Kristina Hočevar
(Eslovenia, 1977)
Kristina Hočevar es poeta y licenciada en Lengua y Literatura Eslovenas y en Lingüística General en La Facultad de Filosofía y Letras de Liubliana. En este momento trabaja como profesora de instituto y ocasionalmente como editora.
Ha escrito cinco libros de poesía: V pliš (A la felpa, editorial Cankarjeva založba 2004),
Fizični rob (El borde físico, editorial Cankarjeva založba 2007), Repki (Las colitas, editorial Škuc 2008), Nihaji (Oscilaciones, editorial Cankarjeva založba 2009) y Na zobeh aluminij, na ustnicah kreda (Sobre los dientes aluminio, sobre los labios tiza, editorial Škuc 2012).
Las colitas ha recibido El Premio de Pájaro de Oro y Sobre los dientes aluminio, sobre los labios tiza ha ganado El Premio de Jenko, otorgado por la Asociación de los Escritores Eslovenos. En 2014 la Institución Gulag publicó el libro del arte en tres direcciones, en el que su poema es acompañada por la obra gráfica de Gorazd Krnc.
Su poesía ha sido traducida a diferentes lenguas (inglés, polaco, húngaro, hebreo, sueco…) y ha sido publicada en las revistas en el extranjero. Ha sido una de los cinco poetas eslovenos para la plataforma europea de poesía Versepolis 2014-2017.
La voz de la poesía de Hočevar es una de las más intrépidas y dinámicas en la escena literaria eslovena, pero al mismo tiempo no deja de ser sensitiva y comprometida.
no llevaré una larga trenza cana, mi cabello ya es ahora demasiado fino.
tendré la cabeza descubierta ante los choques, los besos de los planetas y las riñas de los astros.
donde los dientes se caerán en el lavabo, donde el cuerpo definirá la coreografía del día;
tendré sentido del humor; donde las huellas digitales en los picaportes
se convertirán en hologramas en plasmas.
no limitaré mi ropa a tela pastel y beis. mis camisetas tendrán capuchas.
tendrán mis ojos más cortinas espesas;
qué hará mis arrugas más profundas – me gustaría captar cada promesa sin sellar.
estarán mis antebrazos flácidos o sabré ofrecer
la gracia de otra manera;
mi gente, estarán nuestras orejas más cerca
o las lagunas
serán todavía más profundas,
todavía más;
mi lengua, rancia, aislada, sin venas o ígnea por sus cicatrices;
será la sangre de nuevo
mi huella favorita;
mis antepasados más pronunciados o más cerca de otros, de mí misma, seré una masa de recuerdos [o su pérdida, qué;
habrá una columna vertebral o me erguiré por mis moldes, bien, dulces de coco, mis palabras una [katana mellada.
seré más un niño o más una niña: mucho los dos y los dos cambiados de piel;
seré lárice o prado, serán las palabras
montones para su oído; serán las preguntas
o más bien los cadáveres
y ante todo – seré acaso:
(traducido por: Barbara Pregelj)
Kristina Hočevar: Aluminum on the Teeth and Chalk on the Lips (Škuc, 2012)
Translated by: Andrej Pleterski
31
now i see one of us lying, the other one sitting at the bedside. i
see one of us taking leave: no safety zone whatsoever
in between the two bodies. no grayness, not a shift can i hear. one of us
is leaving earlier; i do not want you to go.
now i see the same blueness in us. the blue hands with other blue hands.
free skin :our encounter now.
now a ton on the heart. i see wheelbarrows of words, vacant houses, your corpses
and my figure.
i see a sentiment, not a realization.
one of us is sitting on a chair, watching the other one,
the distance is very much prescribed. the throat choked with fruit. time has finally
split in two.
eyes swollen.
now i see a black flag and a phone call; all images in the air of the park
with foliage up high, chestnuts already bending in anticipation, the castle vacant.
and the man making decisions, and the passage from time pulling all three into a tunnel.
now i see a black flag and the name in the newspaper. chestnut trees in the winter embrace. a
balcony full of pigeons, books on the shelves, everything falling is a profound, faithful
rain. and the passage from time fades out. nobody determines the size of the stone, and you
are on the peninsula.
*
may i overtake it.
hush up at least.
41
you step into your own ring and always it ends where you stop making circles.
there’s eye shadow on the eyelids, aluminum on the teeth and chalk on the lips.
your memory
is spit out like a blob of chewing gum.
people are rolling from screen to screen,
turning away from wet skin. the next time you wish to spin the ring,
you lick the chalk, smear the eyelids, saw up the aluminum; where you’re absent, you step on
chewing gum.
8
where do i stop splitting in two as the set of my circles
clings to the set of circles from some memory.
the hands that had rubbed the clotted stains of plasma off the tiles. they touched your
walls, they had shaken a foreign hand beforehand, they scraped
the grime off the table, held the door handle previously held a thousand times, touched
the keyboard, tore paper and wiped feces off skin, they rubbed against each other under water,
afterwards they ate, and trained the thinning of gestures. where do words multiply after
splitting; where do i
end when the face doesn’t, with the other face in disbelief. where
the smile of the face is the smile of the mirror and luck exists, but the other face doesn’t
know
where. where
the set of circles from the memory and the set of circles from the vision
join in the touching of hands. where?
20+21
i will not have a long gray braid, my hair is already too thin at present.
under collisions, the kisses of planets and in between the clamps of stars, I will be bald-headed.
where my teeth will keep falling into the washbasin, where my body will define the choreography of
the day for me;
i will have a sense of smile; where my fingerprints on door handles will
be replaced by holograms on plasmas.
i will not restrict my wardrobe to pastel, beige fabric. my t-shirts will include a hood.
my eyes will have more and thicker curtains;
what will make their creases deeper – i wish to capture every unmarked commitment.
will my forearms be wobbly, will i know how to offer grace
differently ;
my people, will our ears be closer
will the intervals be
even more elaborate,
even more;
my tongue, rancid, isolated, veinless or fiery with adhesions;
will blood be again
my favorite trace;
more prominently my ancestors or closer to others, to myself, will i be a mass of memories or their
loss, what;
will the spine be, still standing upright, following its own pattern, well, coir pads, my words
a blunted katana.
will i be more of a boy or more of a girl: very much both or both molted;
will i be a larch or a meadow,
will words be
stacks for her consideration will there be questions
or will there be carcasses,
and before all that – will i be at all:
61
there are far too many little boys of course. but i can take care of little boys because i don’t
need them for the same touches. one of them had to go back to belgrade, one is here, one is
still so small i don’t even want to hold his little hand in mine. still, hardy any of them
comes along with his clothes washed, standing upright and properly bright;
and it doesn’t have to be me who takes care of his hairstyle.
we all share words and what hurts.