Alasdair MacKinnon 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 8 poems translated

from: السلوفانية to: الانجليزية

Original

Translation

Šest pogledov na dež

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

Cinija v cvetu, vlak,
ki je odpeljal naprej:
delo sobaric na balkonu.
Električni drog, jež,
ki je zlezel nanj:
palma ponoči. Bezgova
veja se je oblekla
v črnino. Potihem žari
vonj njenih socvetij. Pajek
v šipkovem cvetu, skrit
pred dežjem: ko ne bi bil
skrit, ga ne bi opazil.
Ponoči - škorci na reklamnem
napisu; veselo poje
nek davni otrok na nebu. Dež,
ki pada z neba, ogenj,
ki liže rob zvezde, en jaz,
ki lega na zemljo.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Drobne nespečnosti
Celovec & Dunaj: Mohorjeva založba, 1991
Audio production: Študentska založba

Zinnias in Bloom (Six Ways of Looking at the Rain)

الانجليزية

Zinnias in bloom; a train
moving on, departing: maids’
work on the balcony.
An electric pole – a hedgehog
trying to climb it: a palm tree
by night. The branch of an elder
bush dressing itself up in black.
The scent of its inflorescence
quietly glowing. Among the wild
rose petals a spider hiding from
the rain. Had it not gone into
hiding it would have stayed hidden.
Night gathers; the starlings flock
onto a sign-board: in the sky
a child from the long gone past
happily singing. Rain descends
from the heavens; fire licks the star
at the edges. One me coming down
to lie on the earth.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

[Vse, kar je neizbrisno]

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

Vse, kar je neizbrisno v travi – oči
gosenic, zvok zelišč bi rad
sestavil si v predstavi in na oko
pritisnil kot obliž.

Vse, kar je grenko, kar nikdar
ne ugasne, z okusom, ki ga vsak dan
obnovi in nam podarja kakor žarko
maslo okusa po sebi, svoj okus

zgubi, posrkan z usti, da se v grlu
slina bo kakor z znancem spet
s teboj sešla in zmes trpotca,
regrata, pelina spominjala bo spet

na naju dva. Bom to zdaj s tabo
pil? Ne kot zorenja žolč –
kelih, ki nam mimo gre: – kot naju,
naju, strup in sok življenja,

kot regrat, kot otroci, kot ljudje.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Izlet v naravo
Koper : Založba Lipa, 1990
Audio production: Študentska založba

[All Things that Grow Indelible in the Grass]

الانجليزية

All things that grow indelible in the grass –
cicada’s eyes, the sound of herbs,
I’d gather up to hold before my eyes
and press them to my lids like a cold compress.
 
All that is bitter, burning, sour-tasting
like rancid butter giving us each day
renewed taste of itself, no more the sweeter
taste of proper things – these all rot away –
 
I suck in my mouth’s saliva
until we meet, long known to my throat –
a mix of wormwood, plantain, dandelion
reminiscent of each of us and both.
 
Is this what we will taste of us?  Not bile
of growing ripe – a chalice I’d let pass –
of us, life’s juice and venom, of dandelion,
of children, people… but of us no less.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

Trideset

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

Na sveže posekan smrekov les
je sedel tisto nedeljsko popoldne.
Gozd je bil plav in od koles
mokro razrite poti komaj prehoden.
Srajca se je hrbta oprijela:
všeč mu je bil ta praznični hlad
in mir, ki ga je res prva sončna nedelja
prinašala v zakasnelo pomlad.
Pa ni bil le gozd. Čez hrib od Rašice,
v zrak, ki je odzvanjal od majskega dne,
je plaval med smrekami glas kukavice
kot srna skoz praprot, mimogrede.
Segel je v žep po cigareto.
Potipal vžigalice, če bi prižgal:
prisluhnil ... še enkrat – nič, kot zakleto;
njegov svet je za dolge trenutke obstal.
Gledal je v breg, ki pod snegom zavzeto
se je kakor v večnost vanj zastrmel,
in čakal, kdaj končno prižge cigareto,
prepričan, da kadar spet pride, bo štel.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Izlet v naravo
Koper: Založba Lipa, 1990
Audio production: Študentska založba

Thirty

الانجليزية

He sat on a timber of a young spruce cut down
on a Sunday afternoon: the woods still blue
and trails dug up by wheel-tracks all around
too wet for anybody to pass through.
He liked the shirt’s grip on his back, the dell
all quiet and the solemn cool of things
at ease which this first Sunday's sunny spell
has brought to the belated Spring.
It wasn’t all woods. From spruce over hill
flung in to the air resounding with May
a call of a cuckoo floated at will
like the doe through a fern-grass, not calling to stay.
He reached for a cigarette, tapping for matches
to light and to listen. He did listen. Until –
all at once there was nothing. The song came in patches,
he listened again, but his world went still.
He looked up the slope; from where snow kept its ground
it stared back at him, too deep for too long
for him to light up, sure next time around
he’ll keep score of the numbers in a song.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

Ribi, ki mi je ušla na prvi fašini

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

Mraz in prvi sunek teže, ki ti zveže
možgane v hipu slepega prebliska z vodo:
neznana ploska moč v globini, ki zapne
in lok zravna; zateg, ki do kosti zareže
v nekaj, kar po hrbtu švigne v tilnik
in čaka, kdaj na drugem koncu vztrepeta,

Začuti rep, upor plavuti, boka,
trmo gobca, njen poriv navzgor
ob kakor kamen trdo reko, staro kot
Alpe, sivo kot sviž. Blazen hip – – –
ne sreče, zmagoslavja in strahu
v nogah: nagon izkušnje, ki šele razloči
moj konec palice od drugega na drugem
koncu; se ruje s prodom, s soncem
ki se dviga v nizko jagned,
se upira dnevu, postaja noč, ki se vali
kot grušč po dnu čez svoj revir,

Kjer vsak izvir, vsak potok, drst vseh mren,
ki so se zlile vanjo, prepadi in tolmuni
nočne jage, preže prvih svitanj ...
nočejo, da jih kdo gleda. Ker to je njen svet,
zdaj razdeljen kot grunt od grunta,
v drug breg zadrt, a v isti hosti,
zataknjen v isti hrib, vsak v svojem
koncu, eno. In vleče za moj breg, moj travnik,
za lipo in kozolce v senu, prst od cerkve,
ki jo držim v rokah; za vrbe v vodi,
ki so se zbrale z voljo svojih
davnih korenin v to ribo.
Ki se obrne, trzne v dolga leta
deškega čakanja, ki ni več igra:
prihajanja – odhajanja – učenja ...
tihe groze razočaranj. Pričakovanj v prvem,
najstarejšem hipu človeka, v zadnjem
hipu reke. – – –
                         Vse to sem ujel nazaj
in bom potegnil ven, na prod,
da se nagledam, se dotaknem,
dotolčem s kamnom, vržem na svoj breg:

Odpreti te trenutke, streti glavo;
biti spet lahek, prost, na nič pribit,
sam zase. Oditi, poravnati lok
in svoj račun sam s sabo. In gledati,
kako kot rjav vlačilec, drseč
zapušča moje pristanišče in zapluje
na svoja nevarna, nedosegljiva pota,
kjer ni ničesar razen rib in rib.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Izlet v naravo
Koper: Založba Lipa, 1990
Audio production: Študentska založba

To Fish that Took Off With My Line

الانجليزية

The bite of morning chill like a blind flash,
the first thrust of his weight connects the brain
with water. A power, flat and deep, unknown
that grips the line and straightens the long arch.
A tightening that cuts into the bone
of something shooting up the neck, poised
for the feel of shiver at the other end –
 
feeling his tail, the drag of his fins, his running
sideways, a stubborn snout, its surge upwards
against the river-water, hard as rock,
sand-grey, as old as the Alps. A crazy moment –
not of one’s happiness – more one of triumph
and fear of loss creeping down my legs,
nothing but instinct telling me my end
of rod from the other at the other end,
wrestling with my pebbled stand, with the sun
surging upwards into the lower ranks of poplar,
resisting day becoming night that rolls
the boulders along the bottom of his realm.
 
Where each spring and each brook that ever flowed
into this fish, his every pool and pitfall
hate my seeing them: for this is his domain,
his world of strict divisions, split by boundaries
like farms hooked on to opposing slopes
making part of the same hill and woodland,
each at each other’s end, both one. He’s pulling
at my slope, my meadow, at my lime tree,
the hay-barns in the sun, pulling the ground
from underneath the church I’m holding in
my hands against him stuck in shallows
water willow trees that have gathered
by the will of their old roots into this fish.
 
Who turns, and turning snaps at hard won years
of boyish wait that are no more a play
of comings and goings, learning the quiet
horrors of disappointment. Of expectations
in the first moment of a grown up man,
in the last moment of the river. All these
I have caught back and will pull out to hammer
with stone and throw onto my shore.
To open up this moment, crush the head,
be free and light again – hooked onto nothing,
just me alone, myself; to leave the river bend,
roll up my line, straighten the arch and my
own reckoning with myself. And watch as he,
gliding an inch beneath the surface, brown
as a trawler, leaves the harbour and sails on
on his dangerous, unfathomable routes,
where there is nothing but all fish and fish.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

Pomeben obisk

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

admirala Nelsona in lady Hamilton leta 1800,
                         ob vrnitvi iz Eisenstadta,
                         od Haydnove maše št. 11 v d-molu (»Nelsonova«)

Spominjam se snežnega večera, ko so se pred
edino razsvetljeno stavbo v mestu, prenočiščem
z narisano pošastjo, ki se je imenovala Elefant,
a je po splošnem mnenju predstavljala Leviatana,
ustavile čudovite sani z grbom in je z njih izskočila
majhna zasnežena opica s turbanom in prižgano
baklo. Odprla je rdeča in pozlačena vratca, skozi
katera se je čez hip prikazala svilena noga v pojočih
čeveljcih pod hermelinsko obrobo temnega plašča.

Mnogi pomnijo, kako je na drugi strani njen lord
v opremljenem admiralskem klobuku, v tesno oprijetih
hlačah s škrlatno črto in črnimi lakastimi škornji
izstopil v cel sneg, prehitel nožico, tik preden se je ta
dotaknila stopnice, in ravno v trenutku, ko nam je
pomahala, v zaraku ujel tanko, orokavičeno roko,
jo za hip podržal in si jo nato pritisnil na srebrne prsi,
tako da se je med vratci prikazala sinja kučma
z biserom in obeljenim pavjim peresom, v kateri je
bilo mogoče opaziti glavo z rubinastimi ustnicami,
z zobmi iz alabastra in labodjim vratom.

Lord, ki je s petama in s komaj opaznim gibom
glave pozdravil posle in drugo osebje, ki se je vsulo
iz hotela (med njimi tudi nekatere v predpasnikih),
je še vedno čvrsto držal njeno roko v višini epolet,
medtem ko si je ona z drugo visoko pridvignila plašč,
da bi pogumno zakoračila v sneg. Toda konjarji
so poprijeli pri vpregi, po snegu so hiteli pogrinjat
iz glasbenega salona sposojene karminaste
perzijske preproge, pometat prag in stopnišče.

Odprla so se številna okna, dekle so pričele
stepat kovtre in celi grozdi radovednih gostov
so viseli z njih tako nizko, da jih je nekaj popadalo
na cesto. Ker je bilo snega na pretek, se nikomur
ni nič zgodilo. Zgodilo pa se je nekaj drugega.
Velikanski kit glavač (Physeter catodon)
ki se je na svoji poti v Veliko Sargaško morje
ustavil pred Tirom, je tik pred obalo izpljunil
na prod mene, mojega očeta in preroka Jono,
s katerima sem že od zgodnje jeseni v obokanih
kleteh te pošasti pripravljal trske za zimo.

Oboroženo z njimi, a za to priložnost pomočenimi
v katran in veselo prižganimi, se je hotelsko osebje
postavilo v špalir in na čelu z nenavadnim lakajem
pospremilo par do plesne dvorane v nadstropju, kjer so
jima uredili začasno sprejemnico. Rdečo snežno kočijo
sem kasneje pogosto hodil občudovat v mestni muzej,
kjer jo, po potresu spremenjeno v nekakšno votlo,
kot izžrt pergament prhko bučo, hranijo še danes,
medtem ko si je bilo kita mogoče ogledati v parku
pred univerzo šele sto oseminpetdeset let po dogodku.
Njun prihod so v gotici zabeležili v številnih cesarskih
časopisih, vendar v nobenem, ki bi ga znal brati.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Parniki v dežju
Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba, 1999
Audio production: Študentska založba

An Important Visit

الانجليزية

By Admiral Nelson and Lady Hamilton,
                        on their return from Haydn’s Mass
                        No. 11 in D minor at Eisenstadt in the year 1800.

I remember a snowy evening, when a wonderful sledge-coach
bearing a coat of arms stopped in front of the only illuminated
building in town – a hostelry displaying on its signboard
a painted monster called the Elephant, though in the general
opinion it was thought to represent Leviathan – and a monkey,
all covered in snow with a turban and a lighted torch,
hopped down from the seat. It opened the red and gilded door
of the carriage, through which emerged a silken foot
in singing shoes under the ermine lining of a dark coat.

Many recall how on the other side her Lord, in his plumed
admiral’s hat, with scarlet piping down the side of his
tight trousers and in black lacquered boots, stepped out
into virgin snow, overtaking her just as one of her small feet
was about to touch the step, and caught her tiny gloved hand
in the air as she waved to us, pressing it to his silver breast
so that in the carriage door appeared a blue fur hat with
a pearl and a white peacock feather under which one could see
a face with ruby lips, teeth of alabaster and a swan neck.

His Lordship, who by an almost indiscernible nod of his head
and by lightly clicking his heels saluted the servants and other
staff pouring out of the hotel (some of them still in their aprons),
was still firmly holding her hand level with his epaulette as
she with the other hand lifted her coat to brave the snow.  
But already the grooms were at hand to help with the horses
and gear, hurriedly laying down crimson Persian rugs borrowed
from the music salon, sweeping the doorstep and staircase.

Numerous windows were opening with maids beating dust
out of bed-quilts and with whole clusters of curious guests
hanging out of them, some of them toppling over into the street
below.  Since there was snow in abundance nothing much
happened and no one got hurt.  What did happen, however,
was something else.  A large sperm-whale (Physeter catodon),
making a stop at Tyre on its way to the Sargasso Sea, spewed
out onto the pebbled beach myself, my father and the prophet
Jonah, with whom I had been since early autumn splitting
logs in the vaults of the monster to make ready for winter.

Furnished with these, dipped in tar and happily lit up for
the occasion, the hotel personnel were lining the floors
for them and then, headed by his extraordinary flunkey,
escorted them upstairs to the dance hall, where a temporary
reception room was prepared for the pair. Later, I often went
to admire the red snow-coach in the Town Museum where,
changed after the earthquake into a kind of hollow mouldering
pumpkin as brittle as parchment, it is preserved to this day;
while as for the whale, it could be seen only when it was
exhibited in the University Park one hundred and fifty eight
years after the event. Their arrival was noted in gothic letters
in various imperial newspapers, but in none that I could read.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

Obžgan, okleščen, podrt

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

Pomisli,
od zdaj naprej bo dan
(za dnem) tekel dogodkoma:
vžigalnik na lepem
ne bo več vžgal.
Kave bo zmanjkalo.
Parker bo nehal pisati.
Kar je še ostalo v steklenici,
bo odteklo na tvoje zdravje:
nobene od tvojih stvari
mi ne bo treba vračat,
ker se bo vse porabilo kar samo:
tudi planeti in listje in perje in knjige,
tudi napolnjen papir, tudi ti.
Samo svoj obup bom ohranil zase.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Drobne nespečnosti
Celovec & Dunaj: Mohorjeva založba, 1991
Audio production: Študentska založba

Pruned, Lopped, Cut Down

الانجليزية

Think of it –
from now on our days
(one after another) will run on
eventfully. All of a sudden
my lighter won’t strike, the coffee
will run out, my Parker
won’t write, what was left
in the bottle, that too –
it will run out, cheers to you.
I’m giving back none of the things
you gave me. I’m running out of them
as it is: leaves, books, feathers, planets,
pages filled with your hand, even you.
Only my despair I keep for myself.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

O trdnosti mostov

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

O tem je mogoče reči naslednje: vsi grški mostovi so bili,
tako kot sumerska svetišča ali vodne ure v Egiptu, zgrajeni
po drugih zakonih mišljenja. Naknadno je bilo odkrito,
da se v nekaterih podrobnostih ujemajo s trenutno veljavnimi
izračuni za trdnost zgradb in mostov. Vendar je že vsaj
od Poincaréjevega nastopa na Faculté de sciences jasno,
da po nekdanjih zakonih danes kljub trudu bizantinskih
kardinalov, izročilom zidarskih lož, babilonskih, arabskih
in indijskih knjig ni mogoče zgraditi niti najbolj preproste brvi,
ki bi stala. Povsem druge predpostavke so obvladovale naravo.

Zvezde, ki so žarele, in planeti, ki so sijali v prejšnjih sistemih,
krogle, ki so se kotalile, leta, ki so tekla in ljudstva, ki so bežala,
bi se po zdajšnjih izkušnjah neizpodbitno vdrli v središča galaksij,
če bi veljala nekoč že izračunana razmerja sil (Lemaître, 1927).
Narava računstva se je za razliko od glasbe, poezije, šaha itd.
spremenila v celoti. Triumfalne podvige mehanike je razsejal
veter, o prejšnjem redu stvari ni mogoče reči ničesar, razen da je bil,
če sodimo po fiziki, ki je trenutno v veljavi, od začetka do konca
zgrešen in da mnogi dvomijo, ali je sploh obstajal. Videti je, da
naše védenje sledi spremembam naravnih zakonitosti z natančnostjo

algebrajskega zaporedja, ki se z domnevnim konstantnim zamikom
prilagaja opaženemu (Tomamori – Nakajama, 1958). Vendar pa so
tudi tu izračuni dosledno napačni celo v najbolj pomembnih
podrobnostih in hkrati podvrženi spremembam metodologij, ki prav
tako temeljijo na zmeraj novih napakah (Cavendish, Hill et al. 1981).
Tako si je mogoče predstavljati, drugega ob drugemu, a časovno
oddaljena, dva identična mostova z enako nihajno frekvenco, ki ju
podre v globino povsem različen korak dveh legij, ki sta se napotili
čeznju. Ena, ki prihaja, in ena, ki je odšla. (Blue Superior, 1996)

© Marjan Strojan
from: Parniki v dežju
Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba, 1999
Audio production: Študentska založba

On the Stability of Bridges

الانجليزية

The following must be said on the subject. Greek
bridges – as well as Sumerian temples and the water-
clocks of Egypt – were, in comparison, constructed
to accord with entirely different principles of thought.  
Subsequently, it was found out that they agree in some
detail with the currently valid calculations laid down
for the soundness of buildings and bridges. But it has
also long since became clear – and from Poincarée’s
lectures at Faculté de sciences at the latest – that today,
despite all the exertions of Byzantine cardinals,
Masonic traditions and the expertise of Babylonian,
Arabian and Indian books, we have no way to construe
even the simplest of gangways to comply with
the pristine laws of construction. Another set of rules

then governed the nature. According to our present-day
experience, the shimmering stars and the planets shining
all through the past systems, their rolling of balls,
their running of years and the fleeing of their peoples,
would have sunk to the hub of the galaxies if their
previously calculated ratio of forces had prevailed
(Lamaître, 1927). In contrast with music, poetry, chess, etc.
the nature of calculus has changed beyond recognition.
Triumphal achievements of mechanics have been thrown
into the wind. Nothing much can be said for the one-time
order of things except that it was, judging by the physics
of the day, completely beside the point and that many

even doubt its existence. It seems that our learning follows
the evolution of the natural laws with the precision of an
algebraic sequence modified by the conjectured constant
of deferral to the observed fact (Tomamori – Nakayama,
1958). But even here the calculations are consistently at odds
with many of the all-important details, and at the same time
subjected to methodological shifts, spawning time and again
self-generating mistakes (Cavendish, Hill et al., 1981).
So we can conceive of the two identical bridges, remote
in time but standing close by each other and sharing
the same oscillating frequency, being pounded into the depths
by the different pace of two marching legions: an incoming one
and one other which has already left (Blue Superior, 1996).

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon

Ko vračam knjigo v knjižnico

السلوفانية | Marjan Strojan

Bom kratek. Dnevi me vedno presenetijo, zato,
ko vračam knjigo v knjižnico, to ne pomeni,
da sem jo prebral ali da je nisem pripravljen
več brati. Pomeni samo, da je kljub podaljšanju
zame rok njene uporabe potekel, da so se časi
in kraji in silne usode ljudi, skupaj z znanjem
najrazličnejših šol, ustanov, tajnih krožkov
in spisov vseh dob, zbrani na njenih straneh,
urejeni po poglavjih ali po abecednem redu,
zaklenili za vrati nepreglednih dvoran ter odvrgli
ključe kot regrat semena. Za njimi nedvomno
po hodnikih cerebralnega Hada pletejo dalje svoja
življenja, neodvisna od tistih, ki jih v razsejanih
prebliskih, v preslišanih stavkih po drobcih včasih
spet najdem odškrnjena, čeprav zelo nepopolno.
Tako v pajčevinah santpetersburške postaje
(in v snegu) še vedno čaka gospa Karenina,
da se vrže pod vlak, in najbrž ne bom nikdar izvedel,
kaj bi tisti hip lahko storil Vronski, če sploh kaj.
Tatjana ni dokončala svojega pisma, čeprav vem,
da v njem pesnika, ki si je prej nekoč davno

z drobno pisavo v zvežčič beležil imena ljubimk,
gotovo zavrne. In doktor Rieux – celo on,
kaj navsezadnje, ko je nevarnost minila, reče
pisatelju, katerega hitre gospe drdrajo v kočijah
po bulonjskem gozdu, če je seveda preživel?
Je to pomebno? Ne vem, vzemimo knjigo,
ki sem jo vrnil to popoldne: povsem mi je ušlo,
kdo jo je spisal; ne spomnim se več niti
njegovega srednjega imena, ki je vendar

tako zelo znano. Droben izbor, kakor prizori
renesančne arhitekture v precizni, zgoščeni
svetlobi, s trikotniki in elegantnim stopniščem
v barvi soli. Bila je knjiga pesmi, ki se zdaj,
ko sem jih pozabil, zdijo še boljše, stisnjene
v jezik nedoločenega, trdega prevoda,
ki odpira čisto nove možnosti vsaki v dve ostri
polovici zganjenih metafor kot steber in konj.
Nekaj osvajalskega je bilo v njih, zmagovitega
v oddaljenih krajih, kot poteg meča iz nožnice:
                 Vincente Cortázar Paladio.

© Marjan Strojan
from: Parniki v dežju
Ljubljana: Cankarjeva založba, 1999
Audio production: Študentska založba

On Returning a Book to a Public Library

الانجليزية

I make this short. Days always surprise me,
so when I’m returning a book to a library
it doesn’t mean I have finished it or had no
intention of reading it on. It only means that
despite of its extension the library lease had
expired and that the times and places and
the extravagant fortunes of men together
with the traditions of various schools and
institutions of knowledge, secret societies
and writings of all ages, collected and arranged

into chapters or classified according to their
alphabetical order, had found themselves
locked behind doors of inscrutable hallways,
the keys flung as liberally away as if they
were seeds of dandelion. No doubt they go on
along the corridors of some cerebral Hades
weaving their lives, quite independent of those
which time and again I capture in my
scattered glimpses or overhear in pieces of
fragmented conversation, however inadequate.

So, in the cobwebs of Sanct-Petersburg’s
Railway Station (in snow) still waits Madame
Karenina to throw herself under a train,
and I’ll probably never find out what Vronsky
could do at the time, if anything. Tatiana had
never finished her letter, though I presume
that she had turned down the poet, who ages
ago had been scribbling into his notebook
in his small neat hand the names of his lovers.  
And Doctor Rieux, even he – what did he,

after the danger has passed, say to a writer
whose fast-travelling ladies clatter around
Bois de Boulogne in their carriages– if, indeed,
he survived the ordeal? Is this important?
I don’t know; take the book I was bringing
back this afternoon. I can’t for the sake of me
remember who wrote it; even his middle name,
a common and well known one, evades me
completely. A tiny collection of verse, like
scenes of renaissance architecture of triangles

and elegant stairways in precise, condensed light
of the colour of salt. It was a book of poems,
which now, when forgotten, seem even better,
compact in the language of its vague, unruly
translation, opening new and unexpected prospects
to each of its metaphors – sharp and twofold –
like pillars and horse. There was an air of something
conquering, something victorious in far away
places about them, like a clang of a sword drawn
from a scabbard: Vincente Cortázar Paladio.

translated by Alasdair MacKinnon