Peter Semolič Poems

so oaze tihote, oaze miru,
ko noc na vzhodu bledi.

Fužinski trgi so bledi cvetovi
pod prvim jutranjim svitom.

Fužinski trgi so samotne poti
zgodnjih delavcev in poznih ljubimcev.

Fužinski trgi so naglica odhoda
in pocasni, morda skriven prihod.

Prek fužinskih trgov veje
blag veter z oddaljenih Alp

in prebira odpadle liste casopisov.
...

are oases of silence, oases of peace,
as the night on the East grows pale.

Squares of Fužine are pale flowers
under the first break of dawn.

Squares of Fužine are solitary routes
of early workers and late-night lovers.

Squares of Fužine are the haste of going
and the slow, perhaps secret arrival.

Across the squares of Fužine
a mild wind from the faraway Alps blows

and sifts through the fallen newspaper leaves.
...

Vcasih, ko mi je dolgcas,
se pogovarjam z Bogom.
Pregledujeva vzorce v linoleju,
njihovo ritmicno ponavljanje
na kuhinjskih tleh.

Iz teh lis, recem,
lahko razbereš medveda,
iz teh macko,
in ce odmisliš klobuk
pri tem smešnem možaku,
dobiš levjo glavo.

Okorno ponavlja za mano:
Medved, macka . . .
Vedno znova zacuden,
ko enak lik najde ob kredenci
ali pod oknom.

Vidiš to crto,
ki prepolavlja pod?
Koliko neskladnosti vnaša v podobe.
Tu bi lahko bil bizon,
a se je izcimil le pohabljen
konjski hrbet.

Bizon, konjski hrbet . . .
Crkuje kot otrok ob prvem berilu,
zgrožen nad crno razpoko,
ki prepolavlja kuhinjska tla.

Kažem naprej, proti vratom na hodnik,
kjer se pricnejo predeli pošasti,
fantasticnih bitij brez glav,
grozljivih spak brez teles.
Pocasi ga izrivam ven,
ker je že pozno in bi rad spal.

A ko ponoci vstanem,
da bi popil kozarec vode,
še vedno stoji na pragu,
zazrt v tenko raz,
ki tece od zida proti oknu,
kot nekdo,
ki se je izgubil v tujem mestu
in ne zna jezika,
da bi vprašal za pot.
...

Sometimes, if I am bored,
I talk to God. We examine
patterns in the linoleum together,
rhythmical repetitions
on the kitchen floor.

In these shapes, I say,
you can see a bear,
and in these a kitten,
and if you ignore the cap
on this funny chap
you get a lion's head.

Awkwardly he repeats after me:
a bear, a cat . . .
And is utterly amazed whenever he finds
the same shape next to the sideboard
or beneath the window.

Can you see this line
cutting the floor in half?
What disharmony it brings into the images.
This here could be a bison,
but it turns out merely a deformed
horse's back.

A bison, horse's back . . .
He spells like a child at his primer,
enraged over a black crack
that cuts the kitchen floor in half.

I point forward, towards the door into the hallway,
where the monster zone begins,
the zone of fantastical creatures without heads,
horrible freaks without bodies.
Slowly I push him out,
after all, it is late and I would like to sleep.

But when I get up at night
to have a glass of water
he is still standing at the door,
staring into a thin line
that runs from the wall to the window
like someone
who is lost in a foreign city
and does not know the language
to ask the way.
...

To noc
sem sanjal o tebi,
oce.
V podobi jelena
si prišel v moje
sanje
in se ustopil vrh
travnatega
grica.

Poklical sem te
po imenu,
oce.
Poklical sem te
z besedo: oce.
Rekel sem:

Glej,
moji ocesi sta
dva mokra cvetova
ob gorskem
potoku.
Pridi
in tvoj topli
jelenji jezik
naj osuši roso,
ki je padla
na moje
oci.

Ti pa si stal
kot v nekem drugem
svetu,
kot v nekih drugih
sanjah,
vrh grica,
poraslega s travo.

Otresel si s svojim
mogocnim
rogovjem
in izginil v belem
oblaku
nikogaršnjih
sanj.
...

Last night
I dreamt about you,
father.
You came
into my dream
as a deer
and stood astride
a grassy
mound.

I called you
by your name,
father.
I called you
by the word: father
I said:

Look,
my eyes are
two wet flowers
by the mountain
stream.
Come,
let your warm
deer tongue
dry the dew
that fell upon
my eyes.

And you stood
as in another
world,
as in another
dream,
on a mound,
overgrown with grass.

You shook your
mighty
antlers
and vanished in the white
cloud
of no one's
dreams.
...

Oce, cas je, da se srecava v budnosti.
Ti ves iz spominov in pepela. Jaz . . .

Z lahkoto me boš prepoznal.
Nosim tvoje oci, tvojo brado, tvojo usodo,
zapisano v koži.

Oce, cas je, da priznava obstoj sekire,
zadrte v grco.

Ne prosim te za cudež.
Ne prosim te, da bi izruval rezilo.
Pristajam na to,
da bo najino ognjišce za zmerom mrzlo.

Prosim te za preprosto priznanje:
nisva spoštovala zakonov rasti.

In sprejmem izgovor:
mraz je bil,
zato je toporišce vztrepetalo med prsti.

Oce, to je vse, za kar prosim.

Vem, zmerom si govoril,
da so ptice le gostje dreves.
Da veter prebira liste le sebi.
A jaz ne morem drugace.

Kako naj svojo vitko mladost
vržem na ogenj spomina,
ce v njej tici neizreceno jeklo?

Priznajva njegov obstoj, oce.
Da bo tebi smrt lažja
in meni življenje manj utrudljivo.
...

Father, it's time for us to meet in wakefulness.
You, entirely of memories and ashes. I . . .

You will recognize me easily.
I bear your eyes, your chin, your destiny,
marked on my skin.

Father, it's time we admitted the existence of a hatchet,
driven into a knot.

I am not asking you for a miracle.
I am not asking you to tug at the blade.
I assent to the fact
that our hearth will forever be cold.

I am asking you for a simple admission:
we did not obey the laws of growth.

And I accept the excuse:
it was cold,
which is why the handle shivered in our grip.

Father, that is all I am asking for.

I know, you have always said
that birds are merely trees' visitors.
That the wind sifts the leaves only for itself.
But this is the way I am.

How can I throw my slender youth
onto the pyre of memory,
if there is mute steel lurking in it?

Let us admit to its existence, father.
So death will be easier for you
and life less of a burden for me.
...

Zgradil nama bom hišo iz besed.
Samostalniki bodo opeke
in glagoli bodo polkna.

S pridevniki si bova okrasila
okenske police
kot z rožami.

Cisto tiha bova ležala pod baldahinom
najine ljubezni.
Cisto tiha.

Prelepa in prekrhka bo najina hiša,
da bi jo ogrozila
z inflacijo besed.

In ce bova spregovorila,
bova imenovala predmete,
vidne le najinim ocem.

Ker vsak glagol
bi lahko zamajal temelje
in jih razrušil.

Zato, pst, mon amour,
pst, pour le beau demain
à notre maison.
...

I will build us a house made of words.
Nouns will be bricks
and verbs will be shutters.

With adjectives we will adorn
the window sills
as with flowers.

In perfect silence we will lie
beneath the baldachin of our love.
In perfect silence.

Our house will be too beautiful
and too fragile for us to endanger it
with an inflation of words.

And if we speak,
we will name objects
visible only to our eyes.

Because every verb
could shake the foundations
and demolish them.

Therefore, hush, mon amour,
hush, pour le beau demain
à notre maison.
...