scriitorii Wordexpress la Poetici

A train of thought spreads the word through South-East Europe

Word Express is a new project for literary exchange in South-East Europe, organised by the UK-based Literature Across Frontiers in cooperation with Delta Publishing in Istanbul, Profil Books in Zagreb, Helicon in Tel Aviv and the National Book Centre in Bucharest and other partners based in twelve countries in the region. The project is part of the EU-supported Literature Across Frontiers Programme and of the British Council’s Creative Collaboration Programme which aims to enrich the cultural life of Europe and its surrounding countries and to build trust and understanding across communities by generating dialogue and debate. In a region marked with past and present conflicts, Word Express aims to cross cultural and linguistic boundaries and bring new literary voices of the region to the fore.

The project which started in May 2009, aims to create opportunities for exchange and dialogue by establishing a network of young writers, translators, literary magazines and venues in twelve countries and connecting them with the UK.

Some fifty young authors and translators will be eventually involved in the project, exploring the region’s cultural, social and political legacy and meeting their colleagues from the participating countries. In October 2009, twenty of them will form three groups each of which will take a train journey through the Balkans to Istanbul, stopping in different cities where they will take part in readings, debates and translation workshops. In Istanbul, where they will spend five days at the end of their journey, they will participate in the Istanbul Book fair and in the new Istanbul Tanpinar Literature Festival, as well as reading and debating in other venues. (photo Marius Ghilezan)

ANAHIT HAYRAPETYAN

Spre muntele ararat

fragment

îşi aminti.- când era el oare -  tânăr

plin de vise şi emoţii,

ajuns de la erevan până la limită,

cuprins de-o imposibilă iubire

e.cearenţ

la fiecare pas când urc pe ararat

care-i al nostru care-i al nostru

la fiecare pas sufăr cumplit

sângele venelor mele te înlocuieşte

nu mai pot scrie

cu înverşunare despre tine

nu te mai iubesc

orchestraţiile lui duke elington

în camera ta cu pereţii înclinaţi

unde totul miroase a sex manual proaspăt

rufele tale puse la uscat

papucii tăi

chiar şi cafeaua

iar eu mâhnită

mi-am văzut mâinile febrile

triste şi transparente

atât de lente şi feminine

asemeni unui copil de patru ani

cel care-mi va vorbi de rău va fi el

degetele tale care urmăresc încrucişate la spate pentru  a-ţi alunga minciunile

mă pregăteai de fapt pentru tine

te omor

încep cu penisul tău

el e sătul de fecioare

intelectual

cu multă experienţă şi dorinţe multiple

lucrător harnic şi care câştigă

mereu neînfrânt

semănător

mereu gata să se lupte pe viaţă şi pe moarte

mereu în numele patriei

înaaaainte

ai iubit

hahahaha

număr repetat la clubul zero

în vâltoarea mulţimii melomane

unde se ştie totul despre fiecare

chipurile ţi-ai amintit de numele meu

ura

chiar şi pe muntele ararat

am iubit

trupu-ţi fierbinte

transpirat

degetele-ţi scurte

ochii-ţi crucişi

aşa cum am iubit

la fiecare metru al muntelui ararat

numeroase alte penisuri ciopârţite

nu te iubesc

şoaptele tale se sting uşor

încă un pas înaaaainte

spre culmea aureolată

Traducere din limba armeană de

MADELEINE KARACAŞIAN

BROTHER’S BLOOD

fragment

Barış Müstecaplıoğlu

Prologue

He was in two minds about keeping his eyes open when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps; he was extremely curious to know what was about to happen to him. But on the other hand, he was frightened to death of what he might see.

Not that fat beast… Please, God…

There hadn’t been any feeling in his arms which were tied to the wooden chair for some time now. They had gone numb; he wondered if he would be able to move them again. But he could feel the dampness around his wrists; they have been bleeding for several minutes where the wire cut into his flesh.

The footsteps stopped before coming too close. It was silent for a while. A man or a woman, whoever the hell it was, had to be watching him at this moment. He wondered how he might have looked. He wouldn’t have liked to see the state of his own face; a broken nose, a mouth with no front teeth, cheeks branded randomly with several cigarette burns, a forehead covered with bruises, bloodshot eyes probably swollen from crying and…

He heard a voice say: “Are you conscious, son?” It was asked in a kind tone, but what made him feel better was that it was a voice he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t that fat dog, thank God. Three different people had knocked him about since he had been shut in here, but it was only that hippopotamus that had put his hand between his legs. Every time the guy touched him there, a feeling that was stronger and more disturbing than any pain had come over him.

He seemed to be enjoying it, the son of a bitch…

He lifted his head slowly and opened his eyes slightly. A tall man was standing in the semi-darkness. He was a large man. As the light was coming from behind him, his face could not be seen clearly. He seemed to be wearing a suit. The young man in the chair found the situation funny but was unable to smile; he felt as if thousands of needles were pricking his sore lips when he tried smiling.

“So you’re conscious,” said the man with a calm and non-threatening voice “I’m happy about that, son. I have to tell you that you don’t look so great. You’d think a truck had run over you.”

There was a silence.

“Your name is Kemal, isn’t it? You can call me Hasan, if you like. Of course, that’s not my real name, but it would make things easier for you if I had a name for me when we speak. You’re not obliged to use it. Whatever makes you feel comfortable….?”

It was all silent again.

The man made a tour around Kemal, walking with small steps. When he returned to his previous position, his face looked serious.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked softly. “Please talk to me. You can be sure that we are not playing any games. I can be just as bad as the others if necessary. But I’m a bit more intelligent, may be. You won’t be any use to me if you’re in no shape to talk. Nobody here enjoys inflicting pain on you, believe me. We’re just trying to do our job.”

The man took a deep breath. He clasped one wrist with his other hand. “You must have realised that this business won’t be over unless you talk. Put an end to this, son. Whatever the reason for your silence is, it just isn’t worth it. Talk and get it over with.”

Kemal was on the verge of tears. All the wounds on his body, all that pain he had been enduring for hours; Oh God! What were they for? He wished he knew it…

“I don’t know, sir,” he said with an obedient and pleading voice. “I told them, too. I told them all. I don’t know anything.”

Ognjen Spahic: Hansen’s Children

(fragment)

translated by Will Firth

With the slow snow the lepers descend.

René Char in his poem Victory Lightning

Europe’s last home for lepers, or leprosarium, is located in south-eastern Romania amidst the leprous landscapes of dark, barren soil, scarred by the smokestacks of power stations and the remnants of once mighty forests. Long have the fertile clods disappeared that recalled the heavy footsteps of Burebista and Decebalus, the Dacian princes ever ready to sink iron into the glistening flanks of Roman horses and the bellies of Trajan’s strapping, well-fed legionaries. Later Vlad III, the Impaler, Prince Mircea the Old, Stephen the Great of Moldavia, the ‘Athlete of Christ’, and Michael the Brave – all devoted apostles of the word of God – were like stars in the back night that Christendom looked up to with hope when Ottoman scimitars spilt rivers of young blood.

Throughout history, as people like to recall, this country was torn apart by the claws of evil old lions, their grizzled manes spattered with the gore of subjugated millions.

But Romania has not forgotten the glory of the brave. Rivers flow past, but rocks remain, as a Romanian saying goes, and even today tales are told of the exploits of Prince Vlad’s heroic legions that devoted their last ounce of strength to their native land.

My dear room-mate, Robert W. Duncan, has a habit of saying that history is the third eye of humanity and that it allows us to perceive more clearly the pitfalls of our melancholic age. I always reply by citing Emil Cioran who wrote that, if there were no such thing as melancholy, people would roast and eat nightingales; Robert replies that he is horrified by the very thought of plucked nightingale garnished with mint and garlic, and begs me not to mention the painful notion again. I began to chirp through my missing teeth, flap my arms and flutter around the room until Robert grabs his slippers and flings them at my head. He wants to sleep. I cannot.