A PEN Nemzetközi Írószövetség elítéli azt a szlovák irodalmi lapot, amely a napokban közölt verseket a népirtással vádolt Radovan Karadzsicstól. Az Írószövetség többek közt azt is nehezményezi, hogy a verseket anélkül publikálták, hogy említést tettek volna az író hátteréről. A PEN azt fontolja, hogy büntetésképpen, a Dotyky magazin szerkesztőjének PEN-tagságát bevonja egy teljes évre. Miroslav Lajcsák, szlovák külügyminiszter, nyilatkozatában leszögezi, hogy a szlovák kormány teljes mértékben elhatárolódik a történtektől.
Brendza, az említett lap szerkesztője viszont azzal érvel, hogy Karadzsics versei egészen kiválóak, és nagy kár lenne, ha feledésbe merülnének. Karadzsicsegyébként 1994-ben, verseivel megnyerte az Orosz Írók Szövetségének Mihail Solohov díját. A szövegek nem meglepő módon háborús, vagy más erőszakos témákat dolgoznak fel, olyan címekkel, mint: Egy reggeli bomba, vagy a Merénylők.
Hogy mennyire kiválóan verselget Karadzsics, azt most el lehet dönteni. Akinek az alábbi két, angol fordításban olvasható vers nem elég, az még olvasgathat itt, itt, és itt, vagy itt meghallgathatja az Egy reggeli bomba címűt és egy kritikus véleményét is Karadžić verseiről.
Untitled
I surmise the sun is wounding me
With its sharp malignant rays
I surmise the stars are healing me
I am the deity of dark cosmic space
A horned cow reveals a faithless goddess
Everything's turned against me the one true god
I created the world to tear my head off
Judges torture me for insignificant acts
I am disgusted by the souls who radiate nothing
Like a small nasty puppy puny death
Is approaching from afar
I don't know what to make of all these things
But I can't stand the sight of you you file of scum
You file of snails
Well hurry up in your slime
Because if I can turn my words into thunder
I can turn you into a pool of stagnant water
Now that I am in this crazy fervor of mine
I could do just about anything
So your stupid rotten your vain souls
Wouldn't stare at me with their stupid peaceful eyes
If you take women out of the equation
I don't even know what
These slimy creatures are for
What all their words are for
What their lectures are for
I demand and I want just as God rightfully wants
The immediate abolition of all things
Without a purpose and with no beauty
Without a purpose
And no soundness
A Morning BombWritten By Radovan V. Karadzic
Književna reč, May, 1974 (written in pencil on the back of the second page - RSV)
Translated by Russell Scott ValentinoAt last I am lost to all benefactors,
I burn like a cigarette between neurotic lips,
while they look for me everywhere-I wait in the dawn’s ambush
for the enormous occasion of leaving it all once and for all,
all the wondrous possibilities the savior offers me:
I rush to drop a morning bomb on a lonely man-
like a biting line more delightless than a mood.
On the hill a snatch of sleep and a glass of clear water wait for me,
a poison mushroom and a viper sharply sworn,
the clean closeness of the sky and a tense wind,
a blood-soaked relation in an ambush of pure death,
unforeseeable blue, Elijah’s stakes, windswept hilltops,
the deer-like fate of supple Cyclopses, a sure fate-
but I am carried away by the formula of nothingness, the idea of non-sleep,
I leap to drop a morning bomb that returns
amid the magic eye above town, in a professor’s happiness,
though my anxious sweetheart waits, along with a scholar’s life.
I can look for myself in sad, empty spaces,
strangle the rebellion of my beast in my blood,
just as I find myself on the ceiling of a church-I can go to sleep,
or wake up pierced at dawn on the barroom’s altar,
I can share my solitude with the river that flows peacefully
filled with mythic fish and peace that is unattainable from without,
so much solitude that I seize it for myself alone and the evening,
and seek out stocks of gold, the secrets of manganite,
and come to love seeing right through the Earth’s crust,
mild towards all and as a gentleman at the end
peacefully resolve the mystery of mysteries, and then
all night on the square of darkness shine with good:
but I rush to drop the morning bomb of laughter
beneath the left breast of this perfected century.
Or I could, all in robes, dream of Chinese rain,
lean my head against the moon goggling in the field
full of bluish star flowers, a noose of thoughts,
follow the bees buzzing, transparent, open to all
and, filled with the faith of the great magus, wait prone:
look-evening is falling on the Eskimo’s tongue, god shakes the fields,
a pair of lovers disappears behind the high school and a dog-
But I go into the magma of the night in anticipation
of dawn, to pour through all the hidden holes and into
all of it a morning bomb of laughter, a torrent of disbelief.
