Unseen angels walk noiselessly - barefoot without
stirring the wind - around the sleeping houses; this is now.
Wooden I lie awake in didaskalia, my eyes weary, mouth
dry, with a heart that knows everything: everything,
when even nothing was too much. The merciless hour
of sheet - the date gone, impressing no memory of its traces.
Just like those angels outside leaving no footprints in
the grass. Bread is melting in the cupboard.
On chandeliers flies are lulled into a light sleep. I, too:
just to fulfill the longing of my eyelids! To slide into sleep!
But there are no angels: it is I who unknowingly
stumble in blind images around neighbors, scenting their wives
and daughters instead of being in my room; let all of me
fall asleep, rest my eyes and give dreaming wings
to my bubbling blood. The heart knows everything
(when even nothing was too much), but is still fond of pounding:
perhaps this is the only true way of being. This is now:
the cherry branch in the vase is locked in a spawning of time;
on the table cooked spinach, made for the noon meal,
hovers in water.
* * *
Tonight I again stared at the moon: hastened to meet
her on the way to a pub, followed her on my way home.
On the foothills shone, like sugar crystals, houses
between barren trees, the people in them have fallen
into their honorable sleep; wine was pounding inside
me, and if a soul were anywhere awake, I’d have knocked
and stolen some affection: but even the dogs were quiet.
I was wading in time; in my pupils
the spell of an unknown night as if I were a pious man,
kneeling in some cathedral.
I stepped into my room kneeling. Turned on the light.
Swept photographs on the wall with a glance.
Oh, gracious thanks! on the table, solitary, white, where
from! alone! from merciful nymphs given an apple:
let the teeth, grown for a candid laugh, bite into it, the
teeth I no longer have, let then the mouth be happy;
I halted on my knees by the door, fingers of my
stretched hand on the doorknob at the height of my shoulders:
an embryo in an unnatural, dangerously abortive
* * *
The city quarter of Sentvid is golden - washed by a
rainstorm, made serene by the sun’s brightness,
calmed by a fresh wind from the Gorenjska fields. The
soul, likewise, longs to rest:
I sit by the window with a sleeping book in my arms,
lost in the dark blue of the sky, too shy to get up,
tired of sitting, melancholic after reading the lives made
into literature. Sunk in thoughts: my mother believed
everything was predestined, I’ve insisted that man
I kept putting off a great deal of time for some future
time - and it so happened that my present self
and my future self stayed awake for some fat years. Now
there is nothing promising or encouraging, the heart freed
from the weight of a hopeless hoping: it is time to turn
the TV on, foreign wars and long legs of sniper guns,
and simply be. To chase the corrosion out of the heart,
though - who can tell? The air is soft, each breath grace:
Oh, clouds! Lambs that escaped to the sky! Aided by
winds, kind brothers, they reached the heights of their dreams!
* * *
The night is dark and silent. Only when a shy south
wind blows, the open window winces and the dancer
in the curtain pleats stirs. The night is a dark solitaire,
deep like a grave and as gently inviting, softly luring:
it kneads doubt into the heart dough, filling people’s
bodies with anxiety, and they desire to escape out,
across currant bushes and gardens, across streets,
bridges and meadows, through mountains crushed to scree,
over straits and birch trees - away into a freshly-dug
the evil steals itself into everything, gnawing the skin,
corroding metals - utter destruction is its measure:
even when for a moment a tiny flame begins to shine in
a rat in a cellar or an insect in pea blossoms,
a flame that is hope and faith, it hunts it down and kills
it. The air in the room is humid, scentless,
without memory - its presence a shuddering touch to
eyelids. With a blanket wrapped around my knees
I sink into an armchair and wish to remain that way,
frozen in time.
* * *
When a tiger sheds its skin - how vulnerable becomes its
flesh! - a blanket will embrace me like crust,
harsh, dry, sleep with a face of promise will take me in:
when an animal sheds its skin, when the air is
on a plain, how full of death the room becomes! Who
was I? White distances,
savage naked beauty, an intense presence, bubbling
miracle, an inspired will - thirty years of childhood,
much pathos and milk an - ho! - the terrifying
unfulfillment of man!
And so what? Should wars start so I’ll pull myself
together? and have, ashen from fear, one wish only:
to live? Or an unexpected love in Italy. Or snails,
slithering in the moist garden. Or coal in cellars.
It is not true that the sound of an accordion is heard in
times like such. Nothing is heard.
Nothing is there. I smell of sweat. My shirt, my wrist
watch and weights. No manifestations of change:
everything remains in its assigned, improper place.
* * *
I have arrived and it is true: the house has neither the
teeth of a sea-urchin nor the hopes of wives rebelling
against their husbands: the blossoms of the hallway are
opening, the weight of rain is foreign, left outside.
Here there is only the good old sameness: the halted
thought of an angel and traces of the fragrance of hay.
What, then, do I bring: not a gift or letter in my hands,
not a heart or star inside my chest: just some barefoot words
behind my ear - I put my T-shirt on and between
drinking and salvoes, without a shade of distance,
I watch spellbound - as if in oblivion, or in devastation,
or some different, distant life -
a small table made of black rosewood, encrusted with
copper, on it three napkins, three teaspoons,
cacao in three little cups: oh! the interior so tranquil in a
stable charisma and enchanted symmetry,
leaving me breathless, opiated, removing past and future
lives as the fragile rain rustles
behind young curtains like the divination of a prophet.
* * *
My writing eluded me, I was absent-minded, the paper
is now full of an unrecognizable scribbling,
a new order is rising all around me: butterfly curtains
on the windows, tapestries on the walls, rugs on the
and on the ceiling a horoscope in which the glowing
beings of heaven tremble quietly; Aries shot Sagittarius,
Aquarius is throwing Pieces on Libra (it all happens in
tranquility), Scorpio dies lying on Virgo, Gemini have escaped,
they are gone - strangely resembling the truth?
I should put my skates on and in one leap cut the planet
to pieces; who knows what is holding me back.
"The skate is hard to put on.""The ice is sowooden."
"This house has no door.""I’m not going anywhere today."
Kneeling in the middle of the room I am shivering; was
there a need for all this?
No gravitation, no magnetism, no powers - just the alien
presence of my native world without hope
and without reminiscence: a hand holding a hand like
an unknown wet glove.
* * *
At night, when birds are asleep, there are stars the birds
don’t know of unless they open their eyes
from the pain of dreams. Night is a soft discreet charm:
luring is the playful pliable hour - offering,
but in truth taking, bringing tears smilingly; and how it
showered itself with flowers! and the gentle wind;
its mane, adorns its nape, spoiled by kisses! and the
tempting siren-like silence, the night’s magic spell
which is killing, killing, killing everything, and iron and
the pristine pagan faith!
The birds are oblivious to this and to the stars unless
they open their eyes from the pain of their dreams and stare,
bewildered, into the night. They don’t know of me
digging ceaselessly inside myself to find a memory
that would console me, forgetting I am not a mine.
Then, what am I? A huge blueberry,
full of sharp human horrors; distance and promise; and
the birds don’t know, the birds are asleep. They know nothing
unless they open their eyes from the pain of their
dreams as a cold shiver awakens the soft cores of their hearts.
* * *
This unknown village - strewn on the slope as if it
wished to climb the mountain - this village is my home.
My heart knows its church-bells, its apple-trees in
blossom, the old men and women and their south seas,
their northern fears. It was there I experienced all the
big things of my childhood: my father’s joke,
the clear laughter of my mother, a headless rooster,
matches in a hayloft and all the things
and thoughts permeated with a healthy ardent
Distances, distances. Now I sit in the brittle library of a
dark foreign city, my blood throbbing lazy and lethargic
in my temples. The village! maidens are rocking their
breasts under thin linen,
while I have deliberately chosen the bare life, denounce
everything to quench my thirst for learning, so I’d not stay small
in myself; a pearly honey has gathered around my pain,
passions evaporate after being stirred
by the forceful winds of time - and afterwards we don’t
know how it all was or what the life was all about.
* * *
Morning, a graceful morning arose amidst the
mountaintops; no force can hold back the fragility of time
in its awakened trepidation; like nothing can hold back
the growth of day, the opulence of light; and what has rotted
in the heart cannot be brought back to life: all through
the night - an intense new moon in May
I was writing a poem: of my heart’s desire for joy,
affection and truth. But, I gave birth to pain:
my poem became a vessel of distress, and the shards of
my broken life are now starring at me.
The world is asleep, faces peaceful; if not for their
likeness to blossoms I’d think they were dead.
My fingernails hurt from the lazy passing of minutes,
grating my trembling: I am a human bomb,
a scream of despair! The forest is oblivious to ants and
people: everything ever coming to life
in it will return from the same into the same. I spread
honey on bread, milk is boiling,
I take a clean napkin; an immense drop of the sun’s
light floods the shadows of earth.