Tone Škrjanec

I’m sitting in a corner of evening,
regarding the shapes of trees.
Under my chair there’s a glass of cold beer,
lipsticked lips shining in the dark.
It’s all psychedelic animated dolphins and tibet.
So the circle is closed.
Nobody knows what it’s all about.
Women in skirts are very rare,
and in this case
extremely long-legged.
Dub version of evening. Ganja rules.
Bodies move slowly and exactly
like the sea. Sky so dark
and blue it glows.
It’s evening. The girls are full
of happiness, and red-haired.
How their young breasts stand up.
How proudly they wear them.
That’s what it’s all about.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder

this evening I had an attack of temporality.
sounds, dragging like hashish,
arcing and with red light.
the eyes are a dangerous game. the poem should
touch the people and the street. I’m trading in slaves,
diamonds are just a cover. my thoughts are
in arrears and everything smells of fresh coffee.

Translated by Michael Farrell

early evening.
everything vibrates incredibly fast.
everything and everyone is incredibly holy.
and incredibly fast. the atmosphere
is kind of hardcore. in the spiritual sense.
the stink of grass. turtles,
lazily swimming,
dissolving into the green and blue arabesques,
falling into themselves.
the water becomes quiet and clean again.
at first small yellow fish,
then big blue ones in perfect
fish shapes, metallic blue.
we are falling into eternity,
under our feet trapdoors open.
barefoot on a wooden stage.
big green eye.
a holy indian cow
is crawling on my finger.
konji.

Translated by Michael Farrell

I said nothing, not a word. I just sat there,
put my arms behind my neck and took off flying. I cut through
the softness and further into the silence. my soul hurts
because it leaks. it drips like the kitchen tap.
the drops, putting their arms around each other,
kiss and giggle until a puddle forms,
which pretends to be a sea. I look at myself in it
and out of my eyes two white-headed eagles come flying. from the other direction
a piano piece comes pouring. they lie to everyone. to fish as well.
I brought you calla lilies and a roll with cheese.

Translated by Ana Jelnikar

4 a.m. on a wednesday.
It’s quiet, as if everyone’s sleeping,
and they probably are, but I’m not.
I’m lying on the edge
of my bed, propped on two pillows.
I’m listening to nearly
silent music, and only because I know
I know that it’s reggae.
Through the window
darkness and the smell of green
peaking. Paging through
a kama sutra full
of old drawings, I get the pictures
and skip over words.
By my sides, on my left and right,
poetry is lying. Pavese
and Ferlinghetti. I know that soon
darkness will disrobe
the meadow and the cherry tree.
From time to time
a blackbird calls. Some slightly
lost sound of a car from
Roshka street, and some
strange feelings deep in the body.

Translated by Matthew Zapruder

freedom was and in the beginning it was
of a rather sickly colour.
and, believe it or not, one went
past the church. at least the walls were
so high and white and solid.
and it had that smell.
and the silence had become so distracting,
it seemed only right that
it began to pour, that a storm
of such magnitude broke out that neither socks
nor umbrellas were of much use. only
the soft forest moss gave some consolation
and shelter. the streets were
forgotten in the kindgdom of trees.
the rain mingled with our tears.
we brushed the sharp tree bark
with our lips. stamped like
children. the real games
began only later, by the fire, when
red sparks soared into the sky.
we told stories that hadn’t yet been written,
adding to them now colours,
sounds and smells. we touched with
our knees and ate blueberries from each other’s mouths.

Translated by Ana Jelnikar