A Call

It was so strange

not from here

not hot not cold

that chaos did not know what to do

and has just kept staring

 

it was the time

when we used to wipe our foreheads

with damp leaves

and wear clouds

it was the time

when we melted into each other

and were telling the future from the broken bones

without believing in it

it was the homeless time

when the blanket was

the night and the unknown woman

 

then we heard the call

 

in the beginning was the call

 

the incense carried its smell

- how smells can differ -

preceding heaven

and earth

smelling also of thyme

and changing the heart

  

the call preceeding everything

       

they said

let

this smell

into your words

and deeds

but there was too much forest

too much wilderness in us

 

yet, when we heard the call ourselves

we lay on the ground

betrayed all our loved ones

we died

and were born 

 

and we forgot it

 

Scholion: the call is the blessing of stubbornness the consecration of rebellion the celebration of exile it is said that it helps you see but in reality it blinds you so that you cannot see the danger and you tread too boldly the call is the thing of the warriors but why this plural why this is not the thing of one only this is the crazy mystery of union

 

It is horrible to look into your comrades’ eyes

emanating white pleasure

sown by their grandfathers

harvested by their sons.

     

but the call came from elsewhere

 

It is a blessing to look at the stars

like frozen sparks       

and listen to the rustling of trees

condemned to ascension

praying all night long

their arms raised

as in a silent pain

 

but the call came from elsewhere 

       

it is nice

to be without a woman a night or two

and that grass air and bark

become the body

softer than silk

and you smell grope and contemplate them

like white skin plaited with desire

touched for the first time shuddering

 

but the call came from elsewhere 

 

it is divine to dream

of never-seen lands

so ravishing

that they become the spasm of a scream

or an unknown smile

on the comrades’ faces

before death 

 

but the call came from elsewhere 

 

Scholion: all those who found the simile for beauty and bliss and horror and divinity have disappeared without a trace which only seems sad       

 

Come you shy children

the mother said

and I shall sing you a song

and I shall tell you a story

a poem       

that bore

the arrival

and a story

that bore

the faith

 

when I shall feed you

with words

I shall feed you

with my blood

 

Scholion: the poem about the community from which you cannot escape before I woke up I thought that all of us were asleep now I see that they all stand guard that they talk to each other in hushed voices I am not alone now I see I am not alone

  

we stand as one

when we fight

and tell

from the smells and touches

from the smiles and tears

when we sacrifice ourselves

for another and for the common cause

 

but in the darkness

when there are no enemies

and the twigs crack

when animals approach the stream

we all ask ourselves

 

have I heard the same   

 

Scholion: I wanted to say the opposite that we somehow know that we have heard the same maybe precisely then when we ask ourselves this question then again I am not sure maybe this is a poem about both and about the loneliness from which nothing can save you

© translated by Nike K. Pokorn

Klic

tako je bilo čudno

netukajšnje

ne hladno ne toplo

da kaos ni vedel kaj bi

in je kar strmel

 

bil je čas

ko smo si še brisali čela

z mokrim listjem

in se oblačili v oblake

bil je čas

ko smo se talili drug v drugega

in iz prelomljenih kosti brali usodo

ne da bi verjeli vanjo

bil je čas brez doma

v katerem je bila odeja

noč in neznana ženska

 

potem smo slišali klic

 

na začetku je bil klic

 

kadilo je dišalo po njem

kako različni so vonji

tudi po timijanu diši

kar je pred nebom

in zemljo

in spremeni srce

 

klic pred vsem

 

rekli so

pustite

da bo ta vonj v

vaših besedah

in dejanjih

a preveč gozda je bilo v nas

preveč divjine

 

ko pa smo sami slišali klic

smo legli na zemljo

izdali vse svoje

umrli smo

se rodili

 

in ga pozabili

 

Sholion: klic je blagoslov trme posvetitev upora čestitka izgnanstvu pravijo da ob njem spregledaš a te v resnici zaslepi da ne vidiš nevarnosti in hodiš predrzno klic je stvar bojevnikov a zakaj množina zakaj ni stvar enega to je blazna skrivnost zlitja

 

strašno je gledati v oči tovarišem

iz njih sije bel užitek

ki so ga sejali njihovi dedje

in ga bodo želi njihovi sinovi

 

a  klic je prišel od drugod

 

blaženo je gledati zvezde

kot zaledenele iskre so

in poslušati šumenje dreves

obsojenih na vnebohod

kako celo noč molijo

dvignjenih rok

kot v nemi bolečini

 

a  klic je prišel od drugod

 

lepo je biti

kako noč brez ženske

da ti trave zrak in lubje

postanejo telo

mehko bolj od svile

in jih vonjaš gneteš in motriš

kot prvič dotaknjeno drgetajočo

belo kožo speto v želji

 

a klic je prišel od drugod

 

božansko je sanjati

o nikoli videnih deželah

ki so tako opojne

da na licu tovarišev

pred smrtjo

postanejo krč krika

ali tuj nasmeh

 

a klic je prišel od drugod

 

Sholion: vsi ki so našli primero za lepoto in blaženost

in strašnost in božanskost so izginili brez sledu kar se samo zdi žalostno

 

pridite plašni otroci

je rekla mati

da vam zapojem pesem

da vam povem zgodbo

pesem

ki je rodila

prihajanje

in zgodbo

ki je rodila

verjetje

 

ko vas bom hranila

z besedami

vas bom hranila

s svojo krvjo

 

Sholion:  pesem o skupnosti pred katero ne moreš ubežati preden sem se prebudil sem mislil da vsi naši spijo zdaj vidim da že prežijo na straži  da se tiho pomenkujejo nisem sam zdaj vidim  nisem sam

 

Kot eden smo

ko se bojujemo

in prepoznavamo

po vonjih in dotikih

po nasmehih in solzáh

ko se darujemo

za drugega in skupno stvar

 

a v temi

ko ni sovražnikov

in pokajo vejice

ko živali hodijo k potoku

se pri sebi vsak sprašuje

 

ali sem slišal isto

 

Sholion: hotel sem povedati nekaj nasprotnega to da nekako vemo da smo slišali isto morda ravno tedaj ko se to sprašujemo a spet nisem prepričan morda pa je to pesem o obojem in o samoti pred katero te ne reši nič

© Gorazd Kocijančič, Certamen spirituale (Študentska založba, 2007)