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E L E K T R O N S K A K N J I G A
O M N I B U S
Sonja Koranter
Zemljekrog
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Sonja Koranter
ZEMLJEKROG
Prevajalci:
angle‰ãina: Simon Koranter
italijan‰ãina: Majda Rasinger
nem‰ãina: Magdalena Cundriã
‰pan‰ãina: Sa‰a Hiti
farsi: Manzar in Ali Milosavljeviã
Lektor: Andrijan Lah
Ilustracije: Lea DeÏman
Fotografija naslovnice: Igor Pustovrh
Tiskana izdaja je iz‰la v samozaloÏbi,
Hru‰ica 2002, s pomoãjo Ministrstva
za kulturo (ISBN 961-6370-03-0)
To izdajo pripravil
Franko Luin
franko@omnibus.se
ISBN 91-7301-194-0
beseda@omnibus.se
www.omnibus.se/beseda
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Vsebina
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Moj ded
Najprej sem zagledala klobuk,
nato dolgo, rahlo upognjeno postavo.
Moj ded se je pribliÏeval
med nevihtnimi oblaki,
med pra‰natimi delci ceste,
ki se je pred menoj lomila
v spomin.
Njegova hi‰a je imela prag,
zlizan in star,
od starosti zelen,
vendar to je bil prag,
kjer me je ponavadi ãakal,
in ob tak‰nem trenutku
sem bila samo del njegove celice,
samo del zelenega volka
s praga Ïe zdavnaj zamolãane domaãije.
Deda spoznam samo po klobuku,
njegova barva glasu mi je tuja,
tuji sta mi njegova dlan in ‰e bolj
zelena go‰ãava okrog njegovega
lonãenega kolovrata.
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Rada bi mu sedela v naroãju,
‰e raje bi poslu‰ala Ïvenket lonãene posode,
ko bom med maliki in svetniki,
v ograji neskonãne meglice dobila svoj sedeÏ.
Ta dan, ko bo moãvirnato zeleni petelin
stare posode zakikirikal v dan,
bom sprejela klobuk iz rok mojega deda,
iz neder zemlje, ilovnato rumene.
Samo na lonec poãakam,
na travo, ki je prerasla robidovje,
in na rdeãe ãe‰nje sadovnjaka,
kjer sta objeti jablana in Ïitni klas.
Z Ïitnicami bom spletla vrv,
stol za mojega deda in pravljico
za moje otroke.
Ko bi le ne pozabila topline lonãarjevine,
mleãnosti mladega Ïitnega klasa
in soãnosti prve temno modre slive
z mojega dvori‰ãa, polja in
senãnatega privida mojega deda.
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Mio nonno
Dapprima vidi il cappello,
poi la lunga, leggermente curva statura.
Mio nonno si stava avvicinando
tra le nuvole burrascose,
tra le molecole polverose della strada,
che davvanti a me si spezzava
nel ricordo.
La sua casa aveva la soglia
logora e vecchia,
verde dalla vecchiaia,
ma questa era la soglia
dove di solito mi aspettava
e in tale momento
ero solo parte della sua cellula,
solo parte del verderame
dalla soglia della casa da lungo taciuta.
Riconosco il nonno solo dal cappello,
il suo timbro della voce mi è estraneo,
estraneo è il palmo della sua mano e ancor di piú
il verde folto attorno al suo
filarello di terracotta.
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Vorrei stargli seduta in braccio,
mi piacerebbe ancor meglio ascoltare l’acciottolio della
terraglia,
quando tra idoli e santi
nel recinto della nebbiolina eterna traverò il mio sedile.
Il giorno quando il gallo verde palude
delle vecchie stoviglie chicchirerà nel dì,
riceverò il cappello dalle mani di mio nonno,
dal seno della terra, gialla argilla.
Aspetterò solo la pentola,
l’erba che ha coperto il roveto
e le ciliegie rosse dal frutteto,
dove stanno abbracciati il melo e la spiga del grano.
Dai cereali intreccerò una corda,
una sedia per mio nonno e una fiaba
per i miei bambini.
Se solo non dimenticassi il calore della bottega di
terraglie,
la lattiginosità della giovane spiga del grano
e la succosità della prima prugna blu
dal mio cortile, il campo e
l’ombrosa apparizione di mio nonno.
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Moja babica
Temno moder predpasnik
moje babice
je imel sedem Ïepov.
V njih ni bilo sladkorja,
ne kruha,
v njih je ãepelo stoletje
ljudi,
ki so prihajali, obleãeni
v temno modre predpasnike
na dvor mojega deda.
Za ograjo so se bohotile robide,
v senci pod vinsko trto
se je ‰ibila pogaãa in v vrãu,
zlatorumenem z roÏami,
se je penilo domaãe vino.
Z oãmi, polnimi sonca in veselja,
je babica govorila —
brez besed.
Njen obraz, zagorel od sonca
in odet v platneno ruto,
mi je ponujal zavetje,
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ãas brez zidov ‰olskega poslopja
in sonce na obroke.
Od jutra do veãera,
pod temno modro slivo,
v Ïitnem polju in v senci grozdnega drevesa.
Robide niso ãakale,
‰e manj kopica otrok.
Vse je izginilo tisti dan,
ko sem poslednjiã ugriznila
v grenko-sladko jabolko
Ïivljenjskih zablod.
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Mia nonna
Il grembiule blu
di mia nonna
aveva sette tasche.
In esse non c’era ne zucchero
ne pane,
in esse se ne stava accoccolato un secolo
di gente
che veniva, vestita
in grembiuli blu
nel cortile di mio nonno.
Dietro il recinto esuberavano le more,
nell’ombra sotto la vigna
si piegava la focaccia e nella brocca,
gialla oro con i fiori
spumeggiava il vino di casa.
Con gli occhi pieni di sole e gioia
parlava la nonna —
senza parole.
Il suo viso, abbronzato dal sole
e avvolto nel fazzoletto di tela
mi offriva il ricetto,
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il tempo senza la mura dell’edificio scolastico
e il sole a rate.
Dalla mattina alla sera,
sotto il prugno blu,
nel campo di cereali e nell’ombra dell’albero d’uva.
Le more non aspetarono,
ancor meno la folla dei bambini.
Tutto sparì il giorno
quando per l’ultima volta morsi
l’amara-dolce mela
degli inganni della vita.
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Minljivost
Grele so me tople, raskave roke,
ko sem dedu govorila o soncu,
o krajih, ki jih ne poznam,
o svetlobi, ki jo vidim dan na dan.
Ni poslu‰al z u‰esi,
z oãmi je v moji du‰i gradil mesto
za jutri,
za ãase, ko ne bo mogel sesti na voz,
ko bo njegov lonãeni kolovrat
raztrgal nit posode in bo Ïgalna daritev
v veliki peãi popokala,
se spremenila v ãrepinje.
Poslu‰al me je s srcem,
mi odgrnil zaveso v topli kotanji srca,
ko je s koraki teÏkimi od‰el
v sadovnjak.
Tam so njegova drevesa prezgodaj
izgubila liste
in mlaka, ki je kovinsko modro sevala
svoj Ïabji zarod,
je kar ãez noã potemnela.
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V hi‰i moje mladosti ne gori veã luã,
v njej sameva kolovrat,
pokrit s slamo —
spomin na zibko in ladjo sanjsko
v vsakdan pregnano.
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La transitorietà
Le calde, ruvide mani mi scaldavano
quando a mio nonno parlavo del sole,
dei posti che non conosco,
della luce che vedo giorno dopo giorno.
non ascoltava con le orecchie,
con gli occhi nella mia anima costruiva una città,
per domani,
per i tempi quando non potrà sedersi sul carro,
quando il suo filarello di terracotta
straperà il filo del vasellame e l’olocausto
nel grande forno si screpolerà ,
si trasformerà in cocci.
Mi ascolto con il cuore,
mi svelo la tenda nella calda fossa del cuore,
quando con i passi pesanti se ne andò
nel frutteto.
Li i suoi alberi troppo presto
persero le foglie
e il pantano che in blu metallo splendeva
la sua covata di rane,
durante la notte si oscurò.
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Nella casa della mia giovinezza non arde piu il lume,
in essa sta solitario il filarello,
coperto di paglia —
il ricordo della culla e della nave dei sogni
in trivialità espulso.
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Moj svet
Ta svet, ki mi jemlje sapo,
je kakor posu‰eno drevo
brez listov in vej.
V njem prezimim
in na pomlad se grem sonce.
Okrog prsi imam posu‰ene roÏe
in na obzorju je Ïe vzhod.
Med prsti ãutim hlad zime.
Pred vrati trka starec brezzobi,
piska na pi‰ãal in se gre preroka.
Ta svet, ki mi jemlje kri in svobodo,
je samo podalj‰ek vãeraj‰njega dne.
Med cestami so nasajena drevesa,
v prahu so odtisi stopal
kakor prero‰ka dlan,
ki ima vdelane oãi v nebo.
Za jutra, ki jih ni in jih ne bo.
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Starec brezzobi dvigne roko,
si premisli,
niã veã ne trka na vrata zemlje.
Odhaja med mrtve,
saj ve — daleã je ‰e do veãnosti.
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My world
This world, so breathtaking,
is like a sapless tree,
with no leaves, no twigs.
In it I winter
and in spring I am the sun.
Sapless blossoms around my chest
and sunrise appearing on the horizon.
I feel the winter’s cold between my fingers.
A toothless old man’s knocking at the door,
blowing his flute, pretending to be a prophet.
This world, taking my blood and freedom
is just an addition to the days gone by.
Trees are planted among the roads,
footprints in dust,
like a prophet’s palm,
with eyes infixed to the sky.
For all the mornings,
never having a chance to exist.
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The toothless old man raises his hand,
changing his mind,
no longer knocking at the earth’s door.
Joining the dead,
for he knows — a long way to get eternity.
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Meine Welt
Diese Welt, die mir den Atem nimmt,
ist wie ein Baum verwelkter
ohne Zweige und Blätter
Ich überwintere darin
und im Frühling bin ich wieder Sonne.
Dürre Blumen schlingen sich um meine Brust
und auf dem Horizon beginnt der Aufgang.
Zwischen den Fingern fühle ich die Winterkälte.
Ein Mummelgreis klopft an die Tür,
auf eine Pfeife pfeifend verstellt er sich
er sei Prophet.
Diese Welt, die mir das Blut und Freiheit nimmt,
ist nichts als Tagsverlängerung von gestern.
Zwischen Strassen gibt es neugepflanzte Bäume,
im Staub sind Fussabdrücke
wie eine Sehershand,
mit Augen in den Himmel eingebaut.
Für die Morgen die nie gibt und nie je geben wird.
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Der Mummelgreis erhebt seine Hand.
bedenkt sich aber,
klopft an die Erdetür nicht mehr.
Er zieht zu den Toten fort,
wissend — weit ist es bis zur Ewigkeit noch.
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Orbis terrarum
Je v besedi
ãar srca,
dogovorjeni izreki
prepleteni v skledi
gorja?
ârta, ki deli
nebo in zemljo,
se razteza v ljudeh,
polnih bremen.
Med soncem in luno
je le korak,
razstavljen na obdobja
ãarobni oblak.
Po stezi jezera
nevidni ‰krat brzi,
na obzorju orel bel
proti zemlji hiti.
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Med ljubeznijo in strahom
je le nitka tanka.
Z njo si spletem ‰otor,
se obleãem vanjo.
Blisk ima korenino v oblaku,
ãrno jezero je spet brez dna.
Jeleni severa so sami,
ãlove‰ki rod je skupaj, v blatu.
Ptice so razdrle gnezdo,
odletele so v ãas.
S tal pobiram tanke liste,
z njimi si zakrijem obraz.
Ribiã na obali reke
sam, brez mreÏe spet lovi.
Mag, osupel in neviden,
pre‰teva njegove kosti.
Sredi pustinje je grad,
pesek se nabira na okopih.
Sli‰im, pravi ‰krlatni voj‰ãak,
v telesu mojem spi gad.
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Z iglami so mi prebodli telo,
v srce travo posejali,
me izgnali daleã stran,
zajokalo ni niti nebo.
Na medeni skali se
srebrna igla sveti.
âarobnjak pobira kamen
ob obali, moji so obeti.
Videla sem prvo brv.
Po njej so hodili,
obleãeni v ‰krlat.
Vodili konje za vrv.
Iz medu in iz smole
je cesta vesoljna.
Lepi se na podplate,
v oãeh veãer medi.
Kdor prvi vrÏe kopje,
junak je pod ‰otorom.
Kdor prvi vidi sonce,
poslednji je na zemlji.
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Med mavrico in hribom
je blazina veãera.
Med teboj in menoj
je meglena odeja dneva.
Z napetim lokom stoji
vladar neba pred nebe‰ãani.
Njegov pogled sonce usmrti,
gozd na zemlji zapira poti.
ârni kolobarji neba
so prelestne ptice spomina.
Nanje naslonim telo,
raztrgano lice.
Vpra‰ala sem orakelj,
naj zidam zid?
V svitek zvita kaãa
na trinoÏniku oãi obraãa.
Prvi list, ki pade z drevesa,
je boleãina ljudi,
naslednji, ki so na vrsti,
so grob poletnih noãi.
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V prahu so leÏali
kakor mrtve roÏe.
Samo kaplja deÏja je
dvignila obzorja do neba.
Pu‰ãavnik v rosi joãe.
Za mislijo,
ki neizgovorjeno mu nebo
zaklepa v tuje telo.
Pod brestom ni veã prsti.
Znosili so jo velikani.
V kotanje, kjer voda buãi,
tam prebivajo izbrani.
V zemlji so zakopani
jutranji oblaki.
Iz njih se jutri rodi,
prvi iz boÏanske prsti.
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Orbis terrarum
Is in a word
a heart’s grace,
agreed proverbs
intertwined in a bowl
of sorrow?
The line that divides
the sky from the land
is stretching inside the people
that are full of burdens.
Between the sun and the moon
is only a step,
dismantled into eras
is the magic cloud.
On the lake’s path
hurries the invisible dwarf,
the white eagle on the horizon
hastens towards the earth.
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Between love and fear
is only a slender thread.
With it I knit a tent,
I dress in it.
Lightning has its root in a cloud,
the black lake is without its bottom again.
The northern deer are alone,
the human race together, in mud.
The birds have destroyed their nest,
flown into time.
Form the ground I gather thin leaves,
cover my face with them.
The fisherman on the shore is alone,
he’s fishing without the net again.
The magus, perplexed and invisible,
is counting his bones.
Amidst the desert lies a castle,
sand is accumulating on the trenches.
I hear, says the purple warrior,
inside my body sleeps a castle.
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They’ve pierced my body with needles,
planted grass inside my heart,
banished my far away,
not even the sky had cried.
On the honeyed rock
a silver needle is shining.
The wizard is picking up the stone
on the shore, promises are mine.
I’ve seen the first footbridge.
They’ve been crossing it
dressed into purple cloth.
Leading horses with a rope.
Out of honey and wax
is the universal road.
It sticks on soles,
in eyes the evening ripens.
Whoever casts his spear the first
is the hero under the tent.
Whoever sees the sun the first
will be the last on Earth.
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Between the rainbow and the hillock
there’s an evening pillow.
Between you and me
there’s the day’s misty cover.
The regent of the sky stands before
the immortals with the strained bow.
His gaze kills the sun,
the earthly forest closes the paths.
The sky’s black circles
are the charming birds of memory.
Against them I lean my body,
the tattered cheek.
I’ve asked the oracle:
Should I build a wall?
The snake rolled up in a scroll
is turning its eyes on the tripod.
The first leaf that falls from the tree
is the pain of all people,
the next ones in line
are the summer nights’ grave.
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They’ve lain in dust
like dead flowers.
Only a drop of rain
rose horizons to the sky.
The hermit in the dew is crying.
For the thought
that locks the untold sky
into an unknown body.
Under the elm there’s no more mould.
Giants have spread it around.
In the hollows where water roars,
there dwell the chosen ones.
In the ground the morning clouds
are burried.
From them tomorrow is born,
the first from the divine mould.
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Starodavni jezik Perzije —
farsi — se ‰e danes uporablja
v Iranu in Afganistanu, kjer
je tudi uradni jezik. Govorijo
ga v zahodnem delu
Pakistana, kjer je v osnovni
‰oli drugi izbirni jezik poleg
angle‰ãine, ter na meji med
Iranom in Irakom.
Jezik farsi je izredno pojoã
in kot nala‰ã prirejen za
izraÏanje globokih ãustev,
predvsem ljubezni, lepot
narave, ljudi in svobode.
Zapisan je v ãudoviti,
skrivnostni, na videz
zapleteni obliki, katero Ïal
razumejo samo doloãeni,
predvsem pa tisti ljudje, ki
vidijo s srcem.
V farsi je prevedeno prvih
pet kitic pesmi z naslovom
Orbis Terrarum.
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MALTE·KA SVETLOBA
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Privezana skala
Drobna pika na zemljevidu,
obdana z medenim obzidjem
in kriÏem ki utaplja ãas
v morju sinjem,
je moj kaÏipot, ko se grem romarko,
da bi tam v ‰irnem prostranstvu vode
na‰la zrno moãi in si zgradila nov svet —
Ïivela Ïivljenje.
V tem kamnitem skrivali‰ãu
sredi sveta, kjer skale privezane vidijo
z oãmi Ozirisa,
me greje sonce in luna hladi.
Odpiram vrata v hi‰o
v barvi medu,
sem kot vino bordojsko,
omamna in topla
od malte‰ke svetlobe in miru.
Ta kamniti svet, brez roÏ,
brez dreves, brez potokov in brez rek,
a poln svetleãih zvezd,
z molitvijo meni neznano,
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me kljub nemoãi vklene v temo
in pogoltne z jezikom nerazumljivih besed.
Za obzidjem posedim, poslu‰am topove,
sreãne obraze preletim —
‰otorsko ‰iroko je sinje nebo
in vabljivo globoko malte‰ko oko.
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The chained rock
A tiny spot on the map,
surrounded by a honeyed wall
and a cross, which drowns the time
in the azure sea,
is my waymark when I play a pilgrim,
to find a grain of strength and build me a new world
in the vast spaciousness of water —
live my life.
Inside this rocky hideaway
In the middle of the world, where the chained rocks
look through the Osiris’ eyes,
I’m warmed by the sun, cooled by the moon.
I’m opening a door
of the honey-coloured house,
being like a bordeaux wine,
stupefying and warm
from the Maltese freedom and calmness.
Despite all my faintness
this rocky world without flowers
and trees, streams and rivers,
yet full of shining stars,
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chains me into the darkness
and swallows me with a language
of abstruse words
with an unknown prayer.
I sit behind the wall, listen to the cannons
and glance the happy faces —
wide is the azure sky
and alluring is the deep Maltese eye.
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Mdinski oboki
Potujem v stekleni reki, v reki romarjev
in ptic prezimovalk
med obzidje mesta in med spomine ljudi —
i‰ãemo zaklad preteklosti.
Mdinsko mesto je
kakor ptica sanjalka, moje srce ga ne obudi,
preveã je topel med in preveã zaãudene
so ãrne oãi.
Ko se zlijeta obzidje in nebo
z glasovi neba in s ãasom mesta
pozabljenega,
se mi zazdi, hipoma in brez sramu,
da je tu moj dom, in prav tako
kot voj‰ãaki in vitezi zrem v ãas,
ki se kot med na soncu raztopi.
·e ãakam, se veselim,
pod izrezljanim balkonom si du‰o ohladim,
med prepotenimi telesi iz zlata,
z govorico kakor zamolkel plaz
me zajame val vetra vzhodnega.
Tu, kjer ni sladke vode iz studenca
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in steklena reka jedka roke in srce,
me pogoltne neka tuja, ãrna streha —
ãas kot zver vklenjena
mi v uho spet ‰epeta.
Voj‰ãak na skali pa Ïivi,
v obleki medeni in s steklenimi oãmi!
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The arches of Mdin
I travel in the river of glass, the river of pilgrims
and hibernating birds
to the walls of the city and memories of the people —
we search the treasures of the past.
The city of Mdin is like a dreaming bird,
my heart awakens it,
the honey being too warm,
the black eyes too amazed,.
As the the walls and the sky alloy
with the voices of the sky
and the time of the forgotten city,
it seems to me,
instantly and without any shame,
that my home is here
and as the warriors and knights
I look at the time,
melting like honey on the sun.
Yet I wait and rejoice,
cool my soul under the scalloped balcony,
among the sweaty golden bodies,
talking like a dull avalanche,
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I’m captured by the eastern wind.
Where there’s no spring-water
and the glassy hand etches the hands and heart,
I’m swallowed by a strange black roof —
time is whispering in my ear
like a chained beast.
The warrior lives on the rock
in the honey dress and glassy eyes.
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Kalipsina tanãica
Ko bom od‰la po poteh Odiseja
in bom oljãno vejico nosila kot pozdrav,
me zagotovo objame Kalipsina tema
izruvala bo tesnobo in strah tega sveta.
Ko bom poiskala zavetje v temnem zalivu,
v dolini iz vode in iz skal, kjer si ptice prezimovalke
nadevajo zimski ‰al,
me zagotovo poljubi Odisej noãi,
zavije v med in v brezãasnost poti.
V kaplji morja sredi sveta
i‰ãem odgovor,
poslu‰am molitev iz vseh ‰tirih strani neba.
Nisem usli‰ana in zato grem dalje,
skrita v oblak deÏja!
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The Calipso’s vail
As I take the Odysseus’ journey,
greeting people with an olive branch,
the Calipso’s darkness captures me,
rooting out the world’s anguish and fear.
As I find shelter in the dark bay,
in the valley of water and rocks,
where the hibernating birds
wear the winter scarf,
the Odysseus of the night kisses me,
turning towards honey in and the trail’s timelessness.
In the drop of the sea in the middle of the world
I look for an answer,
listening to the prayer from all four sides of the sky.
My prayer is not heard, so I go forth,
hidden in a rainy cloud.
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Megalitski tempelj
Ko hodim ob obzidju,
me spremlja ãlovek temnih barv,
in se predaja soncu.
S ‰iroko razprtimi oãmi
se gre napovedovalca prihodnosti.
Obleãenemu v ãrnino in sonãno avro nad glavo,
zlate polti je in laÏnivih oãi,
ne verjamem mu —
ne znam grlenih znakov njegove abecede,
‰e veã,
gibi telesa izdajajo davno preteklost.
Muãno, trudno in krvavo.
Grobo obzidje, prepleteno s tisoãerimi spomini,
je samo kamen,
bel in zlizan;
hrapav in kot nedokonãano delo mojstra —
grobo zaobljen.
Ne znam mu povedati,
da so moje sanje ãipkasta mreÏa ribiãev,
tam daleã za obzorjem —
ne vem, sem grleni znak, zataknjen v pesti,
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s katero grozi romarjem neznane deÏele.
Mhaba, sem si zapomnila,
beseda je ostala v grlu,
tako kot ljubezen ostane v grlu,
ãisto blizu glavne Ïile,
in se pretaka naprej v srce.
âokoladno rjavo telo vpije medena slika
mesta,
ki tone v pozabo in se kru‰i skupaj s ãipkastimi balkoni.
Ne bom pozabila —
pa ãetudi mi je bila obljubljena drugaãna modrina!
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The temple of Megalit
Walking by the walls
I’m accompanied by a dark man,
who’s surrendering to the sun.
With his eyes wide open
he pretends to be clairvoyant.
Dressed in black and with a sunny aura above his head,
golden tan and deceiving eyes,
I do not believe him —
not recognizing his guttural alphabet,
even more,
the body’s movement indicates the ancient past.
Painful, tired and bloody.
The rough walls, interwined with thousands of memories,
is just a rock,
white and frayed;
rugged and roughly edged
as a master’s unfinished work.
Not knowing how to tell him,
that my dreams are fishermen’s lace-like nets,
far beyond the horizon —
not knowing, I’m the guttering sign, stuck inside a fist
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that threatens the pilgirms from an unknown land.
Mhaba I remembered,
this word remained in my throat,
like does the love,
near the main artery,
flowing into the heart.
The honey picture of the city
absorbs the chocolade brown body,
falling into oblivion, crumbling with the lace-like
balconies.
I shall not forget — though
I was promised a different kind of azure.
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Malte‰ka Venera
S kralji in z beraãi,
s postopaãi in z romarji iz daljnih deÏel
sem pila vino,
praskala steklovino,
ko je stopljeno bruhal novodobni Hefajst.
Z rokami sem ãutila utrip srca in
preveã se je v medu lesketala
malte‰ka igra ãasov in Ïelja.
Krog, ki ni krog,
je le peãat in zelenje,
ki vene sredi gomile,
to je ãas, ki ne premine.
Svet, ki daje le, ko vse vzame
in ‰e bogovi odidejo spat.
Edino drevo, ki je ‰e ostalo,
pa nudi korenine in senco meni
takrat,
ko otipam lesketajoãe boginje telo,
njen sad.
A glava, je ni?
Zaprem oãi in sanjam sanje davnih ljudi!
Vseh ljudi.
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The Maltese Venus
With kings and beggars,
loafers and pilgrims from distant lands
I drank the wine,
scratched the glass,
disgorged by the new-aged Hefaist.
With my hands I felt the heart-beat,
the Maltese game of times and wishes
too strongly glimmering in the honey.
The circle, not being a circle,
is just a seal and greenery,
withering amidst of the heap,
this is time, never expiring.
The world that gives after it takes all
and even the gods fall asleep.
The only remaining tree
offering its roots and shadows,
as I feel the goddess’ glittering body,
her fruit.
What about the head?
There isn’t one?
I close my eyes and dream the dreams
of the ancient people.
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Memnona oãi
… gledajo kralja, ki je kraljica, in njen korak
se sli‰i med sobanami solza, kjer alabaster bel
prekriva vso resnico in pelje pot do
nesmrtnosti sonãnega boga.
… dva voj‰ãaka nemo zreta, daleã v privid
in ãas ljudi, ko je zarja odklepala preddverja —
na prestolu kralj, ki je kraljica, spet sedi. Joãe?
Se spra‰uje in obupuje, ker pozna nesmrtnost dni.
Dva voj‰ãaka opazuje in ãas kot pesek
v niã se skotali.
… ãe bi svet imel stopnice,
izklesane v kamen kot v liste piramide,
bi od‰la na vrh plo‰ãadi, tja, kjer ptice gnezdijo
v dobri nadi in se ãas rojeva v perutih lastovice.
Tako pa v prahu daljne deÏele gledam suhe oblake,
sedim pred Memnonovimi mrtvimi oãmi,
kot skalnati peãat teÏak je Anubisa korak.
… dva sta zvita v pu‰ãavi, dva, ki znata tehtati,
prestopati alabastrne stopnice in njuna senca
se vidi daleã do neba.
Prvi mrtvo gleda skalnate previse, obraz kraljice,
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ki je vsa iz zlata, da bi na‰el izvir pravice
in odnesel usodo tja do neba.
Drugi spil je v strugi podzemne reke vsa Ïivljenja,
ne sme povzpeti se dalj, do diska zlatega.
… granitno ãrna je usoda, poplavljena z reko, ki ne ve,
da je njeno plodno blato vir Ïivljenja, vrã skrbi.
Rahlo se dotaknem bele skorje na portalu hi‰e
brez vrat, ko me zagrne ãudna senca —
faraona mrtvega kamniti obraz.
… spiram s telesa si spomine, ãase, tam, kjer je reka
pogoltnila ljudi, njih obrise ri‰e luna v sfingin obraz
in v ru‰evine zvezdnatih poti. Niã veã ne pomagajo
jok in sanje, mrtve ru‰evine, ko pu‰ãavski pesek
spet prina‰a stare slike nekoã tako Ïivih ljudi.
… ãrke, ki so slike in besede; potovanja in prerokbe,
vklesane v granit, mi obljubljajo spet ãase,
ko s pu‰ãavskim psom jih doÏivim. LajeÏ in Ïivljenje,
kaj ni to dokaz, da je biti in iskati veã, kot bi
v pu‰ãavskem pesku risala Ïe izklesan obraz.
… veter vzhoda in napeta jadra ãrnih barkaã
je zaklenil in odpihnil ãas. Niã vpra‰anj in niã
spominov — tu sem Ïe bila.
Skarabej oÏivi, smeji se s steklenimi oãmi in vem,
v naslednjem krogu Ïivljenja zagotovo ob meni sedi!
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The eyes of Memnon
... they watch the king that is queen and her step
is being heard between the halls of tears, where white
alabaster
covers the whole truth and the path leads
to immortality of the god of sun.
... two warriors stare silently, far away to an apparition
and the time of people when dawn was unlocking the
vestibules —
on the throne sits the king that is queen. Is he crying?
Wandering and despairing, for he knows the immortality
of days.
Watching the two warriors and the time like sand
rolls itself into nothing.
... if the world had stairs,
carved into stone like leaves of a pyramid,
I’d go to the top of the platform, where the birds are
nesting
in good faith, and time is being born in the wings of a
swallow.
Instead I’m gnawing the dry clouds in the dust of the
distant land,
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sitting before Mnemon’s dead eyes,
with Anubis’ step being heavy as a stony signet.
...two are rolled up in the desert, two that know how to
weigh,
to shift the alabaster stairs and their shadow
can be seen far from the sky.
The first watches numbly the rocky overhangs, the face ot
the queen
all of gold, to find the spring of truth
and take the destiny to the sky.
The second drank all the lives from the riverbed of an
underground river,
he cannot ascend any further, to the golden disc.
... the fate is granite black, overflown by the river that
doesn’t know
that her fertile mud is the source of life, the pitcher of
troubles.
Softly I touch the white rind of the porch
of the doorless house, when a strange shadow covers me
the dead pharaoh’s stony face.
... I wash off all the memories, times from my body, where
the river
has swallowed the people, their faces being drawn into the
sphinx’s face
and the ruins of starry paths. Everything is of no avail,
weeping and dreaming, the dead ruins, as the desert sand
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brings back images of the once living people.
... letters, being images and words; travels and prophecies,
carved into granite, promise me the times
as I relive them with the desert dog. Barking and living,
isn’t that the evidence that being alone and searching
is more than drawing the carved face into the desert sand.
… the eastern wind and the stretched sails of black barges
were locked and blown away by time. No questions
and no more memories — I’ve here before.
The scarab comes to life, laughing with its glazde eyes, and
I know,
in the next circle of life he will definitely sit by my side!
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Pu‰ãavski pes
… v pu‰ãavi ni megle, sonce grize obzorje
in mogoãni veter ãe‰e ljudi,
du‰o mojo hladi,
ki kot pes pu‰ãavski stoka in ri‰e nevidne zvezde
na obraze, temne lise ãasa zbira
v rdeão zarjo in v mirno morje.
… jata ptic zahodnih deÏel, s praznimi oãmi
in z laãnimi kljuni i‰ãe gnezda, toplo sapo
juÏnih morij, med jokom pu‰ãavskega psa
in mojih preteklih Ïivljenj,
za mir in za tolaÏbo sede v srce —
ptica neskonãnosti.
… dan se prebudi iz kovinsko modre teme
v zlatorumeno sonce, v ãas, ki nima ure,
je dan, ko pu‰ãavski pes pozabi, da sem tu,
in me gleda kot ãlovek zasanjan, brez sramu.
Sem pri njem Ïe bila v enem prej‰njih Ïivljenj?
… vonj di‰av juÏnih morij in smeh ãokoladnih ljudi
vtiram v koÏo in spomin za ãase, ko pozabim,
kako sije sonce z ravnin in kdo se mi smehlja,
ko pu‰ãavski pes leÏe k meni in vedno bolj boli
Ïelja, da bi bila tu doma.
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… bila sem ob reki sedmih izvirov, pu‰ãavski pes
mi je sledil in skupaj sva lizala rane, rane od sonca
in rane srca v barvi Tuaregov. Njihovo sonce ne Ïge
v tême in obraz, le oÏarja nebo kot modra kovina
in prepla‰eni psi okrog tabora ljudi pobirajo
kosti, ki nimajo barve. Reka sedmih izvirov pa
tam daleã nekje i‰ãe novo pot in skriva zaklade
tisoãletij v svoje plodno blato.
… tisoãletni alabastrni spomeniki vpijajo ãas in
prevpijejo Ïeljo, da ãasa ni, ker je minljivost prihodnost
in preteklost neskonãnost. Tu sva tako majhna,
pu‰ãavski pes pa liÏe kamen, kot bi vedel, da je tu
Ïe bil, da sva tu Ïe bila. Pod obeliskom pa rasteta
nova palma, nova mo‰eja in sfingin obraz samo
zaãudeno strmi — daleã v Dolino kraljev.
… je ãudeÏ, ãudeÏ Ïivljenja obdrÏal svet na nogah,
s skalami in pu‰ãavskim peskom zidan, tolikokrat
prehojen z nogami in s klinasto pisavo vklenjen v spomin.
Pu‰ãavski pes mi sledi, ãudeÏ njegovega Ïivljenja me
spravlja z bogovi in s kralji, da bom naslednjiã prinesla kost,
ki ne bo bela od sonca. Tudi njemu sledim, ko i‰ãem
vzhod in izvir sedmih rek.
… pu‰ãavski pesek pa grize dalje, v ãase, ko bom
obnemogla obsedela na domaãem pragu, pod ‰otorom
starosti in pestovala korenino roÏe enoletne,
ki je tudi voda bistra ne oÏivi.
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The desert dog
... in the desert there’s no fog, the sun is biting the horizon
and the mighty wind is combing people,
cooling my soul,
that like the desert dog groans and draws invisible stars
on faces, collecting the dark blurs of time
into red dawn and calm sea.
... a flock of birds from the western lands with empty eyes
and hungry beaks is searching for nests, the warm breeze
of the southern seas, between the cries of the desert dog
and my past lives,
for peace and comfort sits into the heart —
the bird of infinity.
... the day awakens from the metal-blue darkness
into a golden-yellow sun, into time without a watch,
that is the day when the desert dog forgets that I’m here,
looking at me like a reverie man, without any shame.
Have I lived here before, in one of the past lives?
... the scents of the southern seas and the laughter of the
chocolate people
I rub into my skin for the times when I’ll forget
how the sun shines from the plains and who smiles at me,
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when the desert dog lies next to me and the wish
for this to be my home becomes more painful.
... I’ve been by the river with seven springs, the desert dog
has been following me and together we’ve licked the
wounds from the sun
and the sunny wounds, coloured like Tuaregs. Their sun
doesn’t scorch
necks and faces, it illuminates the sky like a blue metal,
the flurried dogs around the camp are gathering
colourless human bones. While the river with seven
springs
far away is searching for a new path and hiding the
treasures
of millennial into its rich slime.
... millennial alabaster monuments are absorbing time
and shouting down the wish for the disappearance of time,
for transitoriness is the future, past the infinity.
Here we are so small, while the desert dog
is licking stone as if it knows,
that he has already been here, we have already been here.
Underneath the obelisk grows a new palm,
a new mosque, while the sphinx’s face
gazes in astonishment — far to the Valley of Kings.
... has the miracle of life kept the world on its feet,
I build with rocks and desert sand, walked over
so many times and with cuneiform chained into memory.
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The desert dog is following me, the miracle of his life
reconciles me with gods and kings, the next time I’ll bring
a bone,
not white from the sun. I follow him also, while searcing
for the east and the spring of the seven rivers.
... the desert sand frets on, into the times when I’ll
sit weakened on the home threshold, under the tent
of oldness, dandling the root of an annual flower,
that even pure water can no longer revive.
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Pravljica v pesku
V pesku sem na‰la pravljico,
dogodek dneva,
obarvan z barvo rdeãih ãe‰enj,
z listi, polnimi zelenila
in z objokanimi starkami,
ki so se prepozno zavedele svoje
starosti,
preperelih rok in gomazeãe krvi —
mrtve, a vendar moãno obarvane.
Vsem in vsakomur
sem verjela na besede,
ki so kakor prah ‰elestele
med praznimi konci dneva. Zato, da bi smela
pogoltniti rdeão ãe‰njo, kar sredi sadovnjaka,
med ljudmi, ki me ne poznajo
in se zaman trudijo prepoznati moje ãrte obraza.
In ogenj je gorel do neba,
listi trave so se spreminjali v pepel,
globoko in daleã se je sli‰alo hlastanje poÏeruha.
âarovnica noãi se je odela v zelenilo listov,
v grobe veje mrtvega drevesa,
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v poteptane ãe‰nje in v laãna usta sipkega sveta.
Pravljica je zgorela,
sredi dneva, v ognju Ïareãem do suhega pepela.
Sem zaman bedela,
ko je sredi rdeãih ãe‰enj pomlad od‰la,
z voza, polnega vsevednega blaga?
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A fairy tale in the sand
In the sand I found a story,
a highlight of the day,
coloured by red cherries,
with leaves of the colour green
and tearful gammers
that realized their age
just a little too late,
with rotten hands and crawling blood —
dead, yet so strongly coloured.
I believed in words
of all and everyone,
in words that rustled like dust
among the empty ends of days.
So that I could swallow the red cherry,
right there in the orchard
among the unknown people
that try so hard, although in vain,
to recognize the lines of my face.
The fire blazed all the way to the sky,
with the grass turning into ashes,
the glutton’s snatching was heard deeply and from afar.
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The witch of the night covered herself with green leaves,
rough branches of a dead tree,
downtrodden cherries and hungry mouth of the sandy
world.
The fairy tale has burned
in the middle of the day,
in red-hot fire, to the dry ashes.
Did I sit up late in vain,
when the spring left encircled with red cherries,
on a cart, full of omniscient goods?
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Katalonska serenada
Za hi‰o sem posadila topol.
Vitko in zeleno drevo.
S koreninami objema prag,
z listi hladi obraz.
Moj topol,
senãnati spomin Katalonije.
Okrogli stolpi v mojem vrtu,
beli, mozaiãni in ãrni,
teptajo senco topola,
gnetejo spomin barcelonskih
stopnic,
vetrnic ‰irne Katalonije.
ârna pahljaãa plesalke flamenka
hladi moje otrple ustnice,
glasno petje v areni
v topolovi osami odmira
kot preteklost potokov in gora
‰irne Katalonije.
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ârna riba posu‰enega morja,
zgnetenega v otoke in ljudi,
spraskanega s koÏe velike ribe,
sameva, kot kip velikan rdi.
Na obreÏju morja Kolumbovih sanj
se v kristal noãi odeva.
Je to moj topol, sredi vrta?
Spomin, ki odira koÏo s telesa,
strah, da Katalonije veã ne bo,
se bo milost dneva raztopila,
v prah, v ãrno zemljo?
Katalonski spomin praskam
v prizemljeni du‰i
in bel ‰al vihra iz Dalijevih
slik,
obrnjena narobe sem kot
ãlove‰ki mozaik.
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The Catalan serenade
Behind the house I planted a poplar.
A slender green tree.
With its roots it embraces the threshold,
with its leaves it cools your face.
My poplar,
the shadowy reminiscence of Catalonia.
The rounded steeples in my garden,
white, mozaic and black,
are trampling the poplar’s shadow,
swarming the memory
of the stairs in Barcelona,
the windmills of wast Catalonia.
The flamenco dancer’s black folding fan
is cooling my numb lips,
the loud singing inside the arena
awakens the bullfighter,
dying away in poplar’s solitude
like the past of streams and mountains
of the was Catalonia.
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The black fish of the parched ocean,
crushed into islands for people,
scratched from the skin of a big fish,
is living in solitary, redding like a giant statue.
On the shores of Columbus’ dreams
covering into the night’s crystal.
Is that my poplar in the garden?
A memory, flaying the skin of the body,
a fear that Catalonia will be no more,
will the day’s grace dissolve
into dust, into black earth?
I scratch the Catalan memory
in the grounded soul
of the natal roots.
A white scarf is fluttering
from Dali’s paintings,
I am inverted sideways
like a forgotten monument.
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Serenata de Cataluña
He palantado un álamo detrás de mi casa
un árbol delgado y gris.
Sus raíces abrazan el umbral
sus ojas me refrescan la cara.
Mi álamo,
El recuerdo sombrío de Cataluña.
Las torres redondas en mi jardín,
blancas, negras y de mosaico,
pisotean la sombra del álamo,
amasan el recuerdo de escaleras
barcelonesas,
de giradillas de Cataluña.
El abanico negro de bailaora
refresca mis labios tiesos,
el canto alto en la arena
está muriendo en la soledad del álamo
como el pasado de arroyos y montañas
de vasta Cataluña.
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El pez negro de mar seca,
amasada en islas y gente,
arañada da la piel del pez grande,
está solo, ardiendo como estatua gigante.
En la costa de los sueños de Colón
se abriga en el cristal de la noche.
Es mio, el álamo en medio del jardin?
el recuerdo que desolla la piel del cuerpo,
el miedo de que Cataluña ya no volverá,
desolverá la gracia del día
en polvo, en tierra negra?
Raspo el recuerdo de Cataluña
en el alma puesta de los nubes a la tierra
y un pañuelo blanco vuela de los
cuadros de Dalí,
estoy al revés como
un mosaico humano.
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Barcelonska slika
Na koÏi, na obrazu in v oãeh
se mi razlivajo
ãrni ãipkasti balkoni,
mesto kot kost belih barv
in z Mirojevo modro in rumeno
slikam ogledala na nebu.
Oblaki drvijo
kot pobegli jezdeci,
medijo na vrhu koniãastih,
v nebo proseãih stebrov.
Vsrkava me sozvoãje, barve
neba in zemlje.
Ko si oddahnem, stresem prah z nog,
pod balkonom posedim, se zavem,
milost dneva se bo raztopila,
verige bodo poãile,
s smehom se bo slika napolnila.
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Tu,
med Kolumbovim mestom
in sanjsko deÏelo prividov,
polno zlata in Ïelja,
prepeva du‰a moja, se veãnosti smehlja.
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The painting of Barcelona
On the skin, the face and in the eyes
the black lacery balconies,
the bony white city
are spilling over,
as I paint the sky’s mirrors
with Miro’s blue in yellow.
Clouds are rushing
like runaway horsemen,
mellowing on the top of the pointed
skyward facing pillars.
The concord, the colours of sky and earth
are absorbing me.
I take a breather, shake the dust from my feet,
sit under a balcony as I realize,
the day’s grace will melt away,
the chains will break,
the painting will become full of laughter.
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Here,
between the Columbus’ city
and the dreamy land of apparitions,
full of gold and wishes
my soul is singing, smiling to eternity.
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Cuadro de Barcelona
En mi piel, mi cara, mis ojos
se derraman balcones negros de encaje
la cuidad de color blanco como de hueso
y con el azul y amarillo de Miró
pinto los espejos en el cielo.
Los nubes corren
como jinetes huyendo,
Se maduran en los cumbres de pilares,
agudos que piden al cielo.
Me absorben los acordes, colores
Del cielo y de la tierra.
Después de descansar, sacudo el polvo de mis pies
me siento un ratito bajo el balcon, me entero,
la gracia del día se disolverá
cadenas van a romper,
risa el cuadro llenará.
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Aquí,
entre la ciudad de Colón
y el país maravilloso de ilusiónes,
lleno de oro y de deseos,
mi alma canta y se sonrie a la enternidad.
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Veter sedmih griãev
Od Poncija do Pilata
me ogreva sonãna cesta,
Via Appia mojih sanj.
V deÏju se deÏela spomina
razodeva,
ponikla v potok kristalnih pajãevin.
Sem vesolje,
razdeljeno na obdobja,
kaãa, zvita pod pragom
neba,
potuhnjena iskra ognja
na oltarju nevidnih Ïelja.
Od Poncija do Pilata
mi prepeva Ovid,
je pesem njegova ãasa
pozlata,
razgrnjena v mojih kosteh
kot nepote‰ena hrana duha
in prhutajoãa ptica
minulega sveta.
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Prehodila sem sedem griãev.
Îe na prvih stopnicah
me je spregledal sveãenik:
si zarja, ãas pregreh,
temna lutnja ti poje,
smrt ima‰ v oãeh!
Bojim se naslednjih ‰estih.
PrekriÏanih meãev, dolgih noãi.
Tako prelestno me obsije
ãarovnika smeh,
da spet pozabim na kraj in spomine,
leÏem v pesek in v prah
z afri‰kih cest.
Oljka di‰i med stebri Koloseja,
med oboki in stenami
kjer mi vsi iz daljnih deÏel
pijemo iz vodnjaka Ïelja
kapljice sreãe in dih minulega sveta.
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The wind of seven knolls
From pillar to post
I’m warmed by the sunny road,
Via Apia of my dreams.
In the rain the land of memory
is revealing itself,
sunk into the stream
of crystal depths.
I am the universe,
divided into eras,
a snake rolled up
underneath the sky’s threshold,
a covert spark of fire
on the altar of invisible wishes.
From pillar to post
Ovid is singing to me,
his song being
the time’s golding,
spread out in my bones,
an unconsoled spiritual food,
all the doors are closed for me.
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I crossed the seven knolls.
At the first stairs
a priest noticed me,
you are like the time’s dawn vice,
a dark lute is singing to you,
death is in your eyes.
I’m afraid of the next six.
The crossed swords, the long nights.
The wizard’s laughter
is charmingly shining upon me,
erasing this place and keepsakes from my memory,
I lay in the sand and dust
of the African roads.
I know all seven of them.
Here I’m almost at home.
I give an olive-tree birch to everyone,
divided into dusk
I finally surrender myself.
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Dvanajsti krog
Prvi stopi na brv —
kralj neba.
Drugi Ïanje valove —
cesar morja.
Tretji kliãe vihar —
tlaãan sveta.
âetrti zvezde ‰teje —
glasnik gorja.
Peti ptice zbira —
sovraÏnik Ïivega.
·esti kliãe dan —
vladar srca.
Sedmi iz noãi
sedmino naroãi.
Osmi ri‰e krog —
pozna ga moj bog.
Deveti razprostira telo —
ljubezen je kot drevo.
Deseti podarja glas —
ãloveku raste v du‰i klas.
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Enajsti hi‰e noãi gradi —
straÏar je mojih poti.
Dvanajsti nima obraza, telesa —
smrt je ko‰ãena.
Njej je vedno odprta lesa.
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The twelfth circle
The first steps on the footbridge —
the king of sky.
The second reaps the waves —
the emperor of sea.
The third calls the storm —
the world’s thrall.
The fourth counts the stars —
the herald of sorrow.
The fifth collects the birds —
the enemy of all that’s living.
The sixth calls the day —
the regent of heart.
The seventh orders repast
from the night.
The eighth draws a circle —
my god knows him.
The ninth unfolds the body —
love is like a tree.
The tenth donates voice —
in man’s soul a spike is growing.
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The eleventh builds night’s houses —
he’s the guard of my paths.
The twelfth has no face, no body —
death is bony.
The gates are always open for it.
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Prasketanje
Stopicanje
na mestu,
med stolom in med mizo,
pod svetilko,
oÏarjen
s svetlobo noãi,
prekoraka‰ dneve,
neviden v moji
prisotnosti,
zdramljen v senci,
plazeãi se med okni,
odsev v prstanu
na moji roki.
Stopicanje na mestu
je karma tvoje du‰e,
posledica vseh noãi.
Zadnji korak,
ki vodi do izvira,
negotov, plesniv,
blaten in sploh ni tvoj.
Tu bi lahko imele
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ptice gnezdo,
‰torklje svoj dimnik,
jeÏ jesensko kosilo,
vendar ne bi opazil,
spet ne bi opazil,
plazeãega veãera
v mojih oãeh,
mraz in hlad pa tako
ali tako domujeta
v tvojih dlaneh.
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The cracling
Tripping
in the same spot,
between the table and the chair,
under the lamp,
illuminated
by the night’s light,
you march through days,
invisible
in my presence,
awakened in the shadow
crawling between the windows,
in the ring in my palm.
Tripping in the same spot
is the karma of your soul,
an outcome of all the nights.
The last step
that leads to the spring,
insecure, mouldy,
soiled and not yours at all.
Here the birds
could make their nest,
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storks their chimney,
hedgehogs their autumn lunch,
still you wouldn’t notice,
again you wouldn’t notice
the crawling evening
in my eyes, cold and
freshness are dwelling
in your palms anyway.
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Refleksija
Podnevi sem Ïiva,
kosti in kri
me opominjajo na to.
Ko se znoãi
se v du‰i moji kamen obrne,
postelja izgine
in postanem prah.
V tistem ãasu,
ki nima kazalcev in smrti
sva obe stali.
Moja prijateljica
in jaz.
Naslanjali sva se na ograjo
in strmeli v svetlobo,
ki se je bliÏala, bliÏala,
bil je ukaz.
Takrat je podoba
v mislih gorela,
brez ustnic, ‰epetala:
pojdita z menoj,
v kraje brez oblakov,
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v ãase brez sonca,
med brate svetleãe.
Ta ãudni ukaz
je obema iznakazil obraz.
Med obrvmi sem ãutila roke,
mrtve dlani.
Prijateljica moja pa kima:
jaz pojdem, pojdi ‰e ti!
Ne morem, ne znam, noãem,
sem v mislih brzela,
ko je odpeljal svetleãi trupla,
Ïe zdavnaj prej zoglenela.
Takrat sem spoznala,
v smrti sem prah izbrala.
To, da sem tu,
v postelji brez medu,
je ãas,
ki me opominja na noã:
vse se povrne, vse ‰e pride!
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The reflexion
At day I am alive,
my bones and blood
remind me of that.
When night falls
the rock in my soul turns,
the bed disappears
and I become dust.
In that time
with no pointers and death
we both stood still.
My friend
and me.
We leaned against the fence
staring at the light
coming closer and closer,
that being a command.
That’s when the image
in my mind was burning,
whispering without lips:
come with me,
come see the places without clouds,
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the times without sun,
visit the glowing brothers.
That weird command
deformed both of our faces.
I felt the hands between my eyebrows,
dead palms;
while my friend was nodding:
I’m going, go with me!
I can’t, don’t know how, don’t want to
ran through my mind
as the glitter took away the bodies
charred a long time ago.
That’s when I realized
in death I chose the dust.
The fact that I was there,
in bed without honey,
is time,
reminding me of the night:
all is repayed, all is yet to come!
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Di‰ave jutra
Med vrvmi poletja
je mogoãna sled.
In med skalami jeseni
je potok,
ki pelje v drug svet.
Tam na Jutrovem,
kjer so di‰ave mo‰usa in
ceder,
je daljava blizu.
Tam bije ãas poãasneje,
ker dan je Bog in noã
njegov kljuã.
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The morning fragrances
Between the ropes of summer
lies a mighty trail.
And between the rocks of fall
lies a brook,
leading to another world.
There at the Levant,
where the fragrances of musk
and cedars are,
the remoteness seems near.
Time passes slowly there,
for the day is God and the night
his key.
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Nasmehni se
Nasmehni se,
bog v sveti‰ãu,
nasmehni,
da bom vedela,
videla tvoj svet,
da bom preproga in ãas,
v svetlobo veãnosti ujet.
Saj ve‰,
da bom spet pri‰la
na vrata tvoja in na prag.
Saj ve‰,
da si prvi in zadnji
v mojih noãeh —
ãas in preteklost,
breza in most.
Dovoli, da vstopim
kot prvi gost!
Nasmehni se mi,
moj Bog!
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Smile
Smile,
God in the temple,
smile,
so that I will know,
I will see your world,
that I will become a carpet and time,
trapped in eternal light.
For you know,
that I shall return
to you doorstep and threshold.
For you know,
that you are the first and the last
in my nights —
the time and the past,
the birch and the bridge.
Let me enter,
let me be the first guest.
Smile,
my God.
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Obraz ob zidu
Nisem poznala sveta,
gora zakletih in
‰irnega morja.
Ne vem,
ali ob vodi vodomec poje,
se v zrnu peska skriva spomin,
ker te nisem poznala.
Bila sem z morjem zakrita,
v vetru ljubljena in
v gore skrita —
sem to jaz,
ãrna noã spomina,
ladja brez vesel in drevesa
stoletnega korenina.
Vsa zrcala neba
so v usta moja vtisnjena,
vsi zameti sneÏni
so legli v moja nedra,
vsa stoletja krvi in sanj
pestujem v dlani —
pa ne poznam sveta,
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ljudi, neba, gorja.
Ne vidim veã,
ne sli‰im veã.
Le med tanko ãrto spomina
se svetlikajo luna, sonce, dokaz.
V zrcalu pa nenadoma — obraz,
ki ve, ki me spozna,
in ko na ustne moje dahne poljub
odre‰enja,
vem, konec je iskanja tega sveta!
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The face by the wall
I didn’t know the world,
the cursed mountains
and the spacious sea.
I don’t know
if a kingfisher is singing by the water,
if a memory is hiding in the grain of sand,
for I did not know you.
I was covered by the sea,
loved in the wind
and hidden between the mountains —
is that me,
the memory’s black night,
the ship without oars and the root
of a hundred-year-old tree.
All the mirrors of the sky
are imprinted in my mouth,
all the snowdrifts
are lying in my bosom,
all the centuries of blood and dreams
I’m nursing in my palm —
yet not knowing the world,
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the people, the sky, the sorrow.
I can’t see no more,
I can’t hear no longer.
Only amidst the narrow line of memory
the moon is glittering, the sun, the evidence.
In the mirror suddenly appears the face
that knows, recognizes me
and as the salvatory kiss
touches my lips
I know, the search for this world is over.
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Jeruzalem, Jeruzalem
Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem ‰e spala,
da je noã dan in svetloba vse,
kar je svetu umrljivost dala.
Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem ‰e spala,
da bo beseda meso postala
in smeh ljudi z lic pregnala.
Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem ‰e spala,
da sta vonj oljke in toplina sonca
samo kaÏipot,
pra‰na cesta in mrtva‰ki prt.
Ko bi vedela takrat, ko sem
pri zidu objokovanja stala,
da bom pregnala misel na vse,
kar mi je v Ïivljenju doslej kri krvi
v okove okovala.
Konãno sem svobodna, polna in brez sanj.
Gledam v nebo, ple‰em s spomini —
Jeruzalem, Jeruzalem....
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Jerusalem, Jerusalem
If only I had known when I was still asleep,
that night is day and light is everything
that mortality gave to the world.
If only I had known when I was still asleep,
that the word will become flesh
and wipe the smiles from people’s faces.
If only I had known when I was still asleep,
that the olive’s scent and the sun’s warmth
are only a waymark,
a dusty road and the cadaverous cloth.
If only I had known,
when I was standing by the wall of mourning,
that I will banish the thought of everything
that in life the blood
has chained in shackles.
Finally I am free, full and dreamless.
I watch the skies, dance with memories —
Jerusalem, Jerusalem...
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Kretske slike
Ob mrtvem morju Atlantide
sanjam ãase,
v ognjenih zubljih Kasandrine besede
i‰cem masko, privid izgubljenih ãudes!
Z boso nogo teptam oglu‰ela polja,
si zakrivam slepoto in gorkoto
nikdar videnih, a v meni speãih
ãudeÏnih dreves.
Mrtvo morje Atlantide
je v tebi, meni, vseh ljudeh.
Kakor prerokba in obeti,
strah pred Ïivljenjem in grmado,
ki jo priÏiga ãas neskonãnosti.
Vse to sem na‰la med zakladi Atlantide, v sebi —
ti pa pojdi, kamor hoãe‰ —
na‰la se bova v isti toãki — v neskonãnosti!
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The Cretean images
By the dead sea of Atlantis
I dream about the times of ill shadows,
in the flames of Cassandra’s word
I seek for a mask, an apparition of the lost wonders!
With a bare foot I tread upon the deaf fields,
concealing the blindness and the warmth
of the never seen, yet inside of me sleeping
miraculous trees.
The dead sea of Atlantis
is inside of you, of me, of all the people.
Like a prophecy and promises,
the fear of the life and the stake,
flamed by the time of infinity.
All that I found among the treasures of Atlantis, inside of
me —
you go where you want to —
we will find each other in the same place — the infinity!
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Noã v Knososu
Na cestah so primrznile luÏe
in ptice, ki so ‰e zjutraj
imele svetel pogled, so v Ïamet
zavile jutranjo svetlobo.
V prezeblih drevesih je skrivali‰ãe,
polno modrega neba in srebrnega ivja,
prazno obljub in prasketanja ognja.
Vse te ptice sveta
so du‰e ãlove‰kega, smrt prijatelja
in odmrla pomlad nekega jutra.
Le kdaj je imel ãas moã
prigrizniti sonca obraz, ponikniti
v valove mrtvega morja in se
obleãi v sanjske cvetove?
Obzidje, ki s svojo belino
razgalja ãas,
me kot utrujeno popotnico privabi,
naslonim se nanj,
da bi sli‰ala znan glas.
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Ura ãasa bije, na rogovih daritvenega bika,
v senci tisoãletnega drevesa.
Komu ãas tiktaka
v tej nesli‰ni uri.
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A night in Knosos
The puddles on the roads have frozen,
and the birds, that in the morning
looked so brightly, have wrapped
the morning light in velvet.
In the benumed trees lies a hideout,
full of blue skies and silver rime,
empty of promises and the crackle of fire.
All the birds of this world
are the souls of humanity, a death of a friend
and the withered spring of a morning.
When did he have the time
to take a snack at the sun’s face, to sink
into the waves of the dead sea
and dress into dreamy blossoms.
The walls, unfolding the time
with its whiteness,
invites me like a tired wanderer,
I lean on it
to hear a familiar voice.
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The clock is ticking on the horns of the sacrificial bull,
in the shadows of the thousand-year-old tree.
For whom the clock ticks
in this inaudible hour.
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Bizantinski mozaik
V zlati kletki ptica,
na obzidje prikovana,
iz ãasov rdeãih zahodov,
molitev in tlakovanih stopnic.
Kamnita pesem ãasov,
zdrobljena v drobna zrna
usode,
ki se preliva v klepsidri
modrega kamenja na strehi
modrosti.
V kosteh ãutim topot konj,
rahlo valovanje morja in
‰um suliãarja,
ki me z meãem pozdravlja,
ko sedim na prestolu
izbrisanih ãasov,
ãasov
nikdar poru‰enega obzidja,
nikdar razpetega ‰otora.
Konjenik dneva me vodi,
‰epeta, umira skupaj z menoj.
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Ob vratu me ti‰ãi
svila azijskih poti,
zrak cesarskih soban in
temina sveti‰ãa.
V oãi so se naselili mavrica,
mozaik stopni‰ãa in
bela jadra,
svetlikajoãa se za obzorjem,
kjer bo bizantinski mozaik
izginil med stopali
tujih nog.
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Byzantian mosaic
In the golden cage of bird,
nailed to the battlement,
from the times of red sunsets,
prayers and paved steps.
Stony poem of the times,
shattered into tiny grains of
destiny,
decanting in the watery clock of
blue pebbles on the roof of
wisdom.
My bones full of horses stomping,
of seas billowing and
the lancer’s buzzing,
greeting me with his sword,
while I’m seated on the throne of
erased times,
times,
of battlements never destroyed,
of the tent never extended.
The horseman of the day is leading me,
whispering, dying along with me.
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Silk of the Asian paths,
air of emperor’s chambers and
dimness of the temple
are squeezing me by the neck.
Rainbow settles in my eyes,
the mosaic of the staircase and
ships, setting their white sails,
glimmering beyond the horizon,
where the Byzaintian mosaic
will vanish between the traces of
foreign feet.
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CIMBALE IN SVILA
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Nadir
Pridem iz noãi kot ptica izginulih daljav, se obleãem
v svilo in se grem sanje. Na predpraÏniku dneva me kljuva
ãas,
prestreza me dolgost sonãnega vzhoda
Moja hãi biva med kamnitimi stebri obzidja mesta,
daleã od sanj in tako blizu resniãnosti.
Njej sveti luã prihodnosti.
Dopoldan
Kokonska mreÏa noãi mi ni zameglila oãi. ·e veã,
nisem se predala dihanju iz pljuã, ki so bila nekoã samo
drobna
pika, solze neke druge du‰e in oblaãila bitja iz ãasov ãasov.
Moj sin biva med stezami podeÏelja, blizu betonskih oblik,
‰e bliÏe goram, ki nezavedno meãejo milijone let stare
sence
v razbolele novodobne kotanje sveta.
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BliÏajoãi opoldan
Sonãna ura bije v moji senci. Zastiram si oãi in se trudim
pozabiti nevidnega sovraÏnika v zraku, liso neba, ki ‰teje
ure
do polnoãi. Kristali neba pa mi stopljeni Ïro koÏo, ‰e veã,
ãlovek iz prsti in iz krvi mi bo zme‰al prihodnost .
Moj prijatelj pa je zajahal konja, se spravil s soncem
in z besedo.
Medium coeli
Videla sem ga v preddverju, senco opoldansko,
ko je s svojim prozornim telesom bil v oãi kot opozorilo,
beÏala sem pred njim. Pri‰el je s ãrne zvezde, z deÏnikom,
polnim deÏja, in moje srce ni veã vedelo, ne kod ne kam!
Z ljubim sva zbeÏala oba. Vendar ne zaradi strahu,
le od neizgovorjenih Ïelja. V popoldanski mrak,
v popoldansko senco!
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Varljivo opoldne
Na robu hi‰e stoji temno drevo, ob njem igra
cigan na cimbale. Njegova Ïenska v pisanem krilu ple‰e
in se smehlja. Za njim stojiva midva, odeta v svilo veãera,
in skodelice iz kovine praskajo po strunah, trgajo dan
in ga shranjujejo v veãnost.
Njegove oãi in tvoje roke listajo po mojem telesu,
temno drevo ob hi‰i postane svileno glasbilo,
cimbale vrÏem stran.
Zenit
Dan, ki je leto kot nadir, in noã, ki objema ãas
in ga zaklepa v zenit, sta kot strgane strune cimbal —
vse se dogodi v eni noãi ljubezni, med vesoljem in med
ljudmi.
Za naju bo vstal dan in ljubezenska noã bo
pozabljena v Ïepu zimskega pla‰ãa.
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CYMBALS AND SILK
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Nadir
I come from the night, like a bird from lost distances, I
dress up
and play dreams. Time is pecking me on the threshold of
day,
the lenght of the sunrise is parrying me a blow.
My daughter is dwelling among the stony pillars of the
city’s walls,
far away from dreams, yet so close to reality.
The light of the future is shining for her.
Morning
The cocoon net of the night did not fog my eyes. Even
more,
I did not succumb to the breathing of lungs that were once
just a tiny
dot, tears of some other soul and the being’s clothes from
the times’ times.
My son is dwelling among the provincial paths, near the
concrete forms,
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even closer to the mountains, that unknowingly throw the
millions of years old shadows
into the aching modern hollows of the world.
The approaching noon
The sundial is beating in my shadow. I’m covering my eyes
and trying
to forget the invisible foe in the air, a blur of the skies, that
counts the hours
until midnight. The melted crystals of the skies are
devouring my skin, even more,
the man of mould and blood will form my future.
My friend jumped on a horse, making peace with the sun
and the word.
Medium coeli
I saw him in the lobby, the noon’s shadow,
when it tolled in warning with it’s lucid body,
I fled away from him. He came from a black star, with an
umbrella
full of rain and left my heart puzzled, not knowing where
to go.
I ran away with my loved one. Not in fear,
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but because of the unuttered desires. Into the afternoon
dusk,
into the afternoon shadow.
The delusive afternoon
There’s a tree at the edge of the house, by it
a gypsy plays the cymbals. His woman in the gaily skirt
dancing
and smiling. Behind him there’s us, covered with the
evening’s silk,
the tin cups are scratching the strings, tearing the day,
saving it into eternity.
His eyes and your hands are skimming through my body,
the dark tree by the house becoming a silk instrument,
i throw the cymbals away.
Zenith
The day, which is as nadir and night, which embraces time
and locks it into the zenith, is as the torn strings of the
cymbals
everything happening in one night of love, between the
universe and the people.
The day will rise for us and the night of love will stay
forgotten in the winter-coat’s pocket.
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S
tvar je prav imenitna! Veãina pesmi vsebuje in oddaja
moãno energijo, doÏivljajski zapleti med Jazom in
Svetom so privlaãni in sugestivni. V celoti gre za nekak
pesni‰ki sprehod po mitskem Sredozemlju, po obmoãju oÏje
civilizacije, uvod pa je oãitno v znamenju rodovnih korenin
pesni‰kega Jaza. Pot skozi ãas in prostor ali, kot bi rekel
Kosovel, ”mistika ãasoprostorna”. Posebej ãestitam za pesem
Dvanajsti krog. Tej pesmi dajem prvenstvo, ãeprav je
odliãnih pesmi na pretek. Res razveseljivo! Ob va‰ih pesmih
se spominjam lastnih blodenj po Sredozemlju (Grãija, Italija,
Turãija, Egipt, seveda tudi ·panija...) V Knososu se res ãuti
prisotnost nekdanjih ali veãnih gr‰kih boÏanstev …
Andrijan Lah
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www.omnibus.se/beseda
ISBN 91-7301-194-0
Document Outline
- Vsebina
- Moj ded
- Mio nonno
- Moja babica
- Mia nonna
- Minljivost
- La transitorietà
- Moj svet
- My world
- Meine Welt
- Orbis terrarum
- Orbis terrarum
- MALTESKA SVETLOBA
- Privezana skala
- The chained rock
- Mdinski oboki
- The arches of Mdin
- Kalipsina tancica
- The Calipso’s vail
- Megalitski tempelj
- The temple of Megalit
- Malteska Venera
- The Maltese Venus
- Memnona oci
- The eyes of Memnon
- Puscavski pes
- The desert dog
- Pravljica v pesku
- A fairy tale in the sand
- Katalonska serenada
- The Catalan serenade
- Serenata de Cataluña
- Barcelonska slika
- The painting of Barcelona
- Cuadro de Barcelona
- Veter sedmih gricev
- The wind of seven knolls
- Dvanajsti krog
- The twelfth circle
- Prasketanje
- The cracling
- Refleksija
- The reflexion
- Disave jutra
- The morning fragrances
- Nasmehni se
- Smile
- Obraz ob zidu
- The face by the wall
- Jeruzalem, Jeruzalem
- Jerusalem, Jerusalem
- Kretske slike
- The Cretean images
- Noc v Knososu
- A night in Knosos
- Bizantinski mozaik
- Byzantian mosaic
- CIMBALE IN SVILA
- CYMBALS AND SILK
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