Sibila Petlevski

Lying quite at her feet,
veins cut, in a field of wheat,
he expects her face would relax
in a smile. Teasing flex,
...

Meadows, acres of meadows and gravitational fields.
Crushed to death with hundreds of my own shields,
Unarmed, stark naked like a slug, buried on a rock,
I escaped myself eventually, turned the key in the lock.
...

Wet leaves on a stairway. A slow wind still drawling
Weasel words from the night before. Cats prowling.
Is that little Alvina weeping: her long, unkempt hair
Stuck in the chimney again? It sounds like a fanfare
...

Maudlin, stumbling', falling senseless
to the ground, I used to show
my little bruises like exhibits,
pleading people not to touch them,
...

The spirit enters the eyes of some individuals
in the fateful moments and never more:
at birth. Then they cry. And on the very
end when the others do that instead of them.
...

Worlds lay cuckoo's eggs for each other
and therefore, each time when illusions
with which our home is overcrowded
open their small, greedy and ugly beaks,
...

I am the king of the lizards he said that time casually
forming a noose with its tail and while he was
saying that - hanged by its tail - all he was
taking hold of was a twig of some bush with thorns
...

We blew the balloons for six whole days,
thought there was no other way one could
frame the breath. Manna was falling from
the sky on our ways, sweet and tepid like milk
...

A cobweb has spread its perfection between
a green sprig and an old branch. The weak
and the strong combine forces in keeping
the thread. Enlightenment got itself entangled,
...

'Quando yo murera quiero tus manos en mis ojos'
[Kad umrem položi mi dlanove na oči]
Pablo Neruda/ Sonnet LXXXIX
Kad bi se usudio pokriti mi dlanovima
otvorene oči, vidjela bih Venerin brijeg
na tvoj ruci i krenula uzbrdo da se uvjerim
što je s druge strane. Taj jednostavni bijeg
od smrti bio bi sličan premještanju jastuka
s uzglavlja na noge. Nasukala bi se arka,
kovčeg izdjeljan od samo jednog komada leda
na blagoj, toploj uzvisini. Na mah učinjena varka,
uključivala bi zamjenu boje kose i spola,
puštanje parova lažnih životinjskih vrsta,
divnih kao što su plamenci s nogama do pola
sraslim s vršcima vrbina granja, i onih malih
umjetnih ljudi kojih je tebe toliko strah,
spojenih usta na usta da iz njih ne pobjegne dah.
...

"Quando yo murera quiero tus manos an mis ojos"
[When I die, lay your palms on my eyes]
Pablo Neruda/ Sonnet LXXXIX
If you dared to cover my open eyes with your palms,
I would see Venus' hill on your hand and start
climbing it to see for myself what is on the other side.
This simple flight from death would be similar
to removing the pillow from the head to the feet.
The arc would get stranded on the clearance,
a box made from only one piece of ice on a gentle,
warm loft. The suddenly made appearance
would include a change of hair color and gender,
releasing the pairs of various false animal species,
as wonderful as flamingos with their feet so tender,
half grown together with the tips of willow branches
and those little artificial people that you so terribly fear,
joined mouth to mouth, so their breath would not disappear.
...

Puhali smo balone punih šest dana,
mislili da je to jedini način na koji se može
dati okvir dahu. S neba je padala mana,
slatka i mlaka kao mlijeko iz sise. Bože!
Pa mogli smo i poljupcima postići istu,
potpuno istu stvar, mogli smo i disanjem
u staklo, da umjesto nas magla na čistu
zrcalu napiše da smo živi, da pisanjem
prenesemo toplinu bez dodira i glasa,
da budemo jednostavno tu, a ne u mreži
krvi isprepleteni, ne poput gladnih pasa,
ne vječno gladnog srca koje iz grudi reži.
Puhali smo balone i onda ih nožem parali
punih šest dana. Sedmi smo se odmarali.
...

We blew the balloons for six whole days,
thought there was no other way one could
frame the breath. Manna was falling from
the sky on our ways, sweet and tepid like milk
from a breast. Oh, God! We could have reached
one hundred percent the same with our kisses,
we could have done it also by breathing onto
the glass, so that fog would write our name
on a clear glass, and say instead of us we are
alive, so that our writing transfers the warmth
without a touch or a sound, and makes it possible
for us to be simply here and not entangled in a net
of blood, not like hungry dogs to be found,
not with forever hungry heart that roars from
our breasts and the lot. We blew the balloons and
then tore them with a knife for six whole days.
On the seventh we took some rest in our life.
...

Staza s izbojcima poput riblje kosti
koji završavaju u grmlju ili se gube
u mahovini prepriječeni žilama starog
drveća. Iznad nje se od nedavno ukazuju
srpovi svjetlećih mjeseca - dva, tri ili više.
Svaki hod uzduž patrljaka te ceste ravan je
odustajanju i znači više od pukog skretanja
s puta. Noć je vidljiva kao nikad prije.

I mirisna: na isti je način mirisao list smrvljen
između prsta i dlana. Lijepo je biti tu, u krajoliku
koji ne duguje svoje promjene ni ljudskoj ruci
ni prirodi. Izbora nema: puteljci se otvaraju sami
kao latice božura. Ulančavaju se i strmo ruše,
padaju u kaskadama odsjaji umnoženih tijela:
dva, tri ili više. Račvaju se amputirane staze:
stare rane teških odluka noćas zarastaju u travu.
...

A path with ridges like fish bone that end in
the bushes or disappear in the moss hindered
by the streaks of old trees. The sickles of burning
moons have been appearing above it recently - two,
three or more. Each walk along the stump of that road
is equal to giving up and means more than a mere turning
off the way. The night is as visible as never before.

And full of scent: in the same way as a leaf crumbled
between the finger and the palm: it is nice to be here,
in the landscape that does not owe its changes to the human
hand or to the nature. There's no choice: paths open themselves
like the petals of peony. They link up and capsize steeply,
the reflections of multiplied bodies fall in cascades:
two, three, or more. The amputated paths branch out: old
wounds of difficult decisions are overgrown by grass tonight.
...

Voda ribama poručuje da pada
kiša. Nije presudna ni vrsta ni
količina mamaca. Sve zamke su
jednako dobre. Bojim se. Štiti me
strah. Iz mene izlazi mreža metar
po metar mučnine. Povratit ću
čvorove i rupe zajedno s onim
što je ludo i uporno tražilo skrovište

između mojih čvorova, a nije uspjelo
pobjeći kroz rupe. Ljubit ću zamotano,
oblijepit ću slinom propusna mjesta.
Ostat će u meni zauvijek: prva petlja,
skriveni izvor mreže koja će prije ili
kasnije ležati vani prazna i smotana.
Bit će to kad izađe sunce iz procjepa
kamena i baci zrake kao da ih prima.
...

Water lets the fish know it's raining.
Neither the kind nor the quantity of bait
are essential. All the traps are equally good.
I am afraid. Protected by fear. A net is coming
out of me, meter by meter of nausea. I will
vomit the knots and holes together with
what was madly and persistently seeking shelter

among my knots and did not manage to escape
through the holes. I will kiss what is wrapped,
I will glue the porous places with saliva.
It will stay within me forever: the first knot,
the hidden source of the net that will sooner
or later lie outside empty and wrapped. This will be
when the sun gets out of the fissure in the stone
and throws the rays as if it was receiving them.
...

Nismo čekali da proleti prva roda iznad krova
nego smo sami postavili na dimnjake gnijezda.
Prošlo je vrijeme čuđenja u kojem je vrijedilo
pravilo da je svaka stvar novome oku nova.
Mrtvaci se mirno dižu iz mrtvih, žive ljudi bez idola,
slobodu se nosi kao privjesak, za nju se ne gine
više nego za bilo što drugo, iz krvi se dobiva
voda, a uši od riječi i glazbe čuva prirodna smola.
Vrijeme i prostor nude se u paketu. Sva naša čula
koja su prije bila od straha smotana u kuglu, pomalo
se ispravljaju, baš kao i vijuge mozga. Život teče
kao struja. Ima ga ili ga nema: jedinica ili nula.
Naučili smo dijeliti osjećaje koji su bili samo naši
kao odraz u vodi: koliko čaša, toliko mjeseca u čaši.
...

We didn't wait for the first stork above
the roof to fly but we put the nests on
the chimneys ourselves. Gone is the time
of wondering in which the rule would apply
that each thing is new to the new eye.
The dead quietly rise from the dead, people
live without idols all and each, freedom is
carried around like a pendant, one doesn't die
for it more than for anything else, water is
made from blood, while ears are protected
from words and music by natural pitch.
Time and space are offered in a packet.
You're almost a hero. Your senses
that used to be wrapped into a ball out of fear,
are slowly straightening, just like convolutions
of the brain. Life flows like current. It is
or isn't there: one or zero. We've learned
to share the feelings that used to belong
only to us like reflections on the water:
as many glasses, as many moons in the glass.
...

Ti neveni rastu na predugim stapkama,
kao da su im daleki preci bili s polja
suncokreta, uz zid, ispod prozora s dvije
razmaknute rešetke za koje se drži
s obje ruke dijete s licem djetetu slična
muškarca kojeg bi se moglo proglasiti
svetim u svijetu u kojem je sve mlađe
nego što izgleda. Samoća dodaje godine.

Kad tragovi zrelosti na tijelu koje se razvija
samo od sebe, koje nije imalo prilike za susret
s drugim tijelima, uključujući tijelo boga, koje
nije trljalo svoje uz tuđe rame i nije se rukovalo,
koje postoji i stari bez otpora, bez gravitacije,
kad tragovi na tom tijelu izazovu žudnju tugom,
isprobat ćemo lozinke zaborava da ne bismo bili
osuđeni na trijezno podsjećanje da smo još tu.
...