Most poems I don’t understand. Even my own
only in a way. Some I read twenty times over,
others I simply pass. We don’t connect.
But rare are those that light up never
to let go of me since I’m in love. A short
break or a fanciful oblivion cannot help.
I have to go back, with love, and coil up on the surface
of understanding, closeness. As with a woman
and a friend, when you know their every weakness
yet forgive it in advance. Because it doesn’t matter.
Because there are other levels. I confess: I don’t understand
poetry, though it lures and pulls and lifts me,
whispering words in circles, toying with how
weak and strong I am, how torn and intact.
Yet I also know: Something has snapped. Already the first time,
then the second and on like that, it’s snapping all the time, crack,
dry wood, a long hazel stick. A pipe, I dance
to your whistle. I’m your dedicated listener
who needs you. Love, the sum of all the moments
in a void. Silence and distance, it all ends well.
Nothing ends. Also this, what Miłosz says:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.
We’ve come far enough once we’ve called this love.
And once again I admit: I already am. I am not yet.
This I write to you, you who has already ended,
yet every time I find us a new beginning.
And as in love I utter your complexion.
I know: One needs to be precise. Out of trust.
One needs to think of everything. Always other
than selfishly. What can I say: I miss you.
In this poem. I miss you in this room.
I miss your voice. I miss your voice.
And the tremble of touch. It is only out of love
that a poem is possible. Beauty is vacuum. Vacuum
is perfection. Perfection is convulsive and free.
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.
This sets things far away and it helps.
It is all felt. All is still. It all is.
iz slovenščine prevedla Ana Jelnikar
Največ pesmi ne razumem. Še svoje le napol
in samo včasih cele. Ene berem dvajsetkrat,
druge sploh samo oplazim. Se ne dotaknemo.
Redke pa so takšne, ki zasvetijo in se jih ne
rešim več, ker sem zaljubljen. Kratek
premor ali izmišljena pozaba ne pomagata.
Moram se vrniti z ljubeznijo in se skrčiti na
gladini razumevanja, bližine. Kot pri ženski
in prijatelju, ko poznaš že vse njune slabosti,
a jih oprostiš že vnaprej. Ker ni pomembno.
Ker so drugi nivoji. Priznam: Ne razumem
poezije, čeprav me privlači in potaplja in vzdiguje,
mi šepeta besede v krogih, se igra s tem, kako
sem šibek in močan, kako sem pol in cel.
Vem pa tudi: Nekaj se je prelomilo. Že prvič, potem
še drugič in tako naprej. Vseskoz se lomi, hrsk,
suh les, dolga palica iz leske. Piščalka, plešem,
kot ti piskaš. Jaz sem zvesti poslušalec,
ki te rabim. Ljubezen, seštevek vseh trenutkov
v praznem. Molk in razdalja. Se vse izteče.
Se ne izteče nič. In še to, kar pravi Miłosz:
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.
Dovolj smo daleč, ko temu rečemo ljubezen,
in priznam še enkrat: Sem že. Še nisem.
Tole pišem tebi, ki se že končaš
a nama najdem vedno nov začetek.
In kot v ljubezni izrečem tvojo polt.
Vem: Treba je biti natančen. Iz zaupanja.
Treba je misliti na vse. Zmeraj več kot
sebično. Kaj naj rečem: Pogrešam te,
v tej pesmi. Pogrešam te v tej sobi,
pogrešam tvoj glas. Pogrešam tvoj glas.
In kurjo polt dotika. Samo iz ljubezni je
možna pesem. Lepota je vakuum. Vakuum je
popolno. Popolno je krčevito in prosto.
Kdor najbolj služi, ne razume vedno.
To zdaj prestavi daleč stran in pomaga.
Vse se čuti. Vse miruje. Vse je.
