Saturday, September 21, 2013

Jesenske lune / Harvest moons


Med tihimi, kot ta gib počasnimi vzhajanji kroži, sijoča, da je kaj. Čeprav so jo včerajšnjo noč zakrivali oblaki in čeprav se je v trenutkih razmakov med njimi hladnobelo mesečinila, sem jo slutila rdečo. Rdečo, da je kaj. In prav nič tiho. Takole se je oglašala. (Nič čudnega, da mi je z vrtiljaka nepričakovano padla na mizo, med dlani, iz potez.)

Unexpected visit, the moon on my desk, in my hands, on the canvas, so very red, although what could be seen was only its silvery white light among the heavy clouds, yet so very red, and so very songful. 




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Monday, September 9, 2013

Šepet / A Whisper



VELIKO ŠTEVILO

Štiri milijarde je ljudi na zemlji,
a moja domišljija je kot nekdaj.
Slabo se znajde v velikih številih.
Še zmeraj jo gane posameznost.
Frfota v temi kot sij svetilke,
pokaže le obraze, ki so bliže,
vse drugo je spregledano,
nenadomestljivo, nepojmljivo.
Tega pa bi si še sam Dante ne zapomnil,
a kaj šele, če nisi kakor on.
Čeprav bi mi vse muze pomagale.

Non omnis moriar - prezgodnja zaskrbljenost.
Ali pa res vsa živim in ali to zadošča?
Nikoli ni zadoščalo in tem manj danes.
Izbiram in zavračam, drugo ni mogoče.
A to, kar zametujem, je številnejše,
gostejše je in bolj vsiljivo kot kdajkoli.
Za ceno nepopisnih izgub - le pesem, vzdih.
Na glasen klic odzivam se s šepetom.
Koliko zamolčim, tega ne bom izdala.
Miška ob vznožju rodne gore.
Življenje traja kakor sled krempeljca na pesku.

Še moje sanje niso obljudene, kot bi se spodobilo.
Več je samote v njih kot vrveža in množic.
Za hip se v njih pojavi kdo, ki je že zdavnaj mrtev.
Na kljuko kdaj pa kdaj pritisne roka.
Prazna hiša je obraščena s prizidki odmeva.
S praga pohitim v dolino,
tiho, kot nikogaršnjo, prav nesodobno.

Od kod se ta prostranost jemlje v meni - 
res ne vem.

(Wisława Szymborska, prev. Rozka Štefan)


A LARGE NUMBER

Four billion people on this earth,
but my imagination is the way it's always been:
bad with large numbers.
It is still moved by particularity.
It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam,
disclosing only random faces,
while the rest go blindly by,
unthought of, unpitied.
Not even a Dante could have stopped that.
So what do you do when you are not, 
even with all your muses on your side?

Non omnis moriar - a premature worry.
Yet am I fully alive, and is that enough?
It never has been, and even less so now.
I select by rejecting, for there's no other way,
but what I reject, is more numerous,
more dense, more intrusive than ever.
At the cost of untold losses - a poem, a sigh.
I reply with the whisper to a thunderous calling.
How much I am silent about I can't say.
A mouse at the foot of mother mountain.
Life lasts as long as a few lines of claws in the sand.

My dreams - even they are not as populous as they should be.
There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor.
Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit.
A single hand turns a knob.
Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house.
I run from the threshold down into the quiet
valley seemingly no one's - an anachronism by now.

Where does all this space still in me come from - 
that I don't know.

(Wisława Szymborska)

 





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