Dalla Bielorussia le poesie di Maria KOBETS

Dalla Bielorussia le poesie di Maria KOBETS

https://farapoesia.blogspot.com/…/dalla-bielorussia-le-poes…

Poetessa bielorussa, traduttrice, redattrice del dipartimento di notizie della Broadcasting Company “Brest”. Autrice di tre raccolte di poesie, partecipante a numerose raccolte collettive, membro dell’Unione degli scrittori di Bielorussia, membro dell’Unione degli scrittori dell’Unione, insignita del Premio di letteratura intitolato a Vladimir Kolesnik. Nelle traduzioni, le poesie di Maria Kobets sono state pubblicate in Azerbaigian, Daghestan, Russia, Polonia, Serbia, Montenegro, Tatarstan, Turchia, Repubblica Cecena, Repubblica del Chivash.

 

Il Sole

Solo il sole
conosce il sentiero per il nido dell’uccello di fuoco.
Si nasconde in questo modo molto sicuro e affidabile.
Si nasconde in questo modo ai cercatori spontanei.
Stanco dalla dura strada,
Solo lui tra centinaia di migliaia lo trova in questo modo
Tra milioni di falsi rifugi.
Lo trova e rimane con Sua Santità,
rimane libero per sempre.
Forse non ho avuto abbastanza energia nelle mie gambe,
Non avevo molta vista, udito o molta testa
per superare questo sentiero.
Ecco perché oggi
Ingoio odore velenoso di strani capelli.
Mi unisco alla folla di persone simili a me.
Io resisto strettamente all’ovvio –
Sono tra le centinaia di migliaia di avanzi.

 

Ti ascolto. Stai piangendo. Non piangere,
Il mio cielo è lontano e vicino
Le lacrime cadono
Un corvo ritorna al terreno delimitato.

Ascolto il tuo lamento …
è per questo che sono triste.
Apro le mie braccia verso di te
Tu stai piangendo. Non lo sai
un viaggiatore miope viene verso te

La croce scivola fuori dalle mani,
Che è fredda, quasi gelata.
C’è un sentiero attraverso l’aconito
E il corpo è strettamente sicuro.

E il cuore batte forte e il tuo pianto …
Il cuore avverte molto il tuo pianto
A proposito, non vado molto più veloce
delle grandi disgrazie

Cerco credo e verità
nel volto di una donna triste.
Sussurro le parole della mia solenne promessa
Respiro il pensiero della mia fiducia.

Puoi sentire il vento e il pianto,
Il tuo pianto, il cielo più alto ….
Perdonami, Sky, perdonami
Per la debolezza dell’assenza del pane.

Il poema è dedicato al tema “Dio e un uomo”. Ci parla della natura peccaminosa della gente e delle persone colpevoli di non essere forti nella loro fede in Dio.

P. S. … assenza di pane significa assenza di credo religioso
Aconito (botanica) – pianta molto velenosa.

 

Perdonami, Paradiso,perdonami

Le tue parole sono i suoni della preghiera festosa,
Che è molto semplice e naturale per la mia anima.
La sua voce alta riempie tutti i buchi segreti del mio cuore.
È la voce del passato e della non esistenza,
È la voce della Sacra Scrittura, che ricorda la voce del Profeta … ..
Sono una sorella, amo Gesù. Io vivo nel Tempio della tua anima.
Il tempio è luminoso, accogliente, festoso e segreto.
È il posto della mia dimenticanza e ……… Risalgo fino al sole ..
Significativo, ha portato alla perplessità interiore,
È la necessità di andare in pellegrinaggio nella terra santa.
Si allontana dal mio corpo da un disperato abisso
E dà vita al credo … ..
Credo in me stessa.
Credo nell’uomo
Credo in un futuro dell’Uomo.

 

Maria Kobets ( Republic of Belarus )

Poet, interpreter, editor of the news department of the Broadcasting Company “Brest.” Author of three poetry collections, participant of a number of collective collections, member of the Writers’ Union of Belarus, member of the Union of Writers of the Union State, laureate of the Literature Prize named after Vladimir Kolesnik. The poems of Maria Kobets were translated and published in Azerbaijan, Dagestan, Russia, Poland, Serbia, Montenegro, Tatarstan, Turkmenistan, the Chechen Republic, the Chuvash Republic.

 

The creature

What do you see, a creature,
blinded by the yellow and red glitter of gold?
Colors of land?..
No!..
Your only color – is yellow-red!
Sunrise and sunset?..
Can you see them?
Your only sun – is cold metal,
which has finally ruined your eyesight!

…So, why are you silent?
Can you hear?..
And what you hear, a creature, having been stunned by the tinkling of coppers?
A beautiful singing of birds in the evenings?
No!..
Sacral sounds of the temples in the village?
Of course not!
How can you hear what you have never heard, the creature,
which was born in the cold glare of coppers.
Deaf!..
Blind!..
Insensitive!..
Dirty creature
which was born to bring death on Earth!..

 

The Sun

Oh, оnly the Sun
knows the pathway to the nest of the Firebird.
It hides this way very safe and reliable.
It hides this way from spontaneous searchers.
Tired from hard way,
Only the one from hundreds of thousands finds this way
Among millions of false shelters.
He finds It and stays at His Holiness,
he stays cleared for always.
May be I hadn`t enough power in my legs,
I hadn`t much eyesight, hearing or much mind
to overcome this way.
That`s why today
I swallow poisonous smell of strange hair.
I join in with the crowd the same people as me.
I narrowly withstand the clear –
I am among the leftover hundreds of thousands

 

The South , or a Portrait of a girl
with a porcelain cup
(the poem is dedicated to a girl suffering from cancer)

She loved to drink coffee
cinnamon and clove,
Hardly touching a black porcelain cup
By her lips.
She wanted to study to speak Hindi,
But she knew too little about it.
Her eyes were like the eyes of her cats:
equally honey- mysterious,
but a little bit frightened.

Her lips were similar to the gray-blue sky.

She usually spoke with it,
as well as nestlings,
that fluttered there.
She considered her friends as gods,
Fed them from her cold hands
during endless nights.

She frantically whispered,
lonely looking from the hospital window:
“On this sparkling, pristine snow planet
There is also my footprints on the sky!
They are here,
You see?
Here, look!”

Often and often her nights …
were replaceв only by nights,
And the color of her thin face
was similar to the white chintz dresses of her grandmother.
Till once in the early morning
her beloved birds
Took her to their flock,

In order to gently and easily,
with a smile on her lips
raise up to the South!

… She loved to drink coffee
cinnamon and clove,
And wanted to study
to speak Hindi…
She fed them from her cold hands
during endless nights.
So, she’s become a single unit
with this flock of the birds,
which has left their footprints
On this sparkling, pristine snow planet…

 

***

Your words are the sounds of the festive Pray,
Which is very easy and natural to my soul.
High voice of it fills in all the secret holes of my heart.
It`s the voice of the past and the non-existence,
It`s the voice of the Holy Writ, which remembers the voice of the Prophet…

I am a sister, loving Jesus. I live in the Temple of Your Soul.
The temple is light, cosy, festive and secret.
It`s the place of my forgetness and…Rising to the Sun..
Meaningfulness, resulted to inner perplextity,
Is the nessesity to have pilgrimage to the Holy place.
It moves off my body from desperate abyss
And it gives birth to Belief…
Belief to myself
Belief to Man
Belief for a future of Man

 

The Sky

I gave you my Sky.
But you…
You inhabited It by clouds and ravens,
By thunders and lightning…
Caressed by the emptied flock of birds
Which paralyzed His strength,
Raped His freedom…
But why-y-y?!
I frantically raise my hands… and getting scared:
The lightning is tearing the phantom body,
The ravens are pecking the blue eyes,
The bloody sunset is going down the cockcrow road…
Enо-о-ough!
Because of your, yes, your efforts
Submissively dies in the womb of the River of Time
“Pink lily of the Nile” –
The sacred lotus .
Eno-о-о-оugh!!!
But the voice is drowning in the sounds of mute insensibility…

 

Forgive me, Sky, forgive me…

I listen to you .You are crying. Don`t cry,
My far and close Sky
Tears fall down
A raven rends delited soil.

I listen to your groan…
that`s why I am sad.
I open my hands towards to you
You are crying. Don`t you know that
a short-sighted traveler goes to you.

The cross slips out of the hands,
Which is cold, almost freeze.
There is a foot-path across the aconite
And the body is narrowly safe.

And the heart beats hardly and your cry….
The heart feels your cry very much
I go not very fast by the way
of the great misfortunes.

I look for belief and truth
At the faces of sad woman.
I whisper the words of my solemn promise
I breathe out the thought of my trust.

You can feel wind and the cry,
Your cry, The Highest Sky….
Forgive me, Sky, forgive me
For the weakness of absence of the bread.

*P. S. … Аbsence of the bread means absence of religious belief.
This literal translation of the poem “Forgive me, Sky, forgive me…” in the original writing, the poem has a rhyme. The principle of rhyme 1: 3, 2: 4.

 

Truth and verity

Truth and verity –
Are the unity of the soul,
The meaning of being
And going out into the world.
Who and where are we,
While standing near the swaying bound?.. –
Plenty of mistakes while searching!

Variety of questions and reasons –
But we are warmed up by our excuse.
Godness, how much lie is between us,
How many troubles stay unspoken!

How much disbelief –
knives are feasting
in trade with blood
and old earth!
too many offenses
Holy Mass ..! –
Not only this,
No, not that!

The way to Calvary…
So many stages and ways,
Will we have enough strength
to overcome them?!
My God, forgive us!-
Only not to lose our way,
While going along the swaying road!

*P. S. This literal translation of the poem, in the original writing, the poem has a rhyme. The principle of rhyme 1: 3, 2: 4.

 

Stop!
It’s enough!

Stop!
It’s enough!
Blood, timelessness, horror.
Stand!
And pray for God!
The people, who lost their fear!

That’s enough
Stay!
The lights of an old cathedral are shining brightly!
Stop!
It’s too much!
The altar has already been destroyed!

Stay still!
Look!
Children are collecting remains!
So, pray for God!
The people, who lost their fear!

People, who rejected their faith –
They plundered crosses!
People! Can we believe those,
Who sharpen knives?!

Those, who paint the scrolls
With the blood of children’s bodies?!
Those, who already openly
Drink the blood from their chest?!

Stop!
It’s enough
To foster death in our arms!
Stand!
And pray for God!
The people, who lost their fear!

*P. S. This literal translation of the poem, in the original writing, the poem has a rhyme. The principle of rhyme 1: 3, 2: 4.

 

Traduzione dall’inglese a cura di Claudia Piccinno

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