Iskanje praznine

Prevodi so nastali na seminarju profesorice Darje Pavlič ob konferenci Stiki in podobnosti med slovensko in ameriško poezijo (ZRC SAZU, 2019)

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Iskanje praznine

Škofja Loka, Mestni trg

V hrupu gradbenih odrov, žvenketu spojnikov in orodja v škatli za festival naslednje sezone
V tem, kako kladiva prekinjajo znanost natakarjev o mlinčkih in penilcih
V odsevih izložbenih oken
V veliki železni osi, ki leta okrog
sveže žganih glinenih pip
V lekarnarici na kosilu
in oranžnem peugeotu poleg prazne klopce
V pozabljeni torbici na prazni klopci
V mnogoterih slojih barve pod prazno torbico
V ograjenem igrišču in rdečem toboganu,
ki se greje na popoldanskem soncu,
in peugeotu, ki se je odpeljal
V zvonjenju zvonov opoldne
in odrgnjenih dlaneh, ki vlečejo vrvi maše
V istorečju trditve
peugeot je oranžen ali peugeot ni oranžen
V sladoledu, ki čaka mrak na svojem mrzlem mestu pod lipo
V zehanju vrat trgovin in mežikanju špic koles
V uličicah, iz katerih strmi duh mojega očeta in vame uperja svoj rakavi prst
V tej deželi kos in udarcev molčeče uslužnosti in pošiljk
V starem možu z dolgo brado, ki spi na svojem plašču in na tlakovcih
V slovenskem fantiču, ki pozdravi pisatelja na klopci
V tem, kako opazuje besede, nanizane na stran
V tem, kako jezik kopiči in utrjuje nesporazume
V tem, kako pisatelj ve, da si tam, vendar se ne obrne
V fantiču, ki izgine v trgovino in se vrne k materi s kumarami za popoldanske sendviče, ki mu jih bo pripravila

Prevedla Vida Jocif

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  SEARCHING FOR THE EMPTINESS

Skofja Loka, Mestni Trg

In the clang of scaffolding, couplers,
and tools thrown into the box for next season’s festival
In how hammers disrupt the science
baristas practice behind grinders and steamers
In the reflections of a storefront window
In a large iron wasp hovering
over newly fired clay pipes
In the apothecary who is out to lunch
and the orange Peugeot beside the empty bench
In the forgotten handbag on the empty bench
In the many coats of paint beneath the empty handbag
In the fenced-in playground and red slide
warming in the afternoon sun
and the Peugeot driving away
In the circuits chiming the bells at noon
and the burnt hands pulling the ropes of mass
In the tautology of the statement:
the Peugeot is orange or the Peugeot is not orange
In the gelato waiting for dusk in its cold place under the linden tree
In the yawning shop doors and blinking bike wheels
In the alleys where my father’s ghost stares back
at me and points with a cancerous finger
In this country of scythes and thrashing
of quiet compliance and consignment
In the old man with the long beard
sleeping on his trench coat and cobblestones
In the Slovene boy greeting the writer on the bench
In how he regards the words lined up across the page
In how language stacks and cements misunderstanding
In how the writer knows you are there but turns for no one
In the boy who disappears into the grocery and returns
to his mother with cucumbers for the afternoon
sandwiches she will make for him