Lovely scene; I’d normally relish it;
peach and lemon clouds daunt progressing
dusk: brush strokes slashing a sapphire wash.
Reflections, pastel soft, spot brook, dot snow;
swans and mallards shadow slanted
banks; a heron stands barely etched
against the white. Luster lightens the air.
My black mood polarizes. Plodding
homeward, clutching dinky parcels
of despair, I spy our good neighbor,
cumbrous as a skating bear, sploshing
in her beaver coat over mud
and slush on a rutted gravel side road.
A flicker of her geniality
burdens my bleakness: she’d never
surrender to black. She supposes I’ll stop
and wait but distance lures an invidious
urge to send me heeling like a timorous
fox bent on anonymity. Risking
glassy sidewalks I scurry off
to my cheerless lair.
Sheltered, I am again a sheep, ashamed
as I watch her drift past my kitchen window,
head bent low
MODUS VIVENDI
Očarljiv prizor, morala bi se ga razveseliti;
marelični in citronasti oblaki krotijo prihajajoč
mrak: kot zamahi čopiča režejo safirni akvarel.
Odsevi, pastelno mehki, posejejo z madeži potok
in s pikami sneg;
labodi in divje race zasenčijo strmine korita;
čaplja stoji rahlo zarisana ob belino.
Lesk razsvetli zrak.
Moje črno razpoloženje se polarizira. Vlečem
se proti domu in se oprijemam neznatnih kopic
obupa, opazim našo prijazno sosedo,
nerodno, kot podrsavajoč medved, čofota
v svojem krznenem plašču preko blata
in plundre na makadamski stranski cesti.
Trohica njene genialnosti
stopnjuje mojo potrtost. Ona se nikoli
ne bi predala temini. Pričakuje, da se bom ustavila
in počakala, a razdalja mi vsadi zlobno
nujo, da zbežim kot boječa lisica,
ukrivljena od nameravane anonimnosti. Tvegam
spolzek pločnik in odhitim naprej
v svoj otožni brlog.
V zavetju sem ponovno ovčka, osramočena,
ko jo gledam odhajati mimo kuhinjskega okna
z globoko upognjeno glavo.
REMEMBERING THE CHERRY TREES
Mom and Dad planted two of them,
soul mates like themselves that soon sprawled
north, south, left, right; paradigms of opposites,
yet so similar, bound in timeless proximity.
They basked in each blossoming as buds swelled
into succulence, one more bounteous blessing
to embellish their archives of joy:
every year had been a good year.
Feet trailing the edge of the balcony
they plucked cerise delights
surrendering the choicest to each other
and amazed their offspring
with immutable appetites for berries
and togetherness.
Twilight found them chatting softly
by the trees, discussing tinge of leaves,
tangle of branches. Gazes fastened
on seasonal changes, they ignored their own
flagging steps and whitening hair, thriving
as trees thrive, in quiet harmony.
The trees mourn their old friends now: ants tread
aphid trails up dry bark, fungus corrodes branches,
boughs are barren. It’s as if they gave up
and their spirits slipped away, to join Mom and Dad.
SPOMINJAJOČ SE ČEŠNJEVIH DREVES
Oče in Mati sta posadila dve,
prav tako sorodni duši, ki sta se kmalu raztezali
severno, južno, levo, desno; paradigmi nasprotij,
a vendar tako podobni, zavezani
v brezčasni bližini.
Uživali sta v vsakem cvetenju, ko so popki
kipeli v sočnost; še en obilen blagoslov,
da okrasi njuno skladovnico veselja:
vsako leto je bilo dobro leto.
Z nogami, visečimi z roba balkona,
sta trgala rdeče veselje,
drug drugemu predajala izbrane
in presenečala naraščaj
z nenasitnim apetitom
za češnje in sožitje.
Mrak ju je ujel v mehkem kramljanju
ob drevesih, razglabljajoč o barvi listov,
gostoti vej. Globoko zagledana v
spremembe letnih časov, ne meneč se
za svoje upočasnjene korake in pobeljene lase, uspevajoč
kot uspevajo drevesa, v tihi slogi.
Drevesa zdaj objokujejo njune stare prijatelje,
mravlje sledijo ušem po suhem listju, glive razjedajo
jalove veje, kot da sta se vdali
in sta se njuni duši izmuznili,
da se pridružita Materi in Očetu.
TEACHER
As I recall, he was a lanky man,
and seemed so old to wispy teenage eyes:
he must have counted fifty years by then.
To painter Norman Rockwell he’d have been
a likely model for his homely oils.
Though reachable and kind, he was akin
to folks whose earthly paths are set on one
predominating goal. He’d set pupils
to their tasks, then would poise before the class
and withdraw -- to symbolically diffuse
with the spirit of his mesmerizing muse.
He never fussed at our artistic ware,
if good or bad, but swelled impressive works
before our eyes with unassuming care.
My admiration was immense; I craved
to be just half as good as he. But rather
not to risk my modest fuel, I studied his.
He didn’t seem to mind, didn’t even know
I stood and gazed with such intent, or maybe
that’s not so: when I left school, he honored me
with one small gift of palette warm in hues,
and forms obscured: a Texas outdoor scene
in softened light, like deserts in a dream.
I cherished that sweet gift for many years
but then, like lesser baggage of my youth,
in time, somewhere, it vanished just the same.
However loved, some things had to be chucked
along the way -- while forging my own fame.
UČITELJ
Kot se spominjam, je bil dolgin
in tako star za najstniške oči,
moral jih je biti kakih petdeset.
Slikar Norman Rockwell bi v njem
lahko našel model za svoje oljne slike.
Čeprav dosegljiv in prijazen, je spominjal na
ljudi, katerih zemeljske poti so usmerjene v
en sam pomemben cilj. Učence je napodil k delu
in potem postaval pred razredom,
zamišljen – do simbolične združitve
z navdihom svoje očarljive muze.
Nikoli ni težil zaradi naših umetniških izdelkov,
dobrih ali slabih, a napihnil je svoja impresivna dela
s skromno skrbjo pred našimi očmi.
Neizmerno sem ga občudovala, si želela biti
vsaj pol tako dobra kot on. A raje, kot da bi
tvegala svoj skromni zagon, sem preučila njegovega.
Ni ga motilo, niti vedel ni, da sem stala
in strmela s tako vnemo, ali pa morda
sploh ne tako: ko sem zaključevala, me je odlikoval
z majhnim darilcem, s paleto toplih odtenkov
in nejasnih oblik: sliko teksaške pokrajine
v blagi svetlobi, kot puščave v sanjah.
Mnogo let sem negovala to sladko darilce,
a potem je s časom nekje izginilo,
kot ostala krama moje mladosti.
Čeprav ljubljene, so nekatere stvari morale izginiti,
nekje vmes – med utiranjem poti lastni slavi.
AN INCIDENT AT AN EVENT IN GORICHKO
(For Tomaž Kržišnik)
Sketchbook in hand you wandered
unassuming, so to speak,
into this antediluvian milieu.
No city folk, these. Norman Rockwell
rural. A wholesome lot, friendly, open.
Our host, the Master of Ceremonies,
unknown to you, a chummy, chattering
caricature, hangs over your shoulder,
his tipsy geniality yearning
to embrace the universe.
You grin, bearing up in stoic tolerance.
Your lady, shying fraternal hugs,
hunches sideways, bumps you.
Spilled wine causes annoyance
but still you smile. Then he tweaks
your mustache. As ire explodes
MC springs back wringing hands,
alarmed that his welcome
causes offense. His feet eager to flee
meet your floor-snuggled dachshund.
Scar, scared witless, scurries shrieking
under a creaking bench.
The program proceeds: speeches ensue,
plaques are awarded, much applause.
MC apologizes publicly
for his unthinking provocation.
Chagrined, you stand up, black cap
clasped protectively. Your speech sketches
the happening to the cheering assemblage
while the MC crimsons.
INCIDENT NA DOGODKU NA GORIČKEM
(za Tomaža Kržišnika)
S skicirko v roki si zašel,
nedolžen, tako rekoč,
v to predpotopno okolje.
Prav nič mestni ljudje, tile. Norman Rockwellsko
podeželski. Dobrodušna družba, prijateljska, odprta.
Naš gostitelj, Predstojnik Slovesnosti,
tebi nepoznan, družabna blebetajoča
karikatura, se ti sklanja čez ramo,
s svojo vinjeno priljudnostjo, hrepeneč,
da objame svet.
Ti se režiš, v drži stoične tolerance.
Tvoja dama, v izogib bratskim objemom
sključena v stran zadene vate.
Prelito vino povzroči val jeze
a smehljaš se še naprej. Nato on uščipne
v tvoje brke. Ko srd eksplodira
Predstojnik odskoči, vijoč roke,
presenečen, da njegova dobrodošlica
žali. Njegove pobega željne noge
zadanejo prihuljenega jazbečarja.
Skar, panično cvileč zdirja
pod škripavo klop.
Program se nadaljuje: sledijo govori,
delitev plaket, aplavz.
Predstojnik se javno opraviči
za nenamerno provokacijo.
Vznejevoljen vstaneš, držeč
črno kapo. Tvoj govor skicira
dogodek odobravajoči družbi,
medtem ko Predstojnik rdi.
OPPOSITE WORLDS
My friend lives upside down from me
on Earth’s far side where mangoes grow
and parrots slide through jungle trees.
While I seek shelter from the snow
the sun gifts her its toasting glow.
Since land and ocean isle us
roads each to each escape our view.
When muses bid us, voice our poems,
we search wide space as soul pals do
for ways to float our verses through.
And strolling by a fish-filled stream
to summon lines and rhymes to share
or scanning paths from mountain peaks,
I hope our soles might meet somewhere
on counter points, up here, down there.
NASPROTNA SVETA
Moja prijateljica živi postavljena na glavo,
na drugi strani zemlje, kjer mangi rastejo
in papige letajo nad drevesi v džungli.
Medtem ko iščem pred snegom bran
njej sonce daruje svoj vroči žar.
Ker naju razmejujeta zemlja in ocean,
druga k drugi ne vidiva ceste.
Ko naju muze vabijo, da pesmi najine ubesediva
preizkujeva širjave kot sorodni duši,
da za svoje verze najdeva poti.
Ko se sprehajam ob potoku polnem rib,
da zberem verze, rime ki si jih deliva,
ali ogledujem poti z vrhov gora,
upam, da se nekoč s podplati dotakneva,
na stičišču nasprotij, tu gori, tam doli.
MODERN MUSIC
The cool cloak of evening air
is as cleansing as the arrangements
inside the hall are crass, though the ancient
wooden archway diminishes
the dissonance. Alone on concrete steps,
I wait for the concert to end.
Sorry Mr. Music Makers,
your drum and cymbal virtuosity
sounds like hammers clashing on metal,
tin panels clinking together, brass tubs
banging, pot covers clanging,
barrels crashing over rocks; whams, thuds
and rumbles: all that racket you’re brewing
in there is not my cup of tonal tea.
An interlude. Church bells chime a recap
of »Three Blind Mice.«
Beyond the muffling door the listeners
encourage an encore.
MODERNA GLASBA
Hladno ogrinjalo večernega zraka
je enako očiščujoče, kot so priredbe
v dvorani robate; čeprav starinski
leseni oboki umirjajo
neskladnost. Sama na betonskih stopnicah
čakam na konec koncerta.
Oprostite, Gospodje Glasbeniki,
vaša virtuoznost na bobnih in činelah
zveni kot udarci kladiva ob kovino,
rožljanje kositrne pločevine,
bobnanje po medeninastih škafih, žvenket
pokrovk, treskanje sodov ob skale,
gromenje, donenje in bobnennje:
ves ta hrušč, ki ga varite
tam notri ni po mojem glasbenem okusu.
Pavza. Cerkveni zvonovi pritrkavajo
odzven otroškega napeva.
Za vrati, ki dušijo zvok, poslušalci
zahtevajo dodatek.
LAST RESPECTS
Church bells chime farewell to one
of my abundant, antiquated acquaintances:
to many a respected teacher, to me a mere
chit-chat on the street. To the tolling of the bells
I count numerous heads among the grievers
as white as the snow around us. Ten years
will terminate a third, perhaps; in twenty,
half will bow to the final knell. Odds has me
in the first group.
The wind is cold. Hymns rasped by an all-widow
choir enliven the priest’s droned litany.
Defunct microphone deletes every few words.
Youngsters giggle. A flash of recall projects
my family, young in the land of jingle bells
(remote, oh, so remote). Sisters and I sprawled
on tattered sofa, mother in her armchair.
We writhed in mirth; lunch smoldered in the oven.
Amusement innocent of catastrophe
or war mocks death easily. Offbeat jokes
of our own demise produced delighted
hee-haws. Mom wanted her ashes tossed
to the wind from hills behind El Paso.
Each bit, she said, would be an angel going home.
Our laughter tinkled like bells in the wind.
Now, to fend off brewing chortles,
I count the years between birth and death
on nearby gravestones, and feel life fleeting.
POSLEDNJE SLOVO
Cerkveni zvonovi pritrkavajo v slovo enemu
mojih premnogih, starih znancev;
za mnoge spoštovan učitelj, zame le
klepet na ulici. Ob zvonjenju zvonov
preštevam premnoge glave med užaloščenimi,
bele, kot sneg okrog nas. Nemara bo naslednja
dekada končala tretjino, naslednji dve upognili
polovico do končnega priklona. Verjetnost me uvršča
v prvo skupino.
Veter je hladen. Hvalnice, ki jih hrešči zbor ovdovelih,
poživijo duhovnikovo monotono litanijo.
Pokvarjeni mikrofon briše vsakih nekaj besed.
Mladina se hihita. Preblisk spominov prikaže
mojo družino, mladost v “jingle-bells” deželi,
(davno, oh, kako davno). Sestre in jaz, zleknjene
na zdelanem kavču, mati v svojem naslanjaču.
Naš krčeviti smeh; kosilo kadeč se iz pečice.
Veselje, ki ne pozna katastrofe
ali vojne, se zlahka posmehuje smrti. Neobičajne šale
na račun našega lastnega odhoda izzovejo živahen
krohot. Mati je želela svoj pepel raztresen
v vetru s hribov nad El Pasom.
Vsak drobec, je rekla, bo kot angel, ki gre domov.
Naš smeh je odzvanjal kot zvončki v vetru.
Sedaj, da zadušim napad krohota,
štejem leta med rojstvom in smrtjo
na bližnjih nagrobnih kamnih, in čutim minevanje življenja.
SPRING MORNING
A tractor tugs its loud whirl
along sleepy streets.
Peeking through clouds
April’s sun sends silver light
into the room as I twirl my dervish dance
in early morning ritual.
The window frames apricot flowers
that are losing their white
to a pinkish hue, shedding petals
on bright daffodils swaying below
and decking brown, barren earth
with soft pastel.
I’m reluctant to nudge the morning
into motion, for minutes lurk
like greedy termites
waiting to gobble up the day.
POMLADNO JUTRO
Traktor vleče svoje glasno brnenje
po zaspanih cestah.
Kukajoč skozi oblake
aprilsko sonce pošilja srebrno svetlobo
v sobo, kjer se vrtim v derviševem plesu
svojega jutranjega rituala.
Okno uokvirja breskove cvetove,
ki izgubljajo belino
v rožnatih odtenkih, širijo cvetne liste
na žareče narcise, ki nihajo spodaj
in pokrivajo rjavo, pusto zemljo
z mehkim pastelom.
Obotavljam se dregniti jutro
v gibanje, kajti minute se skrivajo
kot požrešni termiti,
da poglodajo dan.
GETAWAY
If only I could find an obscure hole --
not the pit where eulogies are offered
and everyone turns away forever --
no, just a simple retreat, a human-
sized mole’s nest, oxygen-filled passages
to wend my way along my chosen path,
meeting only an occasional worm.
No philosophy, and no demanding.
A place to circumvent rocks and roughs
at my own pace, without panic or undue
stress. Where, if I plod, no one complains.
Where no pushing, shoving or clamoring
for my attention exists. Where caverns
among roots would be the only detours,
house foundations the only deceptions
to confound my modest meandering.
And the only time I would surface
is when I tire of my own company.
POBEG
Ko bi le našla kje kakšno zakotno luknjo.
Ne jame, kjer nudijo hvalnice
in se vsi za vekomaj obrnejo stran.
Ne, samo zatočišče, krtovino človeške velikosti,
potke, napolnjene s kisikom
za moje poti izbrano smer,
kjer bi srečala le kakšega črva.
Nič filozofije, nič zahtev.
Prostor za preslepitev preprek in neprijetnosti
z mojim tempom, brez panike ali odvečnega
stresa.
Kjer se nihče ne pritožuje, če garam,
kjer ni suvanja, potiskanja in trušča
za mojo pozornost. Kjer bi bile luknje
med koreninami edini obvozi,
temelji hiš edine zmote,
ki bi zbegale mojo željo po blodenju.
Le takrat bi se vrnila na površje,
ko bi se naveličala svoje lastne družbe.
YOUNG LADY
Listen! Youth was magic.
Every temptation excitement:
the Broadway lights, the nightclubs,
the clothes, the men.
Charming the men was rapture,
long affairs avoided,
commitment rejected.
Daydreams fixed on nights,
new frock, red lips,
oh, you’d strut your stuff!
And the men you met:
philanderers all.
You spurned curiosity;
no concern of yours
whether they were committed
or would it last forever.
So many jazzy dates awaited
-- and so much you would not share.
You gave no thought to other
dimensions: depleted wives,
children begging: »Where’s Daddy?«
or if love played a part.
As you watch the young lady
sally through the male quarters,
what makes you think youth
is different now?
MLADENKA
Poslušaj! Mladost je bila čudovita.
Vsaka draž razburjenje,
Broadwayske luči, nočni klubi,
obleke, moški.
Očarati moške je bila ekstaza,
izogibanje dolgim zvezam,
zavračanje zavez.
Sanjarije podnevi osredotočene na noči,
novo krilo, rdeče ustnice,
Oh, ošabno razkazovanje!
In moški, ki si jih spoznala:
sami povzpetniki.
Izzvala si radovednost.
Ni bila tvoja stvar, če so vezani
ali če bo trajalo večno.
V pričakovanju vseh teh jazzovskih zmenkov,
toliko tistih zamolčanih.
Nobena misel ni bila posvečena
drugim dimenzijam: poražene žene,
vprašujoči otroci: »Kje je očka?«
ali če je sploh ljubezen.
Ko gledaš to mladenko,
vihrati skozi moške sobane,
zakaj imaš občutek, da je
danes mladost kaj drugačna?
