Blesok no. 56, September-October, 2007

Translated from the Slovene by: Igor Divjak

Esad Babačić

Russians never…

Russians never
run away,
it’s too far.


I'll soon turn forty, I'm still lying to myself and others.
Telling jokes about life, my favourite being the one about the mountain.
When you're about thirty, it seems that you're ascending,
but then, suddenly at the peak, horrified, you look down,
wipe your forehead, and start to descend. I'm descending.

I'm not always certain if it's good or bad.
but I've noticed that it doesn't mind, only it knows
that I've seen it only from one side, and I'll never reach the peak.
The most it can offer me is an illusion I can live with.

The mountain is my protector, the only convincing lie.
Someday, when I won't see it anymore, I won't notice
it's too late. So I don't have to fear right now. It's 8 a.m.,
Jože woke up long ago and went out searching for the perfect light.
It's time I go to the other side, if I don't want to become an old
liar, like so many others in this town.
I'm sorry I'm late. But does it really matter?

A Transition Poem

Give up poetry, son.
There's no money in it,
Let the Belarusians
write it,
they've got nothing
to lose, anyway.


Poets are at their strongest on the toilet.
Even when they shit, they don't lose that feeling
of being something special.
Even when they shit, they're convinced
of producing something magnificent,
unique and unforgettable.
Only then it seems to them
that oblivion can't reach them.
When they're letting go,
angels smile at them from the ceiling;
clean as unused
toilet paper.
Ignorance is so appreciated,
so welcome in those
of absolute glory,
when no one near is safe
from the fervour
of a fertile poet,
a hero of domesticity
and relaxation.
How many times will
that moment,
that every child carries to the grave,
have to repeat,
how many times will he have to suppress
his purest fantasies,
in order to finally become
the master of his own lavatory.
Because the secret
that he carries inside,
each time he sits on it,
is the biggest crap
in this world.


The two of us wonder at
how many vinyl records
with organ concertos
have been brought out
in the last hundred
years or so.
As if we were
on holiday,
as if we were grateful
that they are not
played so often

Fatima and a Poet

Her road to the West was hard.
She came to Potsdam from Frankfurt;
they told her they had no job for her,
but she would take anything.
So they bitterly admitted
that the toilet at the railway station
was her only chance.
Okay, gimme that loo,
and I'll make it shine so bright
everyone'll wanna go for it.
Twenty years have passed since
a young poet from LJ came to see her.
In the evening she called her friend
in Frankfurt and said:
that poet from Slovenia
popped in today.
And what did he come out with?
Nothing! He took a dump and paid.


The hardest thing is to fight
without combat,
without flags,
without ships,
in the open,
with cold,
without ice,
with wing,
without sails.
The hardest thing is to fight
with yourself,
in a room
that doesn't exist,
in a state
without a face,
in wood
without nails,
in a crown
without a king,
in God
without juice,
in sweat
without blood,
in the sun
without rays,
with hands
that carry the cross
without a martyr.


I could die,
I could stand up.
To know all that
and remain humble.

The one who becomes suspicious…

The one who becomes suspicious first,
That's love, too.

To me…

To me
love is a gunfire.
The sheets
have become pregnant.

Good poetry…

Good poetry
is like a team
that distinguishes
between important
and unimportant
like a supporter
who realises
that in the end
all matches
are unimportant.


It's impossible to calm down,
this slaughter has been going on forever.
Since writing had become similar to war,
my sensibility hasn't
changed a bit.

A Long Poem

On the New Year's Day
I went to Mercator.
While my
silhouette was relentlessly
filling the shopping cart,
my ego took up
the question,
unworthy of a poet of my
kind. Why are my poems
getting shorter and the cashier
queues longer every day?
And since, of course, it couldn't
find the answer, it returned
to the silhouette pushing the cart.
The silhouette admitted:
sometimes I've got nothing else to do,
so I remember Kaliningrad,
remember all those people,
who are too good
and too happy to think so
egoistically as you do,
buying food
on the New Year's Day. And then
it hid itself, like it always does,
when being honest, and I remained
alone with my cart, wondering
why the queue is getting
shorter and this poem so long.


Sunday afternoon.
A moron on the motorbike
that will never be fast enough,
is speeding towards the end
of the street which his father
despises from the bottom of his

Renault 4

I still hope I won't die,
like a rocket that doesn't go up,
like a comet missing the green mountain.
I still don't care
for others, and I don't mind what we do
when we're alone, I'm still disgusted
by everything slower than fear.
Someone will die instead of me,
tomorrow, today, no matter when,
only let it be without pain,
let it be far away from here.

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