Authors: Edvard Kocbek, Michael Scammell (Translator), Veno Taufer (Translator), Charles Simic
ISBN-13: 9780691118390, ISBN-10: 0691118396
Format: Hardcover
Publisher: Princeton University Press
Date Published: March 2004
Edition: Bilingual
Edvard Kocbek was born in 1904, the son of a church organist, in a part of present-day Slovenia that was then in Austria-Hungary. Following the publication in 1934 of his first book of poetry, he published essays that presaged the wartime alliance of this Christian Socialist with the Tito-led partisan resistance. Despite a lengthy postwar publication ban, Kocbek went on to win the Preseren Prize, Slovenia's highest literary award, in 1964. More books of both poetry and prose followed, including his "Collected Poems" in 1977, which sealed his reputation as Slovenia's greatest modern-day poet. Michael Scammell, who teaches writing in Columbia University's School of the Arts, has translated widely from Russian, Serbo-Croatian, and Slovenian, including works by Tolstoy and Nabokov. Veno Taufer, the author of sixteen volumes of poetry in his native Slovenia and the translator of more than forty books of poetry, is the recipient of the Preseren Prize and several prestigious international awards. His verse, including the collection Waterlings (Northwestern, 2000), has been translated into numerous languages.
"Had Edvard Kocbek not belonged to a small nation and a language of extremely limited diffusion, he would now be numbered among the major poets of the postwar era. This is an extremely valuable book. The translations are impeccable, lucid, and eloquent."--Daniel Weissbort
Edvard Kocbek is a major Slovenian poet. For the past few months, I've been carrying around and traveling with Nothing Is Lost, his selected poems eloquently translated by Michael Scammell and Veno Tauffer. This marvelous body of work spans more than 40 years and confirms that Kocbek belongs in the company of other notable East European poets. . . . Reading [his poems] now, one feels that his pastoral sensibility and vital intimacy with nature, which at times feels mystical, were always infused with a painful sense of time, an agonized feeling of cosmic sorrow.
Foreword | ||
Acknowledgments | ||
Introduction | 1 | |
Silent birds perch on my shoulders | 15 | |
The sun is wreathed in cobwebs | 17 | |
A pair of strong young oxen goes slowly | 19 | |
The women are coming from work | 21 | |
The heavy bole presses the last basket of grapes | 23 | |
O noise of waters, collapse of the universe | 25 | |
Loud greetings to you, my living comrades | 27 | |
Drunk with change I lie on the ground | 29 | |
Earth, I get everything from you | 31 | |
Rain | 35 | |
Hands | 37 | |
Moonlight | 39 | |
Moon with a halo | 41 | |
Crucifix in a field | 43 | |
The game | 45 | |
After the meeting | 47 | |
Unknown woman | 49 | |
The bay | 51 | |
Night ritual | 53 | |
Midnight wind | 55 | |
Dialectics | 57 | |
Black sea | 59 | |
The stick | 61 | |
Grace | 63 | |
Landscape | 65 | |
Migration | 67 | |
Things | 69 | |
Summons | 71 | |
Presentiment | 73 | |
Prayer | 75 | |
On night watch | 79 | |
Doubled | 81 | |
How shall I be? | 83 | |
Pentagram | 85 | |
The cave | 87 | |
Image in old bark | 89 | |
Night doffs its weapons | 91 | |
Parrots | 95 | |
Contraband | 97 | |
Exercise | 99 | |
Girl's apron | 101 | |
Climax | 103 | |
Ditty | 105 | |
Now | 107 | |
Pontic | 109 | |
The game is over | 111 | |
Play backwards | 113 | |
Longing for jail | 115 | |
My partisan name | 117 | |
Lippizaners | 119 | |
Tree | 127 | |
What happens to the mountain | 129 | |
Unknown beloved | 131 | |
The time of the poem | 133 | |
Blessed search | 135 | |
Amok | 139 | |
What we were looking for | 141 | |
The statue | 143 | |
Tongue | 145 | |
Plea | 147 | |
Stammer, children | 149 | |
Girl | 151 | |
On freedom of mind | 153 | |
Ancient miracle | 155 | |
The generosity of the poem | 157 | |
Now we are alone | 159 | |
Game | 161 | |
I haven't done playing with words | 163 |