And I’m making art

by Katja Perat


And I’m making art

It is said that people quietly

endeavor to die, because everything organic

strives to become inorganic,

and all movement strives towards

no longer being movement.

Things fall apart because they wish

to be left alone.

 

Sad people surrender,

as medieval towns surrender.

After drawn out sieges. Arduously.

Under their own terms.

They can’t handle the burden. Guilt and gloom

are justly shared

by everybody present.

 

To decline doesn’t help,

To be heartless is useful,

even if psychoanalysts claim,

that to renounce desire is to die beforehand.

I find it hard to face mirrors. They force me to

confront and mercilessly hate my face.

This separates me from beautiful people,

who can afford malice and fury, without

losing anything; loved and insured in advance.

 

There are truthful people, who can manage clarity,

without constantly reminding themselves,

that no untrue thing has ever been beautiful.

They don’t avoid their sadness and when confronting

their failures, they say with a certain calm:

I am aware that I have been abandoned. You are

outside my reach. There is no sense in

insistence. Nobody loves when it is

required.

 

But these people have learned things

I am not able to. We are separated

by a weakness, disguised as a sense of honor,

which converts everything, by touching, into theory.

And when it gets truly unbearable, I can only,

in an exaggerated squeamish manner, wait for

rain that would align the weather with my mood.

 

There is a certain grace in bailing yourself out

with art. Grace, in which you speak,

liberated from a single-point of view’s constraint,

that prevents speech and points out the ineptitude,

that you never really avoid,

unfit to survive the exposure

required by being human.

 

Grace and affection demand strain

and it’s true – for me, nothing is ever easy.

It is irrelevant,

said someone that I know.

Your poems are irrelevant.

Art needs other things.

Art doesn’t need anything.

I would like to match.

© translated by Jasmin B. Frelih

In delam umetnost

Govori se, da si ljudje po tihem

prizadevamo za smrt, ker vse organsko

teži k temu, da bi spet postalo anorgansko

in vsako gibanje teži k temu,

da ne bi bilo več gibanje.

Stvari razpadejo, ker si želijo,

da bi se jih pustilo pri miru.

 

Žalostni ljudje se predajajo,

kot se predaja srednjeveška mesta.

Po dolgih obleganjih. Stežka.

Samo pod lastnimi pogoji.

Ne zdržijo bremena. Krivda in žalost

se pravično razdelita

med vse, ki so zraven.

 

Da odklanjaš, ne pomaga,

če si brez srca, je koristno,

čeprav psihoanalitiki pravijo, da vnaprej umre,

kdor se odreče želji. Težko se srečujem

v ogledalih, ki me silijo v soočenje

in neusmiljeno sovraštvo do svojega obraza.

To me loči od lepih ljudi, ki si lahko privoščijo

objestnost in togoto, ne da bi s tem kaj

izgubili; zavarovani in ljubljeni vnaprej.

 

So resnicoljubni ljudje, ki zmorejo jasnost,

ne da bi se nenehno opominjali,

da še nobena neresnična reč ni bila lepa.

Ne izogibajo se svoji žalosti in v soočenjih

s svojimi porazi z določeno mirnostjo rečejo:

Zavedam se, da sem bil zapuščen. Zunaj

mojega dosega si. Nobenega smisla ni v

prepričevanju. Nihče ne ljubi, kadar se od njega zahteva.

 

Toda ti ljudje so se naučili stvari,

ki jih ne zmorem. Od njih me ločuje

nemoč, zakrinkana v občutek za čast,

ki vse, česar se dotakne, predela v teorijo.

In kadar zares postane neznosno, je vse, kar lahko,

da v pretirano rahločutni maniri čakam na

dež, ki bi uskladil vreme z mojim razpoloženjem.

 

Določena milost je v tem, da se rešiš

v umetnost. Milost, v kateri govoriš

razrešen prisile enega samega pogleda,

ki onemogoča govor in opozarja na nesposobnost,

ki se ji nikdar zares ne izogneš,

nepripravljen preživeti izpostavljanje,

ki ga zahteva to, da si človek.

 

Milina in naklonjenost terjata napor

in res je, da zame ni nič nikdar zlahka.

Nepomembno je,

je rekel nekdo, ki ga poznam.

Tvoje pesmi so nepomembne.

Umetnost potrebuje druge stvari.

Umetnost ne potrebuje ničesar.

V tem bi ji bila rada podobna.

© Katja Perat, Najboljši so padli (Študentska založba, 2011)