Andrej Hočevar

السلوفانية

Andrej Hočevar, Robin Parmar

الانجليزية

Imaš dvajsetaka?

Zagrabi me še kar huda lakota in nekaj
idejam podobnega. Odprto okno in nobenih
glasov. Pospravljeni premiki, potrpežljivi
sosedje. In tvoja stopala. Tvoja lepa stopala.
Leva in desna družina, deset prstov
z rdečimi nohti. Zdaj pa vsi skupaj pojdite lepo
na tržnico! Ali pa kam drugam, kjer sta telo in volja
zadovoljno razdružena. Zakaj tako skrivaš žlebove,
po katerih bi se lahko mirno razlil kot spanec
brez sanj po kosilu? Nebo zrcali travnik,
popackan z ovcami. Ne potrebuje pravih
rešitev. Korak, ki ni zadnji, ne potrebuje
pravih rešitev. In prave rešitve prav gotovo
ne potrebujejo mene. Dotakniti se me hočejo
nabrekle prsi. Dišijo in se stegujejo. Ne vem več,
kaj so razlike. Grizem. Hodim. Sonce
s svojo leseno žlico z mene pobira smetano.
Slačim si hribe, slačim si doline. Slačim
tvoje zobe. Ves pasji sem. Smejim se z rokami
in pišem z repom. Maham. Spet sem nasedel
zgodbi očaranega pesnika, kako se srečata
ljubezen in zanimanje za stvari, ki se te ne tičejo:
pesniki strmijo v daljavo in vidijo,
kako se po cesti vozijo borovnice.
Ko me bo pot prekucnila, bom hodil
še po drugi strani. V travo plane
čudovita podoba – to ni osamljenost,
a jo trgam kot zrele, sočne sadeže.

© Andrej Hočevar
من: Leto brez idej
Ljubljana: LUD Šerpa, 2011
ISBN: 978-961-6699-24-2
الإنتاج المسموع: LUD Literatura, 2014

You got a tenner?

Suddenly a rather intense hunger grabs me
along with something akin to an idea. An open window
and no voices. Movements are stored away;
the neighbours are patient. And your feet.
Your lovely feet. The left and right families:
ten toes with red nails. Off you go! Go visit
the farmers’ market! Or some other place,
where body and mind are happily unbound.
Why hide the gullies into which I could easily spill
like a dreamless sleep after lunch? The sky mirrors
the meadow, blotted with sheep. It needs no right
solutions. A step that’s not final needs no
right solutions. And the right solutions most certainly
don’t need me. Voluptuous breasts want to
touch me. They’re fragrantly stretching out
towards me. I don’t know what differences
mean anymore. I’m biting. I’m pacing. The sun’s
skimming the cream off me with its wooden spoon.
I’m undressing mountains, undressing valleys.
Undressing your teeth. I’m all doggish. I laugh
with my hands and write with my tail. I’m waving.
Once again, I fell prey to the tale of the
awestricken poet—how love and interest
for things that don’t concern you suddenly meet.
The poets stare into the distance and see
blueberries driving down the street.
When the world trips me over, I’ll walk
on the other side, too. A beautiful image
pounces into the grass—though it’s not loneliness,
I gather it like ripe, juicy fruit.

Translated by the author and Robin Parmar