry
snow in your shoes.
And a safety pin, forgotten
in your coat collar,
near the jugular.
Translated by: Novica Petrović
LEPA MRTVA MORA
Iz dana u dan dajem ti samo isparljive stvari:
maglu nad asfaltom, maglu u džepovima
i polja koja su pojele strvine od reči.
Umesto karte za put u dvoje
nudim ti prolaze kroz iglene uši.
Iz dana u dan, prosipam pred noge
lepa mrtva mora.
Živimo od krivotvorenja
hronične slobode: adresa je znana.
Između glavnog zatvora i stare šećerane
gde nekad završavahu pesnici, a sad
drugi klošari skupljaju iščezlu slast.
A mislim, dovoljan mi je samo jedan grad:
splet ulica koji čine tvoje vene.
Šator i sklonište stvoreni od tvoje kože.
I da je tvoja kosa, Birnamska šuma
što će mi prići i onda
kad stojim ukopana, poput sveće:
prejako sagorevanje ponekad me prilepi za tle.
Varam samu sebe da je dovoljna voda
koja se presipa sa usta na usta,
čak i onda kad se pretvori u led.
U tvojoj zemlji mladih sa prezrelim umom
sam nedorasla cura koju treba voditi za ruku.
U mojoj, gde je vreme odavno već stalo
nosim dušu starca i nazore mudre kuje.
Govoriš mi, da se moram navići
na novo agregatno stanje:
ono što isparava tamo, na uzavrelom jugu
ovde radom ruku pretvaraš u vodu
koju možeš prodati za blago.
Saginješ se,
na dlan spuštaš otežalu glavu:
tvoj uzdah poveća daljinu
između naše dve poluprazne čaše,
moj ih potera do ruba zajedničkog stola.
„Kupujem odmah, ali u naturi plaćam“, kažem
i poližem ti kap znoja sa čela:
učinilo mi se da svetli
kao žar cigarete.
„Od previše poređenja bankrotira i pesma“,
čujem te i vidim, u plamenu su ti
već cela kosa i lice:
no ne znam, da li od ushićenosti
ili od očajanja.
BEAUTIFUL DEAD SEAS
From day to day all I give you are things that evaporate:
mist over asphalt, mist in pockets
and fields stripped bare by beastly words.
Instead of a ticket for two
I offer you passages through the eyes of needles.
From day to day, I pour in front of your feet
beautiful dead seas.
We live by counterfeiting
chronic freedom: the address is known.
Between the main prison and the old sugar works
where poets used to end up, and where now
other down-and-outs gather vanished delights.
But I think all I need is one town:
the network of streets created by your veins.
Tent and refuge provided by your skin.
And that your hair is the Birnam forest
that will come towards me even
while I stand rooted, like a candle:
burning too strongly sometimes sticks me to the ground.
I deceive myself that water pouring
from mouth to mouth is enough,
even when it turns to ice.
In your land of the young with overmature minds
I am an immature girl who needs to be led by the hand.
In mine, were time had come to a standstill a long time ago,
I carry the soul of the old and the views of a wise bitch.
You are telling me I have to get used to
a new aggregate state:
what evaporates in the boiling south
you change here by handwork into water
which you can sell for goods.
You bend over,
rest your heavy head in your hand:
your sigh increases the distance
between our two half-empty glasses;
mine pushes them to the edge of our table.
"I buy immediately, but I pay with my body", I say
and lick a droplet of sweat off your brow:
it seemed to me to glow like
the end of a cigarette.
"Too much comparison kills even a poem,"
I hear you say, seeing that your
entire hair and cheeks are already aflame:
only I don’t know whether because of excitement
or despair.
Translated by: Evald Flisar
LAJBNIC
Dan i noć, noć i dan
putujemo ka Sloveniji:
u malom autobusu, među nama
tišina raste
kao grad otcepljen od zemlje i sveta.
Još uvek neznanke, kao dve
lenje muve, sklupčane
svaka uz svoj prozor –
Ona, mala starica, Maruška možda –
u krilu drobi keks, marke
„Lajbnic“
kao da monadu od monade iznova deli
i smeši se, zureći u mrak
svetu što je još uvek
najbolji od svih ...
Ona, koja poznaje harmoniju –
Maruška, Blažka, Mojca možda.
U svom krilu drobim poeziju
pod slabim svetlom, na lošem drumu
list po list, reč po reč i čujem:
Srečko Kosovel odriče se sreće
jer svaka lepota deo je bola.
Nad stihovima
nema opravdanja za Boga
i monade što ih šalje
nikad ne stižu do zemlje:
kao varljiv sneg ispare
u prvom sloju neba.
U mom krilu, knjiga pesnika
čije ime unapred se odreklo
harmonije sa srcem i dušom.
Dan i noć, noć i dan
putujemo ka Sloveniji,
ona i ja, još uvek neznanke ...
I čitav svemir ljulja nam se
na kolenima
kao da bi da se odvoji od usnulog Boga
i traži saučesništvo
šapućući nam nežno, na uho:
„Braća smo, po ocu...“
LEIBNITZ
Day and night, night and day
we’re travelling to Slovenia:
in the little bus, the silence between us
growing like
a town cut off from the Earth and the Universe.
Still enigmas, like two
lazy flies, each curled up
alongside her window -
She, a little old woman, Maruška maybe –
in her lap crumbles a cookie brand-named
"Leibnitz"
as if newly separating a monad from monad
and smiles, staring into the darkness
of the world which is still
the best of all worlds ...
She who knows harmony -
Maruška, Blažka, Mojca maybe.
In my lap, in a bad light,
on a bad road, I crumble poetry,
page by page, word by word and I hear:
Srečko Kosovel* renounces happiness
because every beauty is part of pain.
In his verses
there is no excuse for God
and the monads He sends
never reach the Earth:
like a deceptive snow they evaporate
in the first layer of the sky.
In my lap, the book of the poet
whose name has in advance renounced
harmony with his heart and soul.
Day and night, night and day
we travel to Slovenia,
she and I, still unknown to each other ...
And the whole universe rocks
on our knees
as if wanting to separate from sleepy God
and find complicity
gently whispering into our ears:
"We’re brothers, born of the same father..."
Translated by: Evald Flisar
LICEM U LICE
Dani oporuka, dani priznanja: prva pesma
u kojoj rekoh „Ja“
ulazeći u reči kao da sklopljenih očiju
zašivam dugme za džep
iglom ga odižući od kože.
Na levoj strani, iznad samog srca.
Koje zaobilazih pažljivim ubodima
jer pročitah negde: tako se kroji
iskrena poezija –
kad uveriš srce da si odustao od njega.
Kada ti se čini da ne možeš ništa reći
ni o ljubavi, ni o strepnji, ni o kazni
ni o onome što je mimoišlo sećanje
u širokom luku,
tada se sve to, neizgovoreno
sâmo izgovara; i tek tada
odgovorna sam za ono što nisam
i šta ću možda jednom tek biti.
Svaka reč, poput vrha igle
spušta se sporo
tražeći pravu razdaljinu od kože i srca.
Meru podnošljive iskrenosti.
Veštinu krojača koji tkaninom ne skriva lice.
Nauk priče što je vekovima šapuću
hasidski starci, kraj toplog zida:
o zemlji, koja je tek naprstak Boga –
za svaki promašen ubod, samo način
da se Njegova ruka zaštiti od bola.
FACE TO FACE
Days for last testaments, days for confessions: the first poem
in which I said "I",
entering words as if sewing a button on my breast pocket
with my eyes closed.
On my left side, above my very heart.
I guard it by stitching with care
because I read somewhere that
sincere poetry is tailored
when you convince your heart that you have left it.
When you have no more words
about love, trembling, punishment,
not even about things that gave your memory
a wide berth,
then the unspoken
expresses itself; and only then
do I become responsible for
what I am not,
and what I may yet become.
Each word descends slowly
like the point of the needle,
looking for the right distance from skin and heart.
For the measure of still bearable sincerity.
For the skill of a tailor who does not hide his face behind cloth.
For the moral of the story whispered for centuries
by old Hassidic men close to a warm wall:
About the Earth which is only God’s thimble –
a way of protecting His hand
from our pain
when the needle slips.
Translated by: Evald Flisar
MIŠIMA
Iz večeri u veče, majka čita
„Kodeks samurajskih veština“:
svako novo jutro je belina tela
koju otkrije
rastvoreni crni kimono –
vrh sečiva treba zabosti
što dublje.
Sa danima se nositi
kao sa bliskom kožom uvek spremnom
na sepuku.
Kraj uzglavlja, umesto Biblije
držati Mišimu čije korice
sliče kutiji od lipovih daščica.
Iz njih i najtužniju istinu
birati pažljivo prstima, kao da je
trešnjin cvet
kome se ritualno, dva mala demona –
demon sećanja i demon zaborava
klanjaju u isto vreme.
Iz večeri u veče, majka izučava
samurajske tajne: pred spavanje
mesta u knjizi obeležava iglom
skliznulom niz probuđeni vulkan
raspletene punđe.
Samo ona zna: postoji
još jedan, nepisani zakon koji kaže
da su godine zavesa od papirnih ptica
kroz koju se treba provući
očuvavši tišinu,
a pogrešnim rečima i suvišnim dahom
ne zaljuljati nijednu.
Podneti samo
blagi šum malih krila
za leđima.
MISHIMA
Evening after evening my mother reads
“The Way of the Samurai”:
every new morning is like the whiteness of the body
showing through
the slightly open black kimono –
the tip of blade should be stuck in
as deep as possible.
One should struggle with the day
like with skin always ready
for seppuku.
By the head of the bed, instead of the Bible
Mishima’s book should be held
with its cover resembling a box made of tiny linden boards.
Even the saddest truth
should be carefully plucked from it, as if it were
a cherry flower
that two little demons –
the demon of remembrance and the demon of oblivion –
ritually bow to at the same time.
Evening after evening my mother studies
the secrets of samurai: before she goes to sleep
she marks her spot in the book with the needle
she slides from the wakened volcano
of her unbraided bun.
Only she knows: there is
another, as yet unwritten law claiming
that years are a curtain made of paper birds
one should squeeze through
keeping silent,
not making a single one swing
by wrong words or excessive breathing.
One should permit only
the gentle sound of little wings
behind one’s back.
Translated by: David Albahari and Richard Harrison
ČISTKA
U jeku krečenja stana
reših da krenem sa bibliotečkom čistkom
al bacih samo katalog izdanja iz ’85-e
i knjiga poezije, nekoliko.
Od tada se police ljuljaju i škripe
kao tuberkulozna pluća nečija, davna,
a za Dostojevskog, uporno se lepi
osinje gnezdo, kao meta kazna.
I svake noći, iz imena tvog Osipe M,
putuje omča do mog vrata
i glava se, ipak, spušta sama:
svih mojih telefona brojke su u tebi.
PURGE
While white-washing the apartment
I decided on a book purge,
but threw away only the catalog of editions from ’85
and a few books of poetry.
From then on the shelves swayed and creaked
like some distant tubercular lungs
and persistently stuck in Dostoevsky’s
flat like meta-punishment.
And every night from your name, Osip M*
the snare travels to my neck
and the head descends to her alone:
you have all my telephone numbers.
Translated by: Brian Henry
*Osip M. – Osip Mandelstam, Russian poet
PROLEĆNI ZANATI
Neka mala ptica
propevala,
progovorila dve-tri reči
i pokakila se na terasi obasjanoj suncem.
Ptica tako mala
da bi čak i kutija šibica
prerastala raspon njenih krila.
Njene oči, tek polovina fosfornog zrnca.
Iz sićušnog brabonjka
izrasla detelina
sa četiri lista:
Naša sreća govori nemuštim jezicima
i jezikom dobre probave,
prevazilazi svoje razloge
i ne bira mesto gde će da se dene.
Treba ćutati, istina je:
to sunce nad nama,
što ga više pominjemo
to više raste
u zlatna vešala.
SPRING TRADE
Some little bird
sang,
spoke two, three words
and shat on the terrace, ashine with sun.
So this little bird,
still a matchbox
that outgrew its wingspan.
His eyes only half phosphoric grains.
From the small shit
grew a four-leaf
clover:
our luck speaks in an animal language
and in the language of good digestion,
outdoing its causes
and not choosing the spot where I would land.
It must keep quiet, truly:
if he mentions
the sun above us,
it changes
into golden gallows.
Translated by: Brian Henry
Après l’an deux milleDepuis l’an deux milleles astronautes somnolent au clair de la lune.Dans une nouvelle vie, Neil Armstrong estun bûcheron à la main fermedans son élan il coupe les arbrescomme jadis la Voie Lactée.
On dit que là hautse trouve une planètetous les vaisseaux spatiaux s’y briseraientcomme les assiettes dans les auberges grecques :
depuis l’an deux millela théologie même est une part de jeu astronautique :où chacun garde une petite boîte dans sa poche,en souvenir du voyage céleste.
Dans chaque boîte un petit fragment de cieldans la plus insolite, une mince éraflure de Dieu :au fond de la tirelire un sou uniquecondamné à être misé.
Celui qui a frôlé Dieudans la vacuité d’un été, c’est à luide faire des déclarations sur la structure du cielsur la vie dans le cosmos, si elle existe.
Depuis l’an deux millele cosmos paierait des impôts,les astronautes ne consignant plus que des trous noirs –entonnoirs d’amnésie, possibilités de fuite ;
tu peux garder du clair de la lunecomme bon te semble : elle est justece qui a débordé du ciel …En l’an deux mille.
Sur chacune des planètesune petite Laïka somnolenostalgique de ses puces.
traduit par Mirjana Robin-Cerovic
POSLE DVEHILJADITE
(astronautski bluz)
Posle dvehiljaditeastronauti dremaju na mesečini.U novom životu, Nil Armstrong jedrvoseča čvrste rukečiji zamah seče stablakao nekad Mlečni put.
Kažu da negde u visinipostoji planetao koju se razbijaju svi svemirski brodovikao tanjiri u grčkoj kafani:
posle dvehiljaditei teologija je deo astronautske igre:svi čuvaju po malu kutiju u džepu,uspomenu sa nebeskog putovanja.
U svakoj je delić nebau najčujnijoj, komadić okrznutog Boga :edini nočić na dnu kaseosuđen na ulog.
Ko je okrznuo Bogau vakuumskom letu, njegovo jeda daje izjave o strukturi nebao životu u svemiru, ako ga ima.
Posle dvehiljaditesvemir je oporezovan,astronomi još samo knjiže crne rupe –levke amnezije, mogućnosti bekstva;
mesečinu možeš zadržatikoliko hoćeš: ona je samo onošto se preliva preko ruba ...Dvehiljadite.
Na svakoj planetidrema po jedna Lajkakoja čezne za buvama.
