Blesok no. 61-62, July-October, 2008
Poetry


Calm

Tone Škrjanec



Cinema


a swift and cold walk through history, through
the quiet woods, past benumbed deer that only pretend
to be fir trees. all along my posture is
terribly romantic. my soul is asizzle, being fried.
I know about the sweaty interlacing of bodies, and what's more,
I watch the thing on a big screen projection,
hiding it in my palms as an awkward and bashful memory.
autumn will slowly croak into winter and I feel more and more alone,
calm in a funny sort of way. as if each moment
water surged evenly into eternity.


Translated by Ana Jelnikar




Calm


I am so calm. red moon. it has just come drifting
from beyond the clouds. slowly, like an inquisitive toddler.
on television there is a small florid vase with a dried-up rose
and violence. killings with hands and guns. it's all
very fast, as if it were for real. monika doesn't know this.
she sleeps quietly. sleeps and breathes evenly like a machine.
it is night. but I can hear the cars not sleeping.
nor cats. screeching, they chase each other beneath our window.
I can't sleep either. I sit, can't say I'm thinking, just
watching the vein that licks your palm like a river.


Translated by Ana Jelnikar




Dub Poem


I'm sitting in a corner of evening,
regarding the shapes of trees.
Under my chair there's a glass of cold beer,
lipsticked lips shining in the dark.
It's all psychedelic animated dolphins and tibet.
So the circle is closed.
Nobody knows what it's all about.
Women in skirts are very rare,
and in this case
extremely long-legged.
Dub version of evening. Ganja rules.
Bodies move slowly and exactly
like the sea. Sky so dark
and blue it glows.
It's evening. The girls are full
of happiness, and red-haired.
How their young breasts stand up.
How proudly they wear them.
That's what it's all about.


Translated by Matthew Zapruder




A Question of Beginning


The hardest thing is to start, a new day or a song.
And today we who love tea in the sun,
we who don't give a fuck about the second plural, today we started early.
The clock says 10:17, and through the smoke that's rising from a cigarette I'm glancing
nonchalantly like a deer, like a slightly drooping flower, like I'm still sleeping.
From here everything looks possible,
there's almost nothing we monsters with our fevers and runny noses can't do
if we approach it with our body and our soul, with feeling, with feeling.
People in this tea house are talking so quietly
it sounds like waves, like wind through branches, and the blackbird
who cuts into this monotonous and rhythmically complicated
tree music is proud as a rooster on a cherry tree loaded with white blossoms.
Such an enthusiastic morning cry, completely different from his blue and meditative
evening ballads. The day is pale and oldish. I know that in a day or two
it will be even worse, the sky yellowish grey and rain mixed with desert sand falling.
I'm talking and writing in colors. I'm watching a milk-white naked stomach
in rounded cascades, soft as if overgrown with moss,
heaped up over a big metallic belt buckle.
Across from me a little girl, maybe a teen, with rosy glasses
dunks her toast into red sauce and listens to her father tell her about Pakistan.
They are also talking about q-tips and dates. They say  they like the smell
of my tobacco. So I'm sitting, and chatting a little, and I have the impression I'm waiting
for someone or something. But there's no one, only a tall woman in a long coat
made of an unknown number of small furry animals.
She walks around the tables. It's the middle of April, around 10:33,
and time in all its sneaky relativity doesn't factor. I smell of leather, and dream of silk.


Translated by Matthew Zapruder




Let


let me go back to the old hardened trees
let me scoop up from a lake
let me tread the same river twice
let my words be as long as a moment
let the kiss be like a cold evening
after a hot day
let my complexion be synonymous with green
let sweat drizzle down my nose like a tear drop
let deer and rabbits come
let blueberries ripen
let the city be a small and friendly town-square
let it for ever
let it for sometimes
let it for today and tomorrow
hold true what we say
and let people with names appear in poems
let the world wait for a change
let our bare feet be tickled by green grass
let us grow breasts
let the poem have no end
let no one ever lose out            
and let the sea be like the sky
the sky like the sea
feelings like a small friendly house
let the trees be thick branches hard leaves green
let all of us be sailors in the night.      
slowly pushing on the pedals
and let there be devilishly many suns
and only two traffic roads
let people care about us
and know why they do
let small remain big
let skin be tense like a horror film
a hand still like a rabbit
and let the eye be full of clouds.


Translated by Ana Jelnikar




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