GMail/AvanTgardA ..kako močno lahko danes napneš moje strune?..skrajšaš moje gibe s svojimi rokami?..prijemaš sanje, oblake, mak..v sivem jutru in črno luno..nekje med besedami še najdem dovolj prostora za tihe objeme..priznam, da izkoriščam dele tvojega imena za zapiranje ran..za dihanje..za podaljšan utrip..
..in končno vem, kaj je varnost..ko stegnem roko in primeš le dlan..kako daleč me lahko odpelješ z enim samim korakom?
Ajk tokrat dajem besedilo nekoga drugega..da je otrip še vedno enak mojemu..
Let us bite through the chains of enchanted words, father,
let us melt
the iceberg of silence which has grown between us,
I am ready, I have disconnected the telephone,
locked the door, there is nobody left in my world.
Now my psalm will sing to you about dreams,
you call them dreams, of springs of blossoms,
of water, which the magnolias drink
when they open in the April snow, of evenings
which have encamped in my head.
Long purple clouds glide above the earth
you see them, father, you see right through them.
While your silhouette - as it stands on the threshold -
is being embraced by the cold wings of the night.
No, they cannot be classified
they cannot be appointed places in the calendar of escaping days.
I cannot, father, 1 do not even try.
It is not my intention to spend endless hours
in the maws of various offices, between lips that sip,
cheap perfumes, the want-a-fuck smelling of the cheap
spirits of business colleagues.
For me - verses, long wild verses,
which run like horses in the yearning of the traveller.
Like the crystal, cold water, into which I slip naked.
Verses, which are a present from the air.
Verses, which I forever hammer into the paper.
Verses measure time, father, my time, our time
they are the only things which set the milestones of our
mortality.
Now my psalm will sing to you of the world that you will
never enter, of heaven and hell,
of ecstasies that take possession over me and of the tails of Icarus.
Of the magical union, the divine connection, which
is felt by jazz musicians when their instruments,
with unusual ease, address the shadows and draw kaleidoscopic
images in the unknown fragrant night, on empty streets
where the last drunks stagger
and cat muzzles peer out of dustbins.
Now my psalm will sing to you of Kafka, about how
he wrote a long letter to his father and never
found enough courage to send it.
No, you have never heard of Kafka.
Though you have ordered the World’s Classics,
though every Saturday you dusted your books.
Ton unstable a world for you.
Too intangible a world for you.
And my friends spoke to me about
their sick experiences with their fathers
I wanted to beat him up - said one -
he was lucky however to die, cancer,
cirrhosis of the liver, we were all relieved.
We were all afraid to confess, that in seclusion
we shed tears.
And we, father.
We have met for years now, the way trains meet
at fixed places, at fixed times
ice cold with the crash of speed.
With live cargo inside ourselves.
We art stubborn, stubborn.
Now it’s time, father, to hear my psalm.
A psalm which is breaking through the claws of darkness,
which is setting fire to the leaves of forest paths,
which, like a bird, sits on mountain slopes, a psalm
which is whispered by the fish and the stones, a psalm which is
whispered by the man of the rain and of the sun.
I am preparing myself for war, father, for war
and you know that I am going.
You are more scared than I
yes, the hardened castles of habits will have to come down
let ivy overgrow them, let princes peacefully sleep in them.
Yes, fingernails will have to be broken and skin wrinkled
and there will be many victims, many hours of stillness
silently breathing between four walls,
on bridges which lead across the metaphors of eternity.
When the only food will be the dust of dreams,
and the only sanctuary the transparent body of false love
and the silver pieces will cease to he.
And I will not fell like Judas Iscariot
who was bribed to betray the one
who loved him most.
And maybe I will be the winner, maybe the loser,
but I will always remember you,
when I see a clean shaven employee
who didn’t try anything unusual,
who didn’t break a single rule, who curses,
because he cannot find a parking space,
who wrote boring love letters to his wife.
And you will also remember me,
if somewhere you start drinking beer by yourself and everything
around you starts to crumble to dust and for the first time
in your life you say - let it all go to hell,
I don’t care -
and for the first time in your life
you will have the feeling that there is something else,
something unusual.
Some piece of the moon above us and some bright moments
which open to us like the magnolias
of my dreams, magnolias opening in the April snow.
by Uroš Zupan
(Translated by Nikolai Jeffs)
..toliko še lahko prepričam svoje telo, v malo daljše vrtove..ko mi pred nogami prodajajo močnejše ključavnice in višje zidove..tokrat obljubljajo bolj tiho varnost..ampak jaz temu več ne nasedem..in stopim do ključarja po rezervo..
..predstavljaj si tiha, bela jutra..prvi pogled skoz okno in nagnjenje vratu v levo..predstavljaj si vrenje vode in vdih kave..odpiranje težkih vek in puščanje misli..
..sedaj pa zapri oči..in si predstavljaj vse to v dvojini..
Ajk..tokrat malo manj besed..samo za dušo..
Tako se še danes lahko obarvajo svetli cvetovi vrtnic..ko lahko sama razpolagam z minutami in jih lahko vlečem v tedne..ko nekje na nebu vse te notranje solze jedkajo zvezde..jih silijo na kožo..lahko bi cele dni sedela v kotu in razpletala pravljice..tiste z vilami, princi in visokimi obzidji..in na koncu..happy end..in bi zamenjala vrstni red..zbrisala bi tisti zadnji in srečo, ki naj bi trajala do konca življenja..in se zgubljala v gozdovih..
Naj še danes..zadnjič..pokleknem pred svojim angelom varuhom..da zaspim..
Govoriš mi o neskončnih barvah, o pomladi..o zvoku dežja in vonju pomaranč..in ostajaš slep..še ko mi s tresočimi rokami ponujaš cimet, ti lahko na prste položim dlan..
In tako rada ohranim nekatere stvari skrite..neprebrane..da se jih na koncu loteva rja..in bi ostalo vse neizrečeno in pozabljeno..in to, v drugem poglavju so moje ptice..
Dragi moj Ajk..
..in spet nastopi večer..še vsi te izdihi se zunaj spremenijo v led..in potrpežljivo čakam sneg..tiste rjuhe, ki bodo ovijale vsakdanjo pot..da se mi bo oko ustavljalo na vseh teh vzorcih in bom vse močneje kožo stiskala ob radiator..že zdaj se mi na trepalnice lepi vonj cimeta in jabolk..skoz prste teče čisto drugi sadni čaj..tak, z vonjem vanilje..nekje zunaj se razlega smeh..
Čas za menjavo stare kože..za trganje pozabljenih besed in nepotrebnih misli..naj vse diši samo še po jutranji megli in po smrekah..naj imajo ustnice otip smole..samo za kratek čas..čez katera vrata je varen pobeg?….da spustiš vse iz rok in začneš bežati..še sam ne veš pred kom..pred čim..ampak puščaš pljučem, da se parajo ob dotiku ledenih sveč..kako daleč bi bilo telo, če bi naučil noge leteti?..in ne rabiš več varnosti pločnikov..niti dolgih, belih..neprekinjenih črt..dihaj le še s tistim delom, ki je najbliže sanjam..zapiranju oken..
..nasmeh izgine..
Mesta počasi ugašajo luči..še vse te nočne ptice ostajajo ujete med stenami..in vešče objemajo ulične svetilke..da lahko hodiš v popolni temi in šteješ odmeve čevljev..tako dolgo, dokler se ne naježiš..
Če bi znala, bi shranjevala te trenutke..odprla bi škatlo in vanjo spravljala kapljice..poljube na lice..iskren nasmeh..nepričakovana sporočila..dolge ure poležavanja v objemu..petje..daljše zapiranje oči..vse to shranim..za noči brez lune..za dneve okradenih juter..za odpadlo listje in slane reke..
Dovoli si samo še en dan gledanja svetlobe..tokrat z zaprtimi očmi..vedno se smeješ, ko polagaš školjko na uho..mogoče ne priznaš, da edino, kar je na tebi odprto so gumbi na tvoji srajci..
..in na koncu zveš, da ne sneži..da ni nobenih povojev za vso to odpadlo listje..da je glasba že zdavnaj utihnila in da se na žaluzijah kopiči prah..in v glavi valovi morje..
