Tri pesmi

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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Kipi na ulici
Ljubljana

Ponoči se tlakovci bleščijo
od skrivnosti kipov.
Mnogi nimajo obrazov. Nekateri se zdijo ranjeni.
Drugim manjkajo udje.
Spustim kovanec v lonček
moškega, ki sedi na odeji
v eni ozkih ulic.
Modro vrečko ima
zavezano okoli štrclja. Pokima
nežno. Ljudje lomijo ljudi,
kot da so kamenje.
Morda sliši svetlobo
žvenketati, ko kaplja med razpoke.
Skrivnost je
zagrebena v obraz zlomljenemu človeku,
ki ves dan opazuje ulico.

Prevedla Ema Štarkl

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Statues Along the Street
Ljubljana

At night, the cobblestones gleam
with the secrets of statues.
Many are faceless. Some look wounded.
Others have missing limbs.
I drop a coin into the cup
of a man sitting on a blanket
along one of the narrow streets.
He has a blue bag
tied around his stump. He nods
softly. People break people
like they’re stone.
Maybe he hears the light
clink that drops between the cracks.
There is a secret
buried in the face of the broken man
watching the street all day.

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Mahler
Ljubljana

Na Dvornem trgu se dobim z njim v bronastem kipu, s koščeno dlanjo pri srcu. Zdi se, da nosi harfo, ki je pognala iz njegovih ranjenih prsi. Njegova ramena so usločena, glava sklonjena, oči uprte v tla, kot da sliši valujoč zven strun med brnenjem koles, glasov in korakov. Zdi se, da tega nihče drug ne opazi onstran gostilniških miz. Večino življenja zapravimo v osami in tiho čakamo na dotik. List kapne v reko tam spodaj med golimi pustimi vejami in reka ga vzame na edinstveno potovanje.

Prevedla Ema Štarkl

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Mahler
Ljubljana

At Dvorni Square I meet him in a bronze statue, slender hand over his heart. It looks like he’s carrying a harp that grew from a wound in his chest. His shoulders are bent, head leaning forward, eyes looking down as if he hears the ripple of strings between the hum of bicycle wheels, voices and footsteps. No one else seems to notice it beyond the restaurant tables. Most of our lives are spent alone and in silence waiting to be touched. A leaf drops into the river below between bare tarnished branches, and the river takes it on its singular journey.

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Pod listjem

Listje šelesti okrog
starega vodnjaka, ki so ga
pokrili za zimo. Pod zemljo
voda teče skozi vse,
kar je izgubljeno: črepinje
in drobce kosti, lase
in znoj, zobe in kri.
Kaj pa glasovi in sanje?
Kam gredo naši spomini?
Listje je žejno.

Prevedla Urša Strle