Scent of paper

by Stanka Hrastelj


Scent of paper

Rain smells of paper

so does Versace’s Black Jeans, here hides the reason

I am reading and writing today, writing

and reading and learning how to live,

though nothing is comparable to

the changes March brings

or with Aleš's belief that he is a great lover

and the boys are starting to believe that he really is.

 

I enter Paper like I would  enter Rome,

barefooted across Rubicon, Fellini ordered,

I slip down the pages like I would slip down the rainbow,

I believe there is also pepper hidden

in perfume, but men do not smell of

pepper nor paper,

all of them rather use old doll Old Spice

and consider every lighting of candels as the sign of being obsessed

with the feelings of romance.

There's no use in mentioning how they know nothing about a woman,

there lived only a few who knew something about a woman

Andrej Rubljov, Peter Abelard and John the Baptist.

After all, who really knows anything about anyone?

 

The other day I lit all the candles I had found,

wore a skirt and tided the scarf

with fringes and small shells around my hips

and danced the belly dance.

The main point here is not romanticism confessed my husband to be

and read aloud what someone has written in the magazine

The womb does not carve for a baby, it desires the phallus.

Who really knows anything about anyone?

Words do not show who we really are completely, and the same goes

for our actions,

maybe the fact that you cannot borrow Seferis

from our library, tells us a lot

or tells us nothing at all.

Instead librarian pushed Richard Burns into my hands

and his eyes clinged to my face This could redeem you as well,

 than after your salvation pull us with you.

They wish to compose the book of books from world's literature,

wanting to exchange Pentateuch for Grička vještica,

The Book of Joshua for American Psycho,

Judges for The name of the Rose

and we would come to the Apocalipse.

The time for reading The Bible and Koran has passed by

Judaism and Maniheism have grown old,

Christ's teachings have lost their flexibility.

It’s not much to ask said Richard Burns,

It’s not much to ask, only the common miracle.

 

I am reading and writing today, writing

and reading and learning how to live,

I am touching the books like they were cutting knives,

and they gracefully return with the same strength,

never mind there are no great events in them,

with no Ofelia dressed in white, just thinly

human fragility, under whose power the ground colapses.

Poetry, so that God does not need to create it all,

Reality, so that Devil has a clear conscience.

© translated by Alenka Sunčič Zanut

Vonj po papirju

Dež ima vonj po papirju,

enako Versacejev Black Jeans, zato

danes berem in pišem, pišem

in berem in se učim živeti,

čeprav to sploh ni primerljivo

s spremembami, ki jih prinese marec

ali z Aleševim prepričanjem, da je dober ljubimec,

kar so mu fantje začeli verjeti.

V papir vstopam kot v Rim,

bosa čez Rubikon, je naročil Fellini,

spuščam se po straneh kot po mavrici,

verjamem, da je v parfumu

tudi poper, ampak moški ne dišijo

po popru niti po papirju,

vsi do zadnjega uporabljajo star dolgočasni Old Spice

in imajo vsako prižiganje sveč za obsedenost

od romantike.

Odveč je omenjati, da o ženski ne vedo ničesar,

o ženski so nekaj malega vedeli kvečjemu

Andrej Rubljov, Peter Abelard in Janez Krstnik.

In kaj sploh kdo o kom ve?

Zadnjič sem prižgala vse sveče, ki sem jih našla,

oblekla krilo in si okrog bokov

zavezala ruto z resicami in školjkami

in odplesala trebušni ples.

Ampak tu ni štos v romantiki je priznal moj moški

in iz revije na glas prebral

 

Maternica ne hrepeni po otroku, ampak po falusu.

Kdo o kom kaj ve?

Besede nas ne razgalijo v celoti, tudi dejanja ne,

morda to, da si v naši knjižnici

ne moreš sposoditi Seferisa, pove veliko,

morda ničesar.

Knjižničar mi v je roke potisnil Richarda Burnsa

in se me oklenil z očmi Tudi to te bo odrešilo,

potem nas povleci za sabo.

Iz svetovne literature bi radi sestavili

knjigo knjig, Pentatevh bi zamenjali

za Gričko vještico, Jozuetovo knjigo za Ameriški psiho,

Sodnike za Ime rože

in tako naprej, vse do Apokalipse.

Minil je čas za branje Biblije in Korana,

postarala sta se judovstvo in manihejstvo,

Kristusovi nauki so zgubili prožnost.

Ne zahtevam veliko je rekel Richard Burns,

Ne zahtevam veliko, le navaden čudež.

Danes berem in pišem, pišem

in berem in se učim živeti,

knjig se dotikam kot ostrega noža,

hvaležno vračajo z isto mero,

čeprav v njih ni velikih dogodkov,

nobene Ofelije v belem, samo drobna

človeška krhkost, pod katero se ugrezajo tla.

Poezija, da Bogu ni treba ustvariti vsega,

resničnost, da ima hudič čisto vest.

© Stanka Hrastelj, Nizki toni (Goga, 2005)