PRVO OBHAJILO
Tukaj bom sedla, na to klop
v prvem snegu,
tu, na vrhu tega kuclja,
kalvarija mu pravijo,
čisto ob kapelici,
ne toliko zaradi vzgiba vere,
bolj gre za stvar navade,
ampak predvsem je lep razgled
na mesto in naprej,
čez vse življenje, do Alp,
letos sem jih napolnila dvainosemdeset
in kakršni so časi,
ne vem, če bom še videla padati sneg ponoči.
Nekoliko naprej v mraku trije dedci,
izdolbenih oči in okrušenih nosov,
vsak lepo razpet na svojem križu
in spodaj nekaj žensk žalobnega videza
in brez dlani;
eden, srednji, gleda eno od njih
in mi reče:
»mami, vse bo v redu, mami, ne trpim,
mami, nihče več ne bo trpel.«
Ne še, dragi moj … ne še.
Kakršni so časi, še zimski večeri niso,
kot se jih spominjam.
Kite in kosti niso, kot se jih spominjam,
prožne postajajo in voljne.
Horizont se krči,
toplo je, pretoplo za januar,
Alpe, da bi segla po njih z roko,
maj dvainpetdesetega, prvo obhajilo,
punčka sem, v beli obleki,
babičine tople oči, ki pravijo:
moj mali angel –
in ne vem, zares ne vem,
če bom še kdaj videla padati sneg.
THE FIRST COMMUNION
I shall sit here, on this bench,
in the first snow,
here, atop of this knoll
they call Golgotha,
I shall sit right by the chapel,
not so much out of faith
more out of habit
but mostly for the view.
To see the town
and my entire life and the Alps.
I turned eighty-two this year
and the way things are going
I’m not sure I will ever see the
snow falling at night again.
A few steps further on, in the dusk, three men,
their eyes gouged out and noses broken off
each of them so neatly crucified,
and beneath a couple of gloomy looking women
with no hands.
One of the men, the middle one,
looks at one of the women
and says to me:
Mom, all is well, mom, I don’t suffer anymore,
mom, nobody will suffer anymore.
Not yet, my dear one, not yet.
The way things are going, even the winter nights
aren’t how I remember them anymore,
my ligaments and bones aren’t how I remember
them anymore,
they are becoming flexible and willing.
The horizon is shrinking,
it is warm, too warm for January,
the Alps so close I could grasp them.
May of 1952, my first communion,
I am a little girl in a white dress,
my grandma’s warm eyes, saying:
My little angel
And I’m not sure, I’m really not sure
If I’ll ever see snow falling again.
(Translated by Kristian Koželj)
Knight of Poetry Award for best Slovenian poem in 2021
dvainštirideset
od mame je, ob dolgovih,
podedoval dva glinena lonca
z oleandrom in rožmarinom.
ko je nekoč kupoval alkohol,
mu je dekle v roke porinilo
božični kaktus. bil je december
in imel je dvainštirideset pisanih cvetov.
soba je dobila nekaj barve,
on pa je skrbel za tisti kaktus
kot za kakšnega otroka.
potem ko je nekega večera
še ena ženska spakirala kovčke,
ga je pijan vrgel skozi okno.
deset tihih nadstropij nižje
se je raztreščil in cvetovi so
podrhtevali kot umirajoče kresnice.
nekje vmes sta se posušila
tudi oleander in rožmarin.
forty-two
he inherited from his mother,
along with the debts, two clay pots
of oleander and rosemary.
one day, when he was out buying alcohol,
a girl shoved a Christmas cactus
into his hands. it was December
and it had forty-two vibrant blooms.
the cactus gave the room some color
and he took care of it
as though it were a child.
one evening, when another woman
packed her bags,
he threw it out the window, drunk.
ten silent floors lower,
it shattered, and the blooms
fluttered like dying fireflies.
somewhere along the way,
the oleander and the rosemary had dried as well.
(Translated by Tadeja Spruk)
from Muzej zaključenih razmerij (Museum of Broken relationships)
