Denis Škofič

Poetry

1. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGSLV

   There stood a meadow. It was deeply bent over the doe, grazing on it. With its green snout it was rooting the burnt grass of hide and plucking red flowers of flesh. It hastily swallowed the whole apple of the heart, not even spitting out the seeds of lead. 

    

   There stood a cherry tree. It was weaving a nest out of sparrows and starlings. They were lying around it like open oysters, where crows stole grey pearls from. 

    

   Here and there a person lay. On his caved-in chest the imprints of wild butts of guns which he rode just before were shown.

   Translated by Jasmin B. Frelih

   Tam je stal travnik. Bil je globoko sklonjen nad srno in se pasel na njej. S svojim zelenim gobcem je ril po ožgani travi kožuha in pulil rdeče rože mesa. Hlastno je pogoltnil célo jabolko srca, niti svinčenih pečk ni izpljunil.

    

   Tam je stala češnja. Pletla je gnezdo iz vrabcev in škorcev. Ležali so okrog nje kot odprte ostrige, iz katerih so srake kradle sive bisere.

    

   Tu in tam je ležal človek. Na njegovih udrtih prsih so se poznala podivjana kopita puške, na kateri je še maloprej jahal.

    

    

   Sprehajalec ptic (Beletrina, 2013)

2. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGSLV

   In rats, houses spawned. Large, small, with scaly backs and staring windows.

    

   In rats, houses spawned. They squeal with their doors, they grunt with their hatches and squeak with their hinges, as they gnaw on their flesh, gouge their bones and carve their house-numbers into their thoughts.

    

   In rats, houses spawned. Made of repugnant brick, or with hairy facades and long tails of garages. All full of voracious parasites, all scabby of their own voraciousness.

    

   In rats, houses spawned. In their cold chests beat hot ovens and in their conniving attics a shelter dreams.

   Translated by Jasmin B. Frelih

   V podganah so se nakotile hiše. Velike, majhne, z luskastimi hrbti in strmečimi okni.

    

   V podganah so se nakotile hiše. Cvilijo z vrati, ječijo z durmi in škripajo s tečaji, ko glodajo njihovo meso, dolbejo v njihove kosti ter praskajo svoje hišne številke v njihove misli.

    

   V podganah so se nakotile hiše. Ostudno opečnate ali s kosmatimi fasadami in dolgimi repi garaž. Vse polne požrešnih zajedavcev, vse krastave od svoje požrešnosti.

    

   V podganah so se nakotile hiše. V njihovih mrzlih prsih utripajo vroče peči in na njihovem potuhnjenem podstrešju sanja zavetje.

    

   Sprehajalec ptic (Beletrina, 2013)

    

3. *** / ***

   

   

   ENGSLV

   It is complete windlessness today. The River Drava stands bricklain out of a single surface. On both banks right past her always faster the city is flowing away. All around her waves of roofs and housefronts, here and there a splash of bridge. The current of the city speeds up, getting stronger. Its surface cut by dorsal fins, pointers, circling in the eddies of belfries. Some try to dam the city to use its energy, they're so occupied with it that they fail to see themselves also being carried away.

    

   All around her waves of roofs and housefronts, here and there a splash of bridge. The current of the city speeds up, getting stronger. With it goes all that it takes, all that is and all that is in it. With it we go – drowned men behind closed flesh windows, opened glass eyes, worked over by walls, chewed through by walls. I get carried away with the thought of finding someday somewhere the riverbank they're looking for.  

   Translated by Jasmin B. Frelih

   Danes je popolno brezvetrje. Drava stoji sezidana iz ene same gladine. Na obeh nabrežjih mimo nje vedno hitreje odteka mesto. Vsenaokrog valovijo strehe in pročelja, tu pa tam čez Dravo pljuskne most. Tok mesta je vse hitrejši, vse silovitejši. Njegovo gladino režejo hrbtne plavuti, kazalci, ki krožijo v vrtincih zvonikov. Nekaj jih poskuša zajeziti mesto, da bi izkoristili njegovo energijo, tako so zaposleni s tem, da ne vidijo, da tudi njih odnaša.

    

   Vsenaokrog valovijo strehe in pročelja, tu pa tam čez Dravo pljuskne most. Tok mesta je vse hitrejši, vse silovitejši. S sabo nosi vse, kar zajame, vse, kar je, in vse, kar je v njem. S sabo odnaša nas – utopljence za zaprtimi mesenimi okni, z odprtimi steklenimi očmi, ki so jih načele stene, ki so jih nagrizli zidovi. Odnaša me z mislijo, da mogoče nekoč nekje naplavim nabrežje, ki ga iščejo.

    

   Sprehajalec ptic (Beletrina, 2013)

4. A SWALLOW'S NEST / LASTOVIČJE GNEZDO

   

   

   ENGSLV

   For as long as I can remember, there has been a swallow’s nest in the corner of the barn, right under the ceiling. Full of chirping every spring and empty every winter, but always there, in the corner of the barn, right under the ceiling.

    

   Grandma was milking one of the many cows, with a black and white shawl tied under her neck that always reminded me of a swallow hugging and brooding an ostrich egg. Grandma was always silent, while Grandpa nagged without end. When Grandma died, shortly after my first communion, Grandpa said she had been so afraid of life that she stuck her head in the sand like an ostrich. I added, “Not just her head, Grandpa, but the rest of her body as well.” That was when he hit me for the first time. It was after the funeral, at the repast. As Grandpa shovelled manure in the barn, griping loudly about the cows, which had been dwindling from year to year, he talked about how swallows bring the spring from distant Africa. When I asked him how he knew that it was from Africa, he called me an idiot for not noticing that they were black as negroes and that their white bellies, unexposed to the blazing African sun during the summer, indicated that they used to be white. At that time, Grandma was still alive, and my first communion came soon after.

    

   Grandpa said that swallows return every year and that those that visit us are always of the same kin. Even now, many years later, they come, black from the summer and carrying spring in their claws. Still they come, and an empty barn hangs from the swallow’s nest.

   Translated by Jernej Županič

   Že odkar se spominjam, je tu lastovičje gnezdo, tu v kotu hleva, tik pod stropom. Vsako pomlad polno čivkanja in vsako zimo prazno, vendar vedno tu, tu v kotu hleva, tik pod stropom.

    

   Stara mati so molzli eno od številnih krav, črno-bela ruta na njihovi glavi, zvezana pod brado, me je vedno spominjala na lastovico, ki oklepajoč ga s krili vali veliko nojevo jajce. Stara mati so bili vedno tiho, ded pa je bil večni nergač. Ko so kmalu po mojem obhajilu stara mati umrli, je ded dejal, da je v strahu pred življenjem kot noj skrila svojo glavo v luknjo. Jaz pa sem dodal: »Ded, ne samo glavo, tudi vse ostalo telo.« Takrat me je prvič udaril. To je bilo po pogrebu na sedmini. Ko je ded zmetaval gnoj v hlevu in rohnel nad kravami, ki jih je bilo vsako leto manj, mi je govoril, kako lastovice prinašajo pomlad iz daljne Afrike. Ko sem ga vprašal, kako ve, da iz Afrike, mi je rekel, da sem bedak, če še nisem opazil, da so lastovice črne kot zamorci in da se po belem trebuhu, ki med letom ni izpostavljen vročemu afriškemu soncu, dobro vidi, da so bile prej še bele. To je bilo takrat, ko so še stara mati živeli, kmalu zatem je prišlo obhajilo.

    

   Ded je govoril, da se lastovice vračajo vsako leto in da so lastovice, ki prihajajo k nam, vedno iz istega rodu. Še zdaj, mnogo let pozneje, prihajajo, črne od poletja in s pomladjo v krempljih. Še vedno prihajajo in iz lastovičjega gnezda visi prazen hlev.

    

   Sprehajalec ptic (Beletrina, 2013)

5. ENGLISH PATIENT / ANGLEŠKI PACIENT

   

   

   ENGSLV

   I don’t know who I really am is.

   I only know that they have found me him

   crashed in the desert,

   all in flames,

   with antlers of fire

   out of which I was rushing my his skin.

   I only know the desert

   which I have has walked through and mapped,

   the desert with the cave of swimmers.

   The desert which is sand which has been

   left behind by a shattered clepsydra,

   when Caliban’s tempest hurled itself

   into the sails, so that it, together with the ship,

   also took away the sea.

   Burnt beyond recognition,

   I am lying here in a room painted with

   a forest which in the flickering

   dusk of quiveringly boastful, quiveringly irascible

   candlelight gives an impression of being

   real, as though it will venture forth

   tooth and nail and one of the leaves

   on the painted trees will start to sway

   if a moth lands on it,

   the moth circling Ponge’s candle.

   Everything I have has brought

   with me through the flames, through the fire,

   is a copy of Herodotus’s Histories,

   which I have has added to,

   cut out pages from other books and glued

   them into it

   or made my his own footnotes.

   The spaces of the house in which I am lying

   are linked to a staircase

   which in many places leads nowhere,

   as the war left it without numerous

   steps which have been at some

   points replaced by books.

   If I could descend them,

   I would be thumbing through into walking or else

   falling into the reader’s gaps.

   In order to escape this prison,

   I should, with the needle of a compass,

   tattoo a map onto my skin.

   Translated by Barbara Jurša

   Ne vem, kdo zares sem on.

   Vem samo, da so me našli njega

   strmoglavljenega v puščavi,

   vsega v plamenih,

   z rogovjem ognja,

   s katerega sem si je pehal kožo.

   Poznam samo puščavo,

   ki sem jo je prehodil in kartografiral,

   puščavo z jamo plavalcev.

   Puščava, ki je pesek, ki ga je

   za sabo pustila razbita klepsidra,

   ko se je kalibanski vihar zagnal

   v jadra, da je skupaj z ladjo

   odnesel še morje.

   Požgan do nerazpoznavnosti

   ležim tukaj v sobi, poslikani z

   gozdom, ki v migotajočem

   polmraku bahljave, jezljave

   svečave, daje vtis, kot da je

   resničen in da se bo za noht

   podal in zanihal eden izmed listov

   na naslikanih drevesih,

   če bo na njih pristala vešča,

   ki obletava Pongovo svečo.

   Vse, kar sem je prinesel

   s sabo skozi plamene, skozi ogenj,

   je izvod Herodotovih Zgodb,

   ki sem jih je dopolnjeval,

   izrezoval in lepil zraven strani

   iz drugih knjig

   ali pa pripisoval svoje opazke.

   Prostori hiše, v kateri ležim,

   so povezani s stopniščem,

   ki marsikje ne vodi nikamor,

   saj je v vojni ostalo brez številnih

   stopnic, ki so jih na nekaterih

   mestih nadomestili s knjigami.

   Če bi se lahko spustil po njih,

   bi se zalistal v hojo ali pa

   padel v prazna bralska mesta.

   Da bi lahko pobegnil iz tega zapora,

   bi si moral z iglo kompasa

   v kožo vtetovirati zemljevid.

    

   Seganje (Cankarjeva založba, 2017)

6. INSOMNIA / INSOMNIJA

   

   

   ENGSLV

   When it grows dark, I watch black fishermen on boats driving large logs; to each log is attached a strong line with a hook. In order not to scare the fish away, they use long wooden poles instead of oars, and they push off the bottom and onwards with them. They look for bushes growing in the water, under which sheatfish dig their burrows into the bank and wait for prey. That is what they told me when I first asked them about their strange activities. When they come to the right spot, they stop the boat inaudibly with one move, take a dead bird out of the bucket, most often a sparrow, put it on the hook and submerge it into the water by the bush, together with the log. Then they depart inaudibly, with one move.

    

   When the dawn breaks, the whole surface is full of shifting logs, reeling at the water’s nape. Some logs momentarily disappear under the surface, only to be thrown back with full force. In time, black fisherman arrive and go after them with their boats. They pick the logs from the water, with lines they pull heavy sheatfish into boats, and the fish are just as large as the fisherman, if not larger. The morning is cold, this is why my throat is burning. There is a strange feeling in my mouth, which is dry, as though all saliva was soaked up by the feathers of the dead bird I feel between my teeth. The pain in my mouth is growing unbearable, I want only to go into the black burrow. I am propelling myself towards it with all my strength, but the dead bird in my mouth pulls me back to the surface again and again. The burrow is drawing me in ever more strongly, but the buoyancy of the dead bird in my mouth is even greater. I strain with all my power, and then I am amazed by the ease with which the black fisherman drags me into his boat, although I am much larger than him.

   Translated by Barbara Jurša

   Ko gre proti mraku, hodim gledat, kako črni ribiči na čolnih vozijo velika polena, na vsako od njih je pritrjena močna vrvica s trnkom. Da ne bi preplašili rib, namesto vesel uporabljajo dolge lesene štange, s katerimi se odrivajo od dna in potiskajo naprej. Iščejo v vodi rastoče grme, pod katerimi si somi skopljejo rove v breg in čakajo na plen. Tako so mi povedali, ko sem jih prvič vprašal po njihovem nenavadnem početju. Ko prispejo na pravo mesto, neslišno z enim gibom ustavijo čoln, iz vedra vzamejo mrtvo ptico, največkrat je to vrabec, in jo nataknejo na trnek, potem jo skupaj s polenom spustijo v vodo ob grmu. Nato z enim gibom neslišno odrinejo od tam. 

    

   Ko se dani, je vsa gladina polna premikajočih se polen, ki potoglavijo po zatilju vode. Nekatera za trenutek izginejo pod gladino, potem jih spet z vso silo vrže na površje. Čez čas pridejo črni ribiči in se s čolni odpravijo za njimi. Iz vode pobirajo polena, z vrvicami vlačijo težke some v čolne, vsaj tako veliki so kot oni, če ne še večji. Jutro je hladno, zato me skeli grlo. V ustih imam nenavaden občutek, suha so, kakor da bi vso slino popivnalo perje mrtve ptice, ki jo čutim med zobmi. Bolečina v ustih postaja neznosna, želim si samo v črni rov. Z vso silo se poganjam proti njemu, vendar me mrtva ptica v ustih vedno znova potegne nazaj proti površju. Rov me vse močneje vleče vase, a vzgon mrtve ptice v ustih je vseeno močnejši. Napnem vse sile, potem pa se čudim, s kakšno lahkoto me črni ribič zvleče v svoj čoln, čeprav sem veliko večji od njega.

    

   Seganje (Cankarjeva založba, 2017)

7. EROS AND THANATOS / EROS IN TANATOS

   

   

   ENGSLV

   As mating calls sound,

   young deer

   sprout handtlers from their foreheads,

   handtlers with splayed,

   stiff, and greedy fingers.

   As mating calls sound,

   young deer challenge each other,

   handtlers shaking handtlers,

   fingers grasping fingers.

   As mating calls sound,

   brawls break out

   until the weaker fighter yields,

   or loses a hand, dropping it

   aside like a peace offering rebuffed.

   As mating calls sound,

   the most extravagant handtlers win,

   handtlers with long fingers that easily

   pass through the female’s coat.

   As mating calls sound,

   the biggest handtlers win,

   those best able to cradle 

   the female in their palms.

   As mating calls sound,

   even deer skulls

   hung on walls grasp at

   luscious flesh with their bony hands.

   Translated by Jernej Županič

   Ob paritvenem klicu 

   mladim jelenom 

   iz čela rastejo rokovja, 

   rokovja z razkrečenimi, 

   togimi, grabežljivimi prsti. 

   Ob paritvenem klicu 

   se mladi jeleni spoprimejo, 

   da rokovje seže v rokovje, 

   da se prsti oklenejo prstov. 

   Ob paritvenem klicu 

   pride do rokoborb, 

   dokler ne popusti najšibkejši 

   ali se mu odlomi roka in pade 

   v prazno kakor zavrnjeno premirje. 

   Ob paritvenem klicu 

   zmaga najrazkošnejše rokovje, 

   z dolgimi prsti, ki z lahkoto 

   gredo skozi samičino dlako. 

   Ob paritvenem klicu 

   zmaga največje rokovje,

    takšno, ki lahko scela vzame 

   samico v svoje dlani. 

   Ob paritvenem klicu

   še jelenje lobanje 

   na zidovih s svojimi koščenimi rokami 

   grabijo za mesenostjo.

    

   Seganje (Cankarjeva založba, 2017)

8. REACHING / SEGANJE

   

   

   ENGSLV

   You bare yourself, discarding your clothes and shoes, and wade into the river.

   You have to undress, to disrobe and take off your shoes,

   because you know how heavy clothing gets when soaked,

   what a burden shoes become when infiltrated by water.

   You bare yourself and wade into the river. Walking barefoot over sand and pebbles,

   you feel them being carried away from under your feet, grain by grain, stone by stone,

   feel that it’s not just the river that’s flowing, but also its bed.

   You wade in the river, reaching between rocks with your hands,

   reaching into crevices, under sunken trees and their roots,

   reaching for fish, their scaly bodies, knowing however,

   that any scaly body that you touch could also be a snake.

   You’re well aware of this, resigned to what might happen.

   In any case, you are by now immune to venom,

   immune thanks to the many bites you’ve already received.

   Your arms are full of bites,

   your arms a nest of bites.

   But perhaps you’re not wading into the river for the sake of fish,

   not to search for them in their hiding places,

   feel their brute force

   as you hold them by the tails with both hands,

   and they drag you on, even against the current,

   until you manage to subdue them with your bare hands.

   Perhaps you’re wading into the river for the snakes,

   for their bites

   that lurk between the rocks,

   in crevices, under the sunken trees

   and their roots.

   Your arms are full of bites,

   your arms a nest of bites.

   Your arms.

   Translated by Jernej Županič

   Razgališ se, odvržeš oblačila in obutev ter stopiš v reko. 

   Moraš se sleči, moraš odvreči obleko, moraš sezuti čevlje, 

   ker veš, kako težka so lahko oblačila, ko se navzamejo vlage, 

   kakšno breme so lahko čevlji, če vanje vstopi voda. 

   Razgališ se in zabredeš v reko. Bos hodiš po pesku in produ, 

   čutiš, kako ga zrno za zrnom, kamen za kamnom odnaša izpod tvojih stopal,

   čutiš, da ne teče samo reka, ampak tudi njeno dno. 

   Brodiš po reki in s svojimi rokami segaš med skale, 

   v vdolbine, pod potopljena drevesa in njihove korenine, 

   segaš za ribami, za njihovim luskastimi telesi, vendar veš, 

   da je lahko luskasto telo, ki ga zatipaš, tudi kačje. 

   Dobro se zavedaš tega, to jemlješ v zakup. 

   Sicer pa si tako ali tako že odporen na kačji strup, 

   odporen zaradi številnih ugrizov. 

   Tvoje roke so prepredene z ugrizi, 

   tvoje roke so leglo ugrizov. 

   Mogoče pa ne hodiš v reko zaradi rib, 

   da bi jih poiskal v njihovih skrivališčih, 

   da bi začutil njihovo surovo moč, 

   ko jih držiš z obema rokama za rep 

   in te uspejo celo vleči proti toku, 

   dokler jih ne ukrotiš s svojimi golimi rokami. 

   Mogoče hodiš v reko zaradi kač, 

   zaradi njihovih ugrizov, 

   ki prežijo med skalami, 

   v vdolbinah, pod potopljenimi drevesi 

   in njihovimi koreninami. 

   Tvoje roke so prepredene z ugrizi, 

   tvoje roke so leglo ugrizov. 

   Tvoje roke.

    

    Seganje (Cankarjeva založba, 2017)

9. LORD OF THE FLIES / GOSPODAR MUH

   

   

   ENGSLV

   The adults’ voices wondered where the head had gone.

   The colour of the light seemed to justify the phrase:

   sun cut throat. A sense of dignity lingered in the air,

   mingled with incense, an infusion of skin, spices and blood.

   While he was letting blood, somebody had to stir it vigorously,

   so it would not coagulate. Soon the air would grow warm with baking blood,

   and only then the hacking of the flesh would proceed, the hacking into pieces

   like those shown by the periodic table of elements at the butcher’s shop.

   By then, however, we’d be deep in the forest, the crunch

   of fallen leaves beneath our feet, the buzzing of flies stirring the air,

   drowning out the world of adults.

   The silty scent of damp would fill our noses.

   We’d argue over who would be Jack, who would be Ralph and Roger and Robert,

   who would be Eric and Sam, and who would play the role of Simon.

   Almost everyone would want to be Jack, but you’d get Simon’s part.

   In madcap horror, you’d run through the forest on all fours.

   Kill the pig! Cut her throat! Kill the pig! Bash her in!

   Kill the pig! Cut her throat! Kill the pig! Bash her in!

   Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!

    

   In a cloud of flies, our black thoughts swarmed around the pig’s head

   that Jack had stuck on a tall pole in the middle of the forest.

   Translated by Jernej Županič

   Glasovi odraslih so se spraševali, kam je izginila glava.

   Svetloba je bila take barve, da si upravičeno lahko rekel:

   sonce, prerezan vrat. V zraku je bilo čutiti svečanost,

   bil je prežet s kadilom iz poparjene kože, začimb in krvi.

   Medtem ko je puščal kri, jo je moral nekdo hitro mešati, 

   da se ni strdila. Kmalu se bo ozračje segrelo od pečene krvi,

   in šele takrat se bo nadaljevalo razkosavanje mesa na take

   dele, kot jih prikazuje periodni sistem elementov v mesnici.

   Vendar bomo mi takrat že globoko v gozdu, pod našimi stopali

   bo hrskalo odpadlo listje, ozračje pa bo vibriralo od brenčanja

   muh, da ne bomo več slišali sveta odraslih. 

   V nos nam bo silil muljast vonj po vlagi. 

   Prepirali se bomo, kdo bo Jack, kdo bo Ralph, kdo Roger, kdo Robert,

   kdo Eric, kdo Sam in kdo bo igral Simona.

   Skoraj vsi bodo želeli biti Jack, tebi pa bo pripadla vloga Simona.

   V norčavi grozi boš na vseh štirih tekel skozi gozd. 

   Zakolji prašiča! Prereži mu vrat! Zakolji prašiča! Suni ga!

   Zakolji prašiča! Prereži mu vrat! Zakolji prašiča! Suni ga!

   Pobijte pošast! Prerežite ji vrat! Puščajte ji kri!

    

   Naše črne misli so se v roju muh podile po svinjski glavi,

   ki jo je Jack napičil na velik kol sredi gozda.

    

   Tuskulum (Cankarjeva založba, 2023)

10. THE CARNIVAL / PUST

    

    

    ENGSLV

    They dressed us up as infantrymen,

    shoved muskets and flintlocks in our hands.

    Sent us off from doorway to doorway,

    from hamlet to hamlet.

    We danced to military marches,

    crooning:

    Turnips fat and flax stalks tall,

    Lent’s a-coming, all y’all.

    Don’t drink water, drink some wine,

    don’t eat meat, but turnip’s fine.

     

    We shot with our eyes.

    We looked with our blanks.

     

    We dressed up as soldiers,

    took rifles and revolvers in our hands.

    We went from door to door,

    from village to village.

    We danced to military marches,

    singing:

    From door to door,

    from street to street

    we bring you spring

    and laughter sweet.

    So give us please,

    we ask of you,

    three cakes, some meat,

    a coin or two.

     

    We shot with our eyes.

    We looked with our blanks.

     

    We dressed them up as soldiers,

    shoved machine guns and pistols in their hands.

    We sent them from door to door,

    from town to town.

    They danced to military marches,

    singing:

    Trili-lee, trili-lee,

    do you know us – who are we?

    Tralala-tralala,

    we’re all wearing masks, ha-ha!

     

    They shot with their eyes.

    They looked with their blanks.

    Translated by Jernej Županič

    Našemili so nas v soldate,

    v roke potisnili pukše in samokrese.

    Poslali so nas od dveri do dveri,

    od sela do sela.

    Plesali smo vojaške koračnice

    in spejvali:

    Debela repa, dugi lien,

    gnes je fajnšček cejli dien.

    Pijte vijno, nej vodau,

    jejte repo, nej mesau.

     

    Streljali smo z očmi.

    Gledali smo s slepimi naboji.

     

    Našemili smo se v vojake,

    v roke smo vzeli puške in revolverje.

    Šli smo od vrat do vrat,

    od vasi do vasi.

    Plesali smo vojaške koračnice 

    in peli:

    Od hiše do hiše,

    od vrat do vrat

    prinašamo smeh vam

    in s smehom pomlad.

    Zato pa nam dajte

    en evrček, dva,

    tri bobe, tri krofe,

    en košček mesa.

     

    Streljali smo z očmi.

    Gledali smo s slepimi naboji.

     

    Našemili smo jih v vojake,

    v roke smo jim potisnili brzostrelke in pištole.

    Poslali smo jih od vrat do vrat,

    od naselja do naselja.

    Plesali so vojaške koračnice 

    in peli:

    Trili-li, trili-li,

    ali veste, kdo smo mi?

    Tralala-tralala,

    pustne šeme smo, haha!

     

    Streljali so z očmi.

    Gledali so s slepimi naboji.

     

    Tuskulum (Cankarjeva založba, 2023)

     

11. RITE / OBRED

    

    

    ENGSLV

    April is the cruellest month, its light as in August.

    In the yard, beneath the oak tree, a white carcass swings

    on hooks dangling from an empty swing frame, split

    open and headless. Men with bowls and knives

    dripping with blood that mingles with light and the shadows

    of branches make fun of the girl carrying the head

    on a silver platter, swaying her hips as if about to

    break into dance. At the threshold of the house,

    a man clasps a basket full of masks to his chest with his left hand,

    struggling to put on the one he is holding with his right –

    to put it on or take it off or swap it with another.

    His gaze lingers on the girl, then wanders

    over her shoulder, settling on the blacksmith

    limping behind the muddy puddle of her shadow, guiding

    the animal from the barn with one hand and holding a net with the other.

     

    April is the cruellest month, its light as in August.

    In the yard, beneath the oak tree, a white carcass sways

    on hooks dangling from an empty swing frame, split

    open and headless, and the men with bowls and knives

    in their hands, in a light that now falls at a different angle, differently refracted,

    seem as if their heads are pig’s heads, grunting at the girl

    who had brought them drinks and is now leaving with the head on the platter.

    At the threshold of the house, a man clasps a basket to his chest; 

    masks peek out from it – an eagle, a swan, a goat, an ass,

    a devil, a Burch, a Bunch, a Hightower, an Agamemnon … –

    as he struggles to don the white bull mask he’s holding

    in his right hand, or take it off or swap it with another.

    His gaze slithers across the girl, then slips 

    over her shoulder, piercing the blacksmith

    walking on a deer’s hoof, hobbling behind the rainforest of her shadow,

    guiding the animal from the barn with one hand and holding a maul with the other.

     

    April is the cruellest month, its light as in August.

    In the yard, beneath the oak tree, a white carcass swings and rocks

    and sways and Aprils on hooks dangling from an empty swing frame,

    split open and headless, and the men with bowls and knives

    in their hands, in a light that now falls at a different angle, differently refracted

    and shifted, seem like hunters or soldiers with rifles,

    whistling to the girl who’s hurrying away, quickening her pace,

    running in a flurry, with a wooden platter bearing

    the head of a pig, or John the Baptist, or Jokanaan, or

    Orpheus, or Macbeth, or Joanna Burden, or perhaps her own to sell did

    she lose it did somebody mess with her hands the colour of a heart so white

    towards the house where a man is at the threshold clasping a basket to his heart

    full of face coverings wearing a Joe Christmas mask and peering through it

    as if through the dripping shadow behind which the blacksmith falters holding an ear of wheat

    in one hand and a pair of antlers in the other April is the cruellest month

    its light as in August April is the cruellest month

    its light as in August April is the cruellest month

    Translated by Jernej Županič

    April je najbolj krut mesec, svetloba je kot v avgustu.

    Sredi dvorišča ob hrastu se na ogrodju gugalnice, 

    ki so jo sneli, na kavljih guga bel trup, po sredi

    prerezan in razpet in brez glave. Možje s skledami in noži, 

    s katerih kaplja kri, pomešana s svetlobo in sencami

    vej, zbijajo šale na račun dekleta, ki na srebrnem pladnju,

    zibaje v bokih, kakor da bo zdaj zdaj zaplesala,

    odnaša glavo proti hiši. Na hišnem pragu stoji moški. 

    Z levico si k prsim prižema košaro, polno mask, 

    medtem ko si z desnico poskuša masko 

    nadeti ali sneti ali zamenjati z drugo. 

    Njegove oči se pasejo po dekletu in obenem uhajajo

    čez njeno ramo in merijo krevljast korak kovača, 

    ki stopa za njeno muljasto mlakužo sence, z eno roko

    vodeč živino iz hleva, v drugi držeč mrežo.

     

    April je najbolj krut mesec, svetloba je kot v avgustu.

    Sredi dvorišča ob hrastu se na ogrodju gugalnice, 

    ki so jo sneli, na kavljih maje bel trup, po sredi

    prerezan in razpet in brez glave in možje s skledami 

    in noži v rokah se pod drugačnim kotom, lomom svetlobe

    zazdijo, kot da imajo svinjske glave, ko krulijo za dekletom,

    ki jim je prinesla domačo pijačo in zdaj odnaša glavo na pladnju.

    Na hišnem pragu stoji moški. Z levico si k prsim prižema 

    košaro, iz nje gledajo maske: orla, laboda, kozla, osla, 

    parkeljna, Burcha, Buncha, Hightowerja, Agamemnona …, 

    medtem ko si z desnico poskuša masko belega bika 

    nadeti ali sneti ali zamenjati z drugo. 

    Njegove oči se plazijo po dekletu in obenem zdrsavajo

    čez njeno ramo in prebadajo šepajoč korak kovača, 

    ki z jelenjim kopitom stopa za njenim deževnim gozdom sence, 

    z eno roko vodeč živino iz hleva, v drugi držeč macolo.

     

    April je najbolj krut mesec, svetloba je kot v avgustu.

    Sredi dvorišča ob hrastu se na ogrodju gugalnice, 

    ki so jo sneli, na kavljih guga, ziblje, maje, aprili

    bel trup, po sredi prerezan in razpet in brez glave in možje s skledami 

    in noži v rokah se pod drugačnim kotom, lomom, premikom

    svetlobe zazdijo, kot da so lovci s puškami ali vojaki, 

    ki žvižgajo za dekletom, ki hiti, ki je pospešila korak,

    ki malodane teče brezglavo z lesenim pladnjem, na katerem

    nosi glavo svinje ali Janeza Krstnika ali Johanaana ali 

    Orfeja ali Macbetha ali Joanne Burden ali svojo na prodaj ali

    jo je izgubila ji jo je kdo zmešal roke iste barve srce tako belo

    proti hiši kjer na pragu stoji moški ki si k srcu pritiska košaro 

    zvrhano krink z masko Joeja Christmasa na obrazu ki gleda skoznjo

    kot skozi vlažno senco za katero stopa šantajoč kovač z žitnim klasom 

    v eni in z rogovi v drugi roki april je najbolj krut mesec 

    svetloba je kot v avgustu april je najbolj krut mesec 

    svetloba je kot v avgustu april je najbolj krut mesec

     

    Tuskulum (Cankarjeva založba, 2023)