Blesok no. 45, November-December, 2005
Poetry


Emily Dickinson In My Town

Slađan Lipovec



The Place Where They Will Come Again


    as
the birds before leaving
swarming over the thinnest
branches resemble
live fruit of birch-trees
and when the wind flits
they fall skyward
    so their
flutter left behind
in the blinking of late leaves
makes live silence – the place
where they will
come again




in this town anxiety


in this town anxiety
rebounds from porous walls by night
streets twist inwards into the long-winded last
century you can feel only darkness
crumbling like sand under your feet
when you hold
your breath as you step  


                and who
                will be able to explain
                to milky children where did disappear
                the sky in which Pannonius was
                looking at clouds of flies reading
                them as Latin verses?




Emily Dickinson In My Town


       in the dead of one more night
       without serenity she is waking up
       just at the moment when she's dreaming
       of her colourful man
       with the usual way
       she's putting on her
       panties
       bra
       stockings
       slip
       embroidered blouse
       skirt
       apron
       her light shoes and

       through the deaf
       silence of walls of thick
       darkness only the transparent whiteness
       of her hands is shining through
       while she is writing
       graffiti




The Butterfly Effect


             if I open
             the window even more
             emptiness will crawl
             into the flat

             with every pointless
             motion I enlarge it
              (but)
             in the corner that
             goes apart untamed by
             physical laws your little
             slippers in growth
             astound it
             their bare steps
             shine through the
             twilight – although we don't open
             the windows and we don't draw
             the curtains apart we disturb
             the atmosphere causing
             at least one good
             storm




The Ash–Trees


don't touch them
my mother says to me
when  she thinks I got carried away
with grubbing up
they were this big
when I came here


          I turn off the chain-saw
          and we look at them
          for a few moments in silence
          admiring them as beings older and bigger
          than our memories together
          and sometimes
          we embrace them nestling our faces
          to their finely wrinkled bark
          and we call the wind to rock them
          the whole of their 25 metres
          OUT of pure pleasure




The Last Warm Night


how great would be
the emptiness above
the yard if it weren't
for this walnut-tree
you say
this may be
the last warm night
this year so in silence
which is sifting into the conversation
with presentiment of forthcoming
travel and winter we are listening
to the wind husking
the dead leaves of words

it topples them down rustling
in a slanting fall

on the pad of
moonlight mixed
with thin clouds
the emptiness between the fractal
branches is becoming more and more
visible




The Sleepwalker


moonlight is a dog mad
with insomnia voices are multiplying
in the head
stroboscopic images
are screaming carried by gusts
of frantic southern wind

even if you close
the windows the emptiness is beginning
where the body ends
on the indefinite curve of van koch
along which fear
is beginning to break you


saving your settings…


windows is shutting
down


but from
the moonlight there's no
hiding there's no
running away from its
biting growl and there is no
sleep




the quickest to sink into darkness


             the quickest to sink into darkness are small
             towns the smaller
             the quicker they fall like
             the man walking through
             twilight noticing
             that he’s running short
             of tracks




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