I’ve had quite a few.
First one I remember was a long time ago,
as I was walking along Poljanska Street,
the man approaching,
with a distinctive shuffle, was Lojze Krakar.
I wanted so much to chat him up,
a total stranger,
or at least to greet him.
But I didn’t.
We passed each other silently.
Another time was when
Tomas Tranströmer came to Ljubljana.
I wavered should I attend
his soiree or not.
I didn’t go.
I felt no need
for orchestration of those
stones which slowly migrated
backwards up out of the waves.
And this morning.
I intended to read to my students
one of Izet Sarajlić’s poems,
since he had a reading that evening.
As I was walking to the faculty
with a book of his poetry in my bag,
just as I was packing-in a newspaper
with his picture on the front page -
I recognised him speaking
to a passer-by, asking for the way;
turn right at the traffic light.
And we walked on.
Izet Sarajlić and me-stranger,
side by side. Then he stopped at a kiosk
and I crossed the street.
From the zebra crossing I saw him
swinging the walking stick over his left elbow
and reaching into his pocket with his right hand.
As I walked along the other side of the street
my mind was flooded
with a potential dialogue
that never occurred.
Events like this always confuse me.
It is my perplexing hesitation -
after all I could have easily,
although a stranger, spoken to him,
invited him for a coffee.
But obviously, I am happy
with these silent meetings.
After all, everybody
weaves the flesh of poems himself alone.
Translated by Vasja Cerar
Večkrat se mi je že zgodilo.
Prvič, se spomnim, že pred nekaj leti,
ko sem hodil po Poljanski
in mi je s svojo značilno zateglo hojo
prišel nasproti Lojze Krakar.
Kako me je imelo, da bi ga,
neznanec, ogovoril,
vsaj pozdravil.
Pa ga nisem.
Samo tiho sva šla mimo.
Spet je bilo, ko je v Ljubljano prišel
Tomas Tranströmer.
Cincal sem, ali naj grem
poslušat pogovor z njim ali ne.
Nisem šel.
Nisem čutil potrebe
po orkestraciji onih
kamnov, ki so zadenjsko
počasi prilezli iz morskih valov.
In danes zjutraj.
Študentom sem se namenil prebrati
eno od Sarajlićevih pesmi,
ker ima zvečer literarni nastop.
Ravno sem med hojo na fakulteto
v torbo ob knjigo njegove poezije
pospravil časopis z njegovo sliko na naslovnici –
ko ga zagledam v pogovoru
z mimoidočim, ki mu je razlagal pot:
Do semaforja pa desno.
In sva šla.
Izet Sarajlić in jaz-neznanec,
vštric. Potem se je on ustavil ob kiosku
in jaz sem prečkal cesto.
S prehoda sem ga še videl,
kako je mladostno starčevsko
obesil sprehajalno palico čez levo roko
in z desnico segel proti žepu.
Ko sem bil že na drugi strani,
se mi je v glavi
začel vrteti mogoči dialog,
ki ga ni bilo.
Po takem sem zmerej zmeden.
Zaradi svoje nerazumljive zadržanosti –
saj bi ga menda ja lahko,
čeprav neznanec, ogovoril, povabil na kavo.
Ampak kot da zadoščajo
že samo ta molčeča srečanja.
Konec koncev, vsak sam
tke meso pesmi v sebi.
