How thin is the papers's profile
on the next desk.
Invisible crust of time.
The twitching of colors in a sketchpad
like porhyry that sinks into the singing of sirens
and lanterns. An unknown fleet rows to the rapids, for
this marzipan,
a renewal of thought following the echo of a coin that made
a pirouette. Champagne runs in the stream of the Ljubljanica -
and listen,
how it sends drops into the world this rain of ours that
keeps falling into foreign furrows. How a snowflake tilts its chin,
making the dimples in her cheeks shimmer before falling on a windowpane,
for
this is marzipan,
the sun's awakening from beneath the cover of a porcelain helm,
into litography of verse. Gentle vaults. The foliage of a dream.
I take a dusty book off the shelf and unfold its
wings into a spinning yarn. Infinite threads weave thoughts
until it hurts,
all the way to mirrors' watersprings that bathe in looks
and cast images on the black eyes of obsidian.
A rotor which ceaselessly whirls the dynamics of stillness
is invincible in its eagerness. A feathered snake.
there are metamorphoses that shred tracks into atomic dottiness of snow,
there is the irrevocable passing of a moment when the young moon
shakes off the sundust and the crater deepens,
making the landing safe for butterflies.
How new poets awake into the fresh fragrance of morning, those who
have been cradled all night in the canopies of willow trees. They cross the
water stream of dreams and
from below
old buoys, with fishooks made of silken irises
fish up words from the bottom into the light of day.
How the eye in December caresses the river's surface, and the water is in
another, new state, thrown into the arms of the riverbed.
I think to myself:
Lions are born thus. Precisely.
How I melt away at each good poem that flows through me
as if running through a familiar stream,
how fire is bound to fire again by water, a satori in malachite,
how high magnetism carries me, an immeasurable delight in its own
saddle, as I hold on to the mane of words and suddenly feel such vertigo
as if the universe had made a lion-like leap,
how I am burnt up through the fireplace, I expand warmth around me into
smoke and
light gleams through the delta of words,
how I descend again like pollen
in the river, the waterfall, the glacial tongue,
in the crystal building blocks and I am not the same, for
this is marzipan,
the evergreen snow of coconut palms
being sprayed through me onto a page.
Translation: Mia Dintinjana
Kako tanek je profil papirja na
sosednji mizi.
žnevidna skorja časa.
Trzljaji barv v risalnem bloku
kot porfir, ki potone v petje siren
in lampijončkov. Neznana flota vesla v brzice, ker
to je marcipan,
osvežitev misli po odzvenu kovanca, ki je izvedel
pirueto. Šampanjec teče v strugi Ljubljanice
in prisluhnite,
kako pošilja kaplje v svet ta naš dež, ki
pada v tuje brazde. Kako nagne brado snežnika, da se
zaiskrijo jamice v njenih licih, preden pade na polico, ker
to je marcipan,
obuditev sonca izpod odeje porcelanastega šlema
v litografijo verza. Nežne kalote. Listje sanj.
Vzamem prašno knjigo s police in ji razgrnem
krilo v predivo. Neskončne niti tkejo misli
do presunljivosti,
do studencev ogledal, ki se okopljejo v pogledih,
da lahko mečejo podobe na črne oči obsidijana.
Rotor, ki brez oddiha vrtinči dinamiko nepremičnosti,
je nempremagljiv v svoji zavzetosti. Pernata kača.
So metamorfoze, ki drobijo sledi v atomarno pikčavot snega,
je nevrnljivost trenutka, ko mlada luna
strese s sebe sončni prah in se krater poglobi,
da lahko varno pristanejo metulji.
Kako se v sveži vonj jutra zadramijo novi poeti, ki so vso
noč prezibali v krošnjah vrb. Prečkajo vodno strugo sanj in
izpod
starih boj, s trnki iz svilene šarenice,
lovijo v dan besede z dna.
Kako pogled decembra ljubkuje rečno gladino in je voda v
nekem novem agregatnem stanju, izročena v naročje struge.
Pomislim:
Tako se kotijo levi. Natanko tako.
Kako skopnim ob vsaki dobri pesmi, ki steče skozi mene
kakor po znani strugi,
kako se veže ogenj na ogenj z vodo, satori v malahitu,
kako visoko me odnese magnetizem, neizmerna slast v svojem
sedlu, ko se držim za grivo besed in se mi tako zvrti kot bi
vesolje naredilo levji skok,
kako zgorim skozi kamin, širim toploto okoli sebe v dim in
svetloba se leskeče skozi ustje črk,
kako se vračam zopet dol kot cvetni prah
v reko, slap, ledeniški jezik,
v gradnike kristalov in nisem ista, ker
to je marcipan,
zimzeleni sneg kokosovih palm,
ki skozi mene prši na list.