Dve pesmi: za Jackie in Dagmar
Za Jackie, mojo kraljico padlih stvari,
njo, ki je vzela življenje sebi in svoji hčeri.
Za malo Dagmar, njeno hči,
drobno poveljnico gob.
“To je tako neizrekljivo, o Bog, da človek pade na kolena. /
Unsaglich ist das alles, O Gott, dass man erschuttert ins Knie bricht.” G. Trakl
Dokler ne bodo govorili o njej
po vaseh.
In njena senca
ne bo raztezala svoje črne legende
po ozkih ulicah
v uri, ko se bo vrnila na svet.
In v roki prinesla
povit makov cvet.
Dokler se ne bo njeno temno tuljenje
spremenilo v rukanje
in ne bo poslednje otroštvo vprašalo
“Kdaj pridejo po njene lase?”
In se v dokaz njuna glasova ne bosta
v času navdušeno pognala
v čudež izginotja.
Sesterska leta.
In glasovi ne bodo ponesli Čas Nečasja.
V Času Nečasja
živi spomin na rjave oči.
Ponoči hodi naokrog s košaro,
ki ji jo je podarila starka, v košari
hrani le eno zamrznjeno podobo.
Meščani goltajo kocke in spuščajo rolete,
ko gre mimo njih mrtvo dekle, ta muhasta žival.
Mrtvo dekle v rokah nima dejanj, ki bi jih poimenovali.
Dekle, pokrito z naglavno ruto, ob oknu odpre svojo knjigo.
V senci.
V Času Nečasja
sta sestri našli prt, pokrit s tišino.
Dekletovi črni punkovski škornji korakajo dalje
proti Nečasju,
bežijo skozi lastne stopinje
v plavolaso večnost, Jackie, vedno tiha, razen
ob prhutanju
kakšne stvari, ki se spominja letenja,
ali ob otroškem kriku.
Iskala bo pot v težo svojega imena,
dokler ne bo zavrnila
obleke
gostje.
iz angleščine prevedel Igor Divjak
Two poems: for Jackie and Dagmar
For Jackie, my Queen of Fallen Things
She who took her life and that of her daughter.
For little Dagmar, her daughter,
Tiny Captain of the Mushrooms.
“It is so unsayable, O God, that you fall to your knees. /
Unsaglich ist das alles, O Gott, dass man erschuttert ins Knie bricht.” G. Trakl
Until they speak of her
in the villages.
And her shadow
elongates its black legend
in the narrow streets
during the hour it attends.
With the bandaged poppy
held in the hands.
Until her dark howl becomes bells.
And the last childhood will ask
“At what time do they come
for her hair?”
Their two voices, to testify, timewards
to plunge rapturously up
into one miracle of disappearance.
Sister-like years.
Voices to carry the Time of Untime.
In the Time of Untime,
brown eyes are remembered.
Nights, she carries the basket
given by an old woman, where now
she keeps the single frozen image.
Citizens devour dice, draw their blinds
to let the dead girl, wayward animal thing, pass.
A dead girl’s hands empty of acts we had names for.
By the window, a girl with a kerchief opens the book
in shadow.
In the Time of Untime,
the sisters found the cloth covered with silence.
The dead girl’s black punk boots march on
to anti-Time,
To pass through her own footsteps into escape,
a blonde eternity, Jackie, ever-hushed, except
for the flutter
of some thing remembering how to fly
or the scream of the child.
Finding her way into the weight of her name
‘till she refuses
to wear the garb
of guests.