Blesok no. 41, March-April, 2005
Poetry


Snow in your shoes
Translated from the Serbian by Novica Petrović

Ana Ristović



Snow in your shoes


One does not build a house collecting cutlery
even though a few extra spoons
come in handy sometimes.

One does not build a house from new curtains
even though different views
from time to time
should be shielded by new cloth.

For a home to be a home, among other things
you need a lot of things
you would gladly renounce
in advance.

Listen to what Eskimos say:
to build a good igloo,
for years you have to carry
snow in you shoes.

And a safety pin, forgotten
in your coat collar,
near the jugular.




Siesta in Ljubljana


Afternoon, when the whole world is
De Chirico’s square.

It seems that an epidemic has conquered
this city.
Only the short shadows
of jardinières and containers
intersect the long shadows
of buildings and street poles:
tried, crossed, laid down sabers.

Things tend towards motion
only in someone’s rear-view mirror.

And you, like a traffic sign
saying: “Look out, rockslide!”,
and even blind men
have long taken another route.




A Pencil writes with its heart


And you see: through the pupils of someone’s eyes
for a long time
the hearts of two pencils have been sharpening
or their own accord.

And the air is full of small particles
as if an entire sawmill
were grinding and whittling.

And you hope: for a portrait, a sketch,
a croquis, or at least for immortalization
in Malevich’s square:
all those are nice variations.

But of the whole of you –
not one draft, line or word:
just an unwilling punctuation
mark.

And you say: well, that’s something
and are already building
a bed for two
from pure heart and sawdust.




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