Gorazd Kocijančič

it was so strange
not from here
not hot not cold
that chaos did not know what to do
and has just kept staring
it was the time
when we used to wipe our foreheads
with damp leaves
and wear clouds
it was the time
when we melted into each other
and were telling the future from the broken bones
without believing in it
it was the homeless time
when the blanket was
the night and the unknown woman
then we heard the call
in the beginning was the call
the incense carried its smell
- how smells can differ -
preceding heaven
and earth
smelling also of thyme
and changing the heart

the call preceeding everything
they said
let
this smell
into your words
and deeds
but there was too much forest
too much wilderness in us
yet, when we heard the call ourselves
we lay on the ground
betrayed all our loved ones
we died
and were born
and we forgot it
Scholion: the call is the blessing of stubbornness the consecration of rebellion the celebration of exile it is said that it helps you see but in reality it blinds you so that you cannot see the danger and you tread too boldly the call is the thing of the warriors but why this plural why this is not the thing of one only this is the crazy mystery of union

It is horrible to look into your comrades’ eyes
emanating white pleasure
sown by their grandfathers
harvested by their sons.
but the call came from elsewhere
It is a blessing to look at the stars
like frozen sparks
and listen to the rustling of trees
condemned to ascension
praying all night long
their arms raised
as in a silent pain
but the call came from elsewhere
it is nice
to be without a woman a night or two
and that grass air and bark
become the body
softer than silk
and you smell grope and contemplate them
like white skin plaited with desire
touched for the first time shuddering
but the call came from elsewhere
it is divine to dream

of never-seen lands
so ravishing
that they become the spasm of a scream
or an unknown smile
on the comrades’ faces
before death
but the call came from elsewhere
Scholion: all those who found the simile for beauty and bliss and horror and divinity have disappeared without a trace which only seems sad

Come you shy children
the mother said
and I shall sing you a song
and I shall tell you a story
a poem
that bore
the arrival
and a story
that bore
the faith
when I shall feed you
with words
I shall feed you
with my blood
Scholion: the poem about the community from which you cannot escape before I woke up I thought that all of us were asleep now I see that they all stand guard that they talk to each other in hushed voices I am not alone now I see I am not alone

we stand as one
when we fight
and tell
from the smells and touches
from the smiles and tears
when we sacrifice ourselves
for another and for the common cause
but in the darkness
when there are no enemies
and the twigs crack
when animals approach the stream
we all ask ourselves
have I heard the same
Scholion: I wanted to say the opposite that we somehow know that we have heard the same maybe precisely then when we ask ourselves this question then again I am not sure maybe this is a poem about both and about the loneliness from which nothing can save you

Translated by Nike K. Pokorn and Don Reindl.