Pharoahs and Kings, Kassel, Paris
Translated
from the Slovenian by Peter Richards and the author
A bull’s berry walks on a wire.
Windowpanes are mottled.
When water jets from a silver
teapot the giant throws a
disk. It sizzles.
He turnes his head.
His helmet touches the nib.
Translated from the Slovenian by Joshua Beckman and the
author
O if I'd creep
on a beard and two rapids
at the same
time, coordinate the boat
with oars as in
the German Romantic
paintings. No,
not true, we don't stare,
we paint walruses
with tusks, little
walrus, lost in
the foam of icebergs and snowy
crępes. The
walrus with its tusk perforates
the sailor. But
how would that effect the painting?
The sailor lies
dead on the icy surface
bleeding. Tiny
French stories enrapturing
Harvard
experts, they gave the glory
back to the
French Romantics, and pointed out
how even all
Skira books are eaten by
Germans, but
where will the sailor go?
Now, not even
alive, will he limp away?
He died
incidentaly. As a matter of fact,
his death is
somehow rotten, although
snowbound. And
all this creaks during
the piercing of
harpoons, but as for the effect
maybe, only
this time, I prefer to stare into
the pure nature
like a warm cow, because
there at least Empfindung
plucks your hair.
There Is Only One More Welt
Translated from the Slovenian by Peter Richards and Ana
Jelnikar
There is only
one more welt staring
out of my
destiny. Out from this welt I write. The welt
hurts. If
somebody had cut open my welt
earlier, I
still might have been able to
elbow my way
out. I would have taken
my destiny off
like a shirt and watched it
rotate. I have
been doing this since the moment
I had myself
incinerated and gave birth to my first
line in order
to be calm.
I'm letting you
know the exact order:
Poker, The
Purpose of the Cloak, Pilgrimage for
Maruška, The
White Ithaca, America,
Turbines,
Arena, Imre, The Hawk, The History of
Light is
Orange, Feast, Druids, Stars.
The Angel
Method is for me.
Thereafter there
is nothing.
I have no power
over myself.
This poem is
rather poor.
I am only
writing it because
I feel I have
to explain.
I am crystal
clear.
Full insight
into me is forbidden.
I have never
been human.
Always an
angel.
After reaching
perfect shape,
it disperses.
Translated from The Slovenian by Joshua Beckman and the
author
We had lovely
girls, we were superior in the disco,
Andro and me.
The dual disappears. We slipped from
the Karst
mountains, drove to the sea. Do you
remember
Cabiria? The skirts were long, people
were amazed.
You shoved the space aside. But in
Paris, at your
Biennale des jeunes, I went into
the night. It's
great when young people cry from delight
and you swim and
listen to their sobbing. Robert
became gay in
the sacristy when he was lept on
by a furry man.
I'm a reminder of that holy creature.
Are there any
who count those souls who
are gratious to
him? Tomaž Brejc said, what were you
doing, you look
so refreshed, we're all weary and
tired. True.
Then I should stand by Andraž and
trim his wings.
Brothers cannot sleep together.