The Living and the Dead
Ljubljana, New Žale Cemetery
for Boštjan Seliškar (1962-1983)
I already came here several times this year, aside from the pilgrimage
with an obligatory candle for All Saints’ Day, of course. I came
to caress the grass jutting out in all directions, as if it wasn’t
yours, as if it only shared the tombstone’s weight with you.
It is stubborn and sharp, as you never were. Not even
when you were right. You collected taxes, instead of
goons you carried mail and learned darkness in a closet.
You rebelled only once, you wanted to pull the crumpled handkerchief
from your mouth and be free. The grass pushes upward,
out and away from the yoke of the granite. Where to? Anywhere,
as long as we don’t stay at home, under the lid of the city,
where our ancestors sowed weak seed. It is possible that nothing
is horrible. It is important that desire holds and holds stubbornly.
You don’t have to worry about the truth, but still I knelt,
then returned to the skyline of antennas and chaos:
I knelt and caressed the grass, almost until blood ran.
Živi in mrtvi
Pokopališče Ljubljana-Žale, novi del.
za Boštjana Seliškarja (1962-1983)
Prišel sem že nekajkrat letos, če romanje odmislim
z obvezno svečo za vse svete, jasno. Prišel sem, da
pogladim trave, ki štrlijo v vse smeri, kot da niso
tvoje, kot da s tabo si delijo le nagrobnikovo težo.
Trmoglave so in ostre, kot ti nikoli nisi bil. Niti ne
takrat, ko imel si prav. Davke si pobiral, namesto
pretepačev si nosil pošto in se naučil mraka v omari.
Enkrat si se le uprl, iz ust si hotel zmečkani robec
potegniti in se osvoboditi. Trave rinejo navzgor,
ven in stran od jarma iz granita. Kam? Kamorkoli,
samo da ne ostanemo doma, pod pokrovom mesta,
kjer so predniki sejali šibko seme. Možno, da nič
ni strašno. Važno je, da želja traja in traja trmoglavo.
Ni treba, da resnica te skrbi, a pokleknil sem vseeno,
potem pa sem se vrnil pod obzorje iz anten in zmede:
pokleknil sem in nežno trave gladil, skoraj do krvi.
Arrest Warrant
Above the city the clouds dim, thin as gauze
and the frame of the arrest warrant: they are looking for me,
I have fed and put up fugitives for the night. When I last
saw them, closed bars, retired echoes, painfully
outdated trademark, they were sailing frayed at the edges,
just like a hand that enters a wrist without clear
boundaries. Heat increases if shared and you place
yourself in another’s arms, briefly, before the seam splits.
Surgeons chat by the East River and serve
potica, the reign of tender shame is still far off,
I should have chosen a different profession. It’s a crime
to cut a kidney from a sleeping man, everywhere, here,
under the flags which flutter indifferently, the same
above a remote nest and the capital of the century.
I don’t know if time offers smoldering hope, elsewhere maybe,
but they are looking for me in my home town: I’m telling the truth.
Tiralica
Nad mestom ugašajo oblaki, tenki kot gaza
in okvir tiralice: iščejo me, ubežnike sem
nahranila in prenočila. Ko sem jih zadnjikrat
videla, zaprti bari, upokojeni odmevi, boleče
nesolidna znamka, so pluli scefrani ob robovih,
prav tako kot dlan, ki preide v zapestje brez
jasne meje. Toplota raste, če se deli in položiš
se drugemu v naročje, na kratko, preden poči šiv.
Kirurgi razpravljajo ob vzhodni reki in s potico
strežejo, vladavina nežnega sramu je še daleč,
drugačen poklic bi morala izbrati. Zločin je iz
spečega človeka izrezati ledvico, povsod, tukaj,
pod zastavami, ki enako ravnodušno plapolajo
nad zakotnim gnezdom in prestolnico stoletja.
Čas ne vem, če nudi tleče upanje, drugje mogoče,
a iščejo me v domačem mestu: govorim resnico.
Translator: Brian Henry’s newest book is Lessness. Criticism has appeared in New York Times Book Review, the Times Literary Supplement, The Kenyon Review, the Georgia Review, and the Yale Review. Henry has translated Woods and Chalices (Harcourt, 2008) by Tomaž Šalamun, and The Book of Things (BOA Editions, 2010) by the Slovenian poet Aleš Šteger, which won the 2011 Best Translated Book Award.
