Robert Simonišek

/Slovenia

(Slovenia), born in 1977 in Celje. He
studied history of art and philosophy
on Faculty of Arts in Ljubljana. He is
publishing poetry, literary and art critics
in several slovenian magazins and newspapres.
In 2003 he published his first
book of poetry Potopljeni katalog. He
lives beetwen Lesično, Ljubljana and
Kranj. He works as a journalists.

Poems

Associations on the reading of inge bachmann / Asociacije na branje ingeborg bachmann

Days in krakow / Dnevi v krakovu

A glance slides down the large and never-ending flat land.
The bus rushed into the sun as if it wanted to become its lover.
The factory was blocking the view from the hotel.
Day and night were kindling like two candles put on the shelf of a room. The sun
and the moon were meeting and gazing one another in the eyes as if they
were relatives.
The luggage reduced to minimum.
The food reduced only to essential things.
Life outside the city was slowly beating in its own rhythm which was impressing on
my memory.
While we walked down the streets with our frozen faces the minutes were thawing.
Although I felt that nothing could happen it seemed that everything was possible.
The path leading up to the castle was fantastic and while we walked Visla was
wrapping us in its iced scarf.
Among such greatness I suddenly thought of little things ,such as a ring or stone.
We went round all stores and restaurants and we could easily write a quality guidebook
for Krakow.
The guide was constantly trying to fill in the emptiness which appeared during the
intervals and I thought that this is probably his official responsibility.
In the mine of salt the dusk was constantly fighting with an artificial light. In some
synagogue, where old-testament patriarchs fell asleep among books, a rabbi
didn’t stop twirling his prayer-wheel.
I had enough time to think about how small and precious are our figures which
they methodically travel down the map of Europe and by doing that they
don’t even think of free spontaneousness of using human movement.

Translated by Klavdija Simonišek.

Dolga neopisljiva ravnina, ki nima konca in po kateri
drsi pogled.
Avtobus je drvel v kroglo sonca, kot bi hotel postati njegov ljubimec.
Razgled iz hotela je pokrivala svinčena tovarna, iz katere se je dvigoval gost kopast
dim. Noč in dan sta se prižigala kot dve sveči, odloženi na polico sobe. Sonce
in luna na nebu sta se srečevala in zrla drug drugemu v oči, kot bi bila iz iste
družine.
Prtljaga zmanjšana na minimum.
Hrana zmanjšana na nujne stvari.
Zunaj okrog mesta pa je počasi, korak za korakom utripalo življenje v svojem ritmu,
ki se mi je vpisoval v spomin.
Zunaj so se na centralnem zvoniku odtajale minute, ko sva hodila z zamrznjenimi
obrazi po ulicah, in čeprav se je zdelo, da se ni zgodilo nič, bi se lahko zgodilo
vse.
Pot na grad je bila fantastična, medtem ko naju je Visla ovijala v speljano zaledenel
šal.
Nehote sem med veličino pomislil na majhne stvari, kot je prstan ali kamen.
Obšla sva trgovine in restavracije, za katere bi lahko napisala kvaliteten vodič po
Krakovu.
Vodič je nenehno in učinkovito poskušal zapolnjevati praznino, ki je nastajala med
presledki, in pomislil sem, da je to najbrž njegova službena dolžnost.
V rudniku soli se je mrak nenehno bojeval z umetno lučjo. V neki sinagogi, kjer so
med knjigami zaspali starozavezni očaki, rabin ni prenehal vrteti molilnega
mlinčka.
Imel sem toliko časa, da sem lahko razmišljal o tem, kako majhni in dragoceni sta
najini postavi, ki se načrtno premikata po zemljevidu Evrope in pri tem niti
ne pomišljata na svobodno spontanost uporabe človeškega gibanja.

Winter day / Zimski dan

Windows are darken with the nets of trees and if I moved a bit I would se a lot
more than I do now.
Down there flows a river whose channel I hardly dare to look at because it is deep.
The azure sky above and the reflections of the hills covered with snow are like eternal
scene. There is a stage on which yellow sheaves of the sun are falling.
It seems as if I am paying a visit to you where I have forgotten something during all
these years.
Olive colours of the city are promising a change. Still, they don’t overcome that
greyness in Ljubljana.
The world is breaking in through eyes and lungs.
National heroes are sleeping in their imagination and the only thing that can wake
them up is the never-ending repetition of the same forms.
We sleep side by side like two parallel worlds.
With swimming we break the surface of water as if it was made up of water and air.
Patterns delivered from space are continually knotting and untieing the layers
underneath where uncounscious foundations sleep and for whom no one
knows when they will wake up.
Everything is happening like in chapters of a movie in which we no longer play the
major role.
The world is constantly breaking in through eyes and lungs and it never stops the
sequence of days.
Now I finally know how it is if you grow and rise as though you would deliberately
change the shades of your silhouette.
The pages which I travel them around the book always smell of something new and
undiscovered.
We are breaking in one another through eyes and lungs which they never seem to
get weary.
Outside is a completely ordinary winter day: you and I are close.

I will go for a walk around the triumphal arch made from the sun and I will search
for you.
When a day breaks, I stand by the window and I am already aware of the greatness
in front of me. I feel that this isn’t just another ordinary winter day.
I beat with all my guilt like a lighthouse used to beat when it shone through our
window at night.

Translated by Klavdija Simonišek.

Okna so zatemnjena z mrežami dreves in vidim
samo del tega, kar bi lahko videl, če bi spremenil položaj.
Spodaj teče reka, katere struge si skoraj ne upam
pogledati, ker je globoka. Zgoraj pa azurno
modro nebo in odsevi zasneženih hribov kot večna kulisa, kjer je postavljen oder,
kamor padajo rumeni snopi sonca.
Ptice letijo proti stenam gore.
Zdi se, kot da sem na obisku pri tebi, kjer sem skozi leta nekaj pozabil.
Olivne barve mesta obljubljajo spremembo, vendar nikoli ne premagajo tiste statične
sivine v Ljubljani.
Svet vdira skozi oči in skozi pljuča.
Osebni junaki iz zgodovine spijo v domišljiji in
prebuja jih samo vztrajno ponavljanje istih
obrazcev.
Spiva drug ob drugem kot vzporedna zadovoljna svetova.
S plavanjem prebijeva gladino vode, kot bi bila sestavljena iz vode in zraka.
Vzorci, prispeli iz vesolja, nenehno zavozlavajo in odvozlavajo plasti, pod katerimi
spijo nezavedni temelji, za katere nihče ne ve, kdaj se bodo prebudili.
Vse se obrača kot v poglavjih filma, kjer nimava
več glavne vloge.
Nenehno vdira svet skozi
oči in pljuča in nikoli ne ustavi zaporedja dni.
Zdaj vem, kako je, če rasteš in se dvigaš, kot
bi načrtno spreminjal obrise svoje silhuete.
Strani, ki jih prepotujem skozi knjige, nenehno
dišijo po novem in še neodkritem.
Drug drugemu vdirava v oči, ki se nikoli naveličajo.
Zunaj je povsem navaden zimski dan: ti in jaz sva si blizu.

Sprehodil se bom skozi slavolok, ki je nastal iz sonca, in te poiskal.
Toda že sedaj, ko se dela jutro in ko stojim pri oknu, se zavedam veličine, ki je pred
mano, in čutim, da to ni samo še en navaden zimski dan.
Utripam z vso svojo krvjo, kot je utripal svetilnik, ki nama je ponoči svetil skozi
okno.