Petra Kolmančič

Will there ever be a place with a fish entering the night
to caress you into your dream with its scales?
Then you’ll go until the end, climbing down into the depth,
with the big sunken ships
your temporary home.
What will it be like,
the thing, speaking out from slimy depth?
Which pupils will your eyes meet
(and flash back like a lighthouse)?
Whose flesh will lure you into water bed?
To which whale you’ll lie down to sleep, exhausted?
Glittering of worn scales of fish;
You swim towards them and take two,
putting them like pearl lenses into eyes. And look!
I looked through the water, fish, the moonlight, you say.
And see! I see the stitches holding ocean together,
keeping it from pouring into me, you say. Then you drink off,
taking a final gulp of ocean, belch, and swim back up.

prevod Milan Franc Hanžič

I’ve dispersed myself in the long nights,
like warm butter spread throughout the time
into all those minutes where the butterdrops of woman
can succeed,
into all black moments of the summernight;
with consciousness sunk depper than the time.
It’s nice to be absorbed in processes of night,
where I can hear things even sooner they are sung,
the music comes from itself, and stays with me,
it’s nice to sing nothing from none,
chant to the voices of nights and depths,
so that the echoes can move into all waking creatures.
So that the echoes can move into all waking creatures,
that I can move in together, into many of them
who, with their eyes open, take care of this night,
fulfilling its screen play, fatal and still,
who, like myself, night after night without crampons
climb into mountains of null, into massives of being.

prevod Milan Franc Hanžič

The morning is blue. For the moment you’re just a body in it,
and still you’re letting your thoughts sleep a bit.
Silent, immovable body, with its ontology censored and gone.
You’ve been lying like that for many times, empty,
with your eyes closed, and without recognising your own –
such pure, youthful mornings enchant you over and over again.
You’ve been lying like that for many times, on a white cotton sheet
that smelled like Ariel, with yourself thoughtlessly waiting,
all easy-going but with heavy limbs,
for the optics of light to come and click on your darkness,
so that you are touched by the first daily shadow, as well.
And a little later? Standing in front of the mirror and powdering your nose,
getting totally clarified towards the glamour of the day,
towards the time, towards your casual essence.
You see yourself in the mirror, recognised.
Imperceptibly, the body tries on its (usual) masques of the day.

prevod Milan Franc Hanžič

I angle in the global and patiently
lean the elbows on my knees.
The sequence of endings and infinity
determinates the depths
into which my hook is dipping -
it’s a thorn that worms out the white and dirty, fishy blood.
The small ones I throw back
but to the big ones I rip up their fins – the esence of fish-being -
for it’s these rip-ups and lucid stitch of litmus
my nights are made of.
I get up early when the shadows are still gone,
(dressed) in foggy-blue I dew into the day,
my eyes are still sleepy, slightly open, and
already with a fishing rod
that could as well be whip
I train the fish into the tameness.

prevod Milan Franc Hanžič

Somewhere behind there’s a little white hairy animal squeaking.
As the cracks are opening you let it closer to yourself,
like a buzzard you take in your carcass
that looks at you labile and trembling.
You make her bed of violets: white fur
on the fragrant violet bedding.
You can hear all those worlds, pounding in their essence,
that have endured, waiting for this very moment.
The ticking presence stops, and lasts further into silence.
You’re holding yours, and then this tiny stammering heart.
Time multiplicates its swelling, space expands its shading
when you’re left floated in an empire beyond this world.

prevod Milan Franc Hanžič