Jure Novak 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 10 poems translated

from: anglais to: slovène

Original

Translation

Wild Thing

anglais | Sapphire

And I´m running,
running wild,
running free,
like soldiers down
the beach,
like someone
just threw me
the ball.
My thighs pump
thru the air
like tires
rolling down
the highway
big & round
eating up the ground
of America
but I never been any
further than 42nd Street.
Below that is as
unfamiliar as my
father´s face,
foreign as the smell of
white girls´pussy,
white girls on the bus,
white girls on TV
My whole world is
black & brown & closed,
till I open it
with a rock,
christen it with
blood.
BOP BOP
the music
pops thru me
like electric shocks,
my sweat is a
river running
thru my liver
green with hate,
my veins bulge out
like tomorrow,
my dick is
the Empire State Building,
I eat your fear
like a chimpanzee
ow ow
ow whee
ow!
My sneakers glide off
the cement like
white dreams
looking out at the world
thru a cage of cabbage
& my mother´s fat,
hollering don´t do this
& don´t do that.
I scream against the restraint
of her big ass sitting on my face
drowning my dreams in sameness.
I´m scared to go
it hurts me to stay.
She sits cross-legged
in front the TV
telling me no
feeding me
clothing me
bathing me in her ugliness
high high in the sky
18th floor of the projects.
Her welfare check buys me $85 sneakers
but can´t buy me a father.
She makes cornbread from Jiffy box mix
buys me a coat
$400, leather like everybody else´s.
I wear the best, man!
14 karat gold chain
I take off before I go wildin´.
Fuck you nigger!
Nobody touches my gold!
My name is Leroy
L-E-R-O-Y
bold gold
I got the goods
that make the ladies
young & old
sign your name across my heart
I want you to be my baby

Rapper D
Rapper G
Rapper I
my name is lightning
across the sky
So what I can´t read
you spozed to teach me
you the teacher
I´m the ape
black ape
in white sneakers
hah hah
I rape
rape
rape
I do the wild thing
I do the wild thing
My teacher asks me
what would I do
if I had 6 month
to live.
I tell her I´d fuck her,
sell dope & do the wild thing.
My thighs are locomotives
hurling me thru the
underbrush of Central Park,
the jungle.
I either wanna be a cop
or the biggest dope dealer in Harlem
when I grow up.
I feel good!
It´s a man´s world,
my sound is king
I am the black man´s sound.
Get off my face whining bitch!
No, I didn´t go to school today
& I ain´t going tomorrow!
I like how the sky looks
when I´m running,
my clothes are new & shiny,
my tooth gleams gold.
I´m fast as a wolf
I need a rabbit,
the sky is falling
calling my name
Leroy Leroy.
I look up
blood bust
in my throat
it´s my homeboys
L.D., C.K. & Beanbutt!
Hey man what´s up!
I got the moon
in my throat,
I remember when
Christ sucked my dick
behind the pulpit,
I was 6 years old
he made me promise
not to tell no one.
I eat cornbread &
collard greens.
I only wear Adidas
I´m my own man,
they can wear New Balance or Nike
if they want,
I wear Adidas.
I´m L.D.
lover
mover
man with the money
all the girls know me.
I´m classified as mildly retarded
but I´m not
least I don´t think
I am.
Special Education classes
eat up my brain
like last week´s greens
rotting in plastic containers.
My mother never
throws away anything.
I could kill her
I could kill her
all those years
all those years
I sat
I sat in classes
for the mentally retarded
so she could get
the extra money welfare gives
for retarded kids.
So she could get
some money,
some motherfuckin´ money.
That bitch
that bitch
I could kill her
all the years
I sat next to kids
who shitted on themselves,
dreaming amid
rooms of dull eyes
that one day
my rhymes
would break open
the sky
& my name would
be written
across the marquee
at the Apollo
in bold gold
me bigger
than Run DMC
Rapper G
Rapper O
Rapper Me
„Let´s go!“ I scream.
My dick is a locomotive
my sister eats like a 50 ¢ hot dog.
I scream, „I said let´s go!“
„It´s 40 of us
a black wall of sin.
The god of our fathers
descends down & blesses us,
I say thank you Jesus.
Now let´s do the
wild thing.
I pop off the cement
like toast outta toaster
hot hard crumbling
running
running
the park is green
combat operation
lost soul
looking for Lt. Calley
Jim Jones
anybody who could direct
this spurt of semen
rising to the sky.
soldiers
flying thru
the rhythm
„Aw man!
nigger please
nigger
nigger
nigger.
I know
who I am.“
My soul sinks
to its knees &
howls under the
moon rising full,
„Let´s get a female jogger!“
I shout into the twilight
looking at the
middle-class thighs
pumping past me,
cadres of bitches
who deserve to die
for thinking they´re better
than me
You ain´t better than
nobody bitch.
The rock begs my hand
to hold it.
It says, „Come on man.“
T.W., Pit Bull, J.D. & me
grab the bitch
ugly big nose white bitch
but she´s beautiful cause she´s white
she´s beautiful cause she´s skinny
she´s beautiful couse she´s gonna die
cause her daddy´s gonna cry
Bitch!
I bring the rock down
on her head
sounds dull & flat
like the time I busted
the kitten´s head.
The blood is real & red
my dick rises.
I tear off her bra
feel her perfect pink breasts
like Brooke Shields
like bitches in Playboy
Shit! I come all over myself!
I bring the rock down
the sound has rhythm
hip hop ain´t gonna stop
till your face sees
what I see every day
walls of blood
walls of blood
she´s wriggeling like
a pig in the mud.
I never seen a pig
or a cow
´cept on TV.
Her nipples are like
hard strawberries
my mouth tastes
like pesticide.
I fart.
Yosef slams her
across the face with a pipe.
My dick won´t get
hard no more.
I bring the rock down
removing what she
looks like forever
ugly bitch
ugly bitch
I get up
blood on my hands
semen in my jeans
the sky is black
the trees are green
I feel good baby
I just did
the wild thing!

© 1994 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: American Dreams
New York/London: High Risk Books, 1994
ISBN: 1-85242-327-7
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Divja zver

slovène

In tečem,
divje tečem,
prosto tečem,
kot vojaki
na obali,
kot da mi je
kdo ravno
vrgel žogo.
Stegna mečem
skozi zrak
kot gume
kotaleče se
po avtocesti
veliki, okrogli
ki žrejo tla
Amerike
a še nikoli nisem šel
dlje od 42. ulice.
Naprej mi je tako
neznano kot
očetov obraz,
tuje kot vonj
pičk belih pičk,
bele pičke na busu,
bele pičke na TVju.
Cel moj svet je
črn, rjav, zaprt,
dokler ga ne odprem
s kamnom,
krstim
s krvjo.
BOP BOP
glasba me
preveva kot
elektrošoki,
moj pot je
reka, ki teče
skozi jetra
zelena od sovraštva,
vene mi štrlijo
kot jutri,
moj kurac je
Empire State Building,
jem tvoj strah
kot šimpanz
oj, oj
ni šans
oj!
Moje superge drsijo kot
cement kot
bele sanje
ki gledajo na svet
skoz kletke smeti
in moja mama je debela
in kriči ne tega delat
in ne tistega delat.
Jaz kričim proti okovom
njene debele riti ki mi sedi na obrazu
utaplja moja sanje v enakem.
Strah me je iti,
boli me, ko ostanem.
Po turško sedi
pred TVjem
prepoveduje,
hrani me,
oblači,
kopa v svoji grdoti
visoko visoko na nebu
18. nadstropje socialnih blokov.
Njen ček za podporo mi kupi superge za 85$
ampak očeta ne more kupit.
Dela mi kruh v mikrovalovki
kupi mi plašč
400$, kot jih imajo vsi ostali.
Samo najboljše nosim, stari!
14 karatno zlato ketno,
ki jo snamem preden grem žurat.
Jebi se niger!
Noben se ne dotika mojega zlata!
Ime mi je Leroy.
L-E-R-O-Y
zato zlato
zgledam tako,
da damice,
mlade in stare
pojejo svoje čez moje srce,
hočejo me.
Reper Daj
Reper Glas
Reper Jaz
Moje ime je strela
čez nebo.
Pa kaj če nisem pismen
Vi bi me moral naučit.
Vi ste učitelj
Jest sem opica
črna opica
v belih supergih
ha ha
posiljujem
posiljujem
posiljujem
Jaz sem divja zver
Jaz sem divja zver
Učiteljica me vpraša
kaj bi naredil
če bi živel
samo 6 mesecev.
Povem ji, da bi jo pofukal,
prodajal drogo in bil divja zver.
Moja stegna so lokomotive
ki me poganjajo
skoz grmovje Central Parka
to džunglo.
Hočem biti ali policaj
ali pa največji diler v Harlemu
ko zrastem.
Dober občutek!
Moški svet je
moj zvok je car
Jaz sem zvok črncev.
Zgini mi spred oči, prasica tečna!
Ne danes nisem šel v šolo
in jutri tudi ne grem
Všeč mi je, kako zgleda nebo
ko tečem
Moje obleke so nove in svetleče
Zobje se mi zlato svetlikajo
Hiter sem kot volk,
rabim zajca
nebo pada
in me kliče
Leroy Leroy.
Pogledam gor
kri mi zastane v grlu
to so naši fantje
L.D., C.K. in Ritonja!
Ej stari, kaj je zdej!
V grlu imam luno
Spomnim se ko
mi ga je Krist fafal
za prižnico,
6 let sem bil star
moral sem obljubit
da ne bom nikomur povedal.
Jem kruh
in zelenjavo.
Nosim samo Adidas
sem sam svoj človek,
Ostali lahko nosijo New Balance ali Nike
če hočejo,
jaz nosim Adidas.
Jaz sem L.D.
jebač
frajer
tip s kešom
vse pičke me poznajo
Označili so me za zaostalega
ampak nisem
vsaj mislim
da nisem.
Pouk za posebne potrebe
mi žre možgane
kot zelenjava od prejšnjega tedna
gnije v plastičnih posodah.
Moja mama nikoli ničesar
ne vrže stran.
Lahko bi jo ubil
lahko bi jo ubil
vsa ta leta
vsa ta leta
sem sedel
sem sedel v razredih
za umsko zaostale
da bi lahko ona dobila
več denarja od socialne
ki ga dajejo
za zaostale mulce.
Da bi lahko dobila
denar
nekaj kurčevega denarja.
Prasica
prasica
lahko bi jo ubil
vsa ta leta
sem sedel zraven mulcev
ki se poserjejo
sanjal v sobi
med topimi očmi
da bodo enkrat
moje rime
odprle
nebo
in bo mojo ime
napisano
nad vhodom
Apolla
v zlatih črkah
jaz večji
kot Run DMC
Reper Glej
Reper Obraz
Reper Jaz.
 »Gremo!« kričim,
moj kurac je kot lokomotiva
ki jo golta moja sestra kot hot dog za 50 centov
Kričim »rekel sem gremo!«
40 nas je
črn zid grega
Bog naših očetov
se spusti in nas blagoslovi
rečem Hvala Jezus
In zdaj bom spet
divja zver.
Skočim iz asfalta
kot toast iz toasterja
vroč trd krhek
tečem
tečem
park je zelen
vojna operacija
izgubljena duša
išče poročnika Calleya
Jim Jones
kdorkoli ki zna
špric sperme
usmerit v nebo
vojaki
letijo mimo
skozi ritem
 »Dej no!
vniger prosim
niger
niger
niger.
Vem
kdo sem.«
Duša mi pade
na kolena in
zavija pod
polno luno, ki se dviga.
 »Dejmo eno džogerko!«
Zakričim v polmrak
in gledam
srednjerazredna stegna
ki pumpajo mimo
horde prasic
ki si zaslužijo smrt
ker mislijo, da vejo več
kot jaz.
Ti nisi boljša
od nikogar prasica!
Kamen kar prosi mojo roko,
da ga primem.
Reče »Daj, stari!«
T.W., Pitbul, J.D. in jaz
zgrabimo prasico
belo prasico z grdim nosom
ampak je lepa, ker je bila
lepa ker je suha,
lepa ker bo umrla
ker bo njen stari jokal
Prasica!
S kamnom jo udarim
v glavo,
top zvok
kot takrat ko sem
mački razbil glavo
Kri je zares in rdeča
kurac mi nabrekne
Odtrgam ji modrc
Pošlatam njene popolne roza joške
kot Brooke Shields
kot prasice iz Playboya.
Drek! Pride mi!
Spet jo udarim s skalo
zvok ima ritem
hip hop – ne bo še stop
dokler tvoja faca ne vidi
kar jaz vidim vsak dan
zidove krvi
zidove krvi
zvira se kot
prašič v blatu
Nikoli še nisem videl prašiča
ali krave
Razen na TVju.
Njene bradavičke so kot
trde maline
moja usta imajo okus
po pesticidu.
Prdnem.
Yosef jo udari čez gobec s cevjo.
Moj kurac noče več vstat.
Tolčem jo s kamnom
odstranim kako zgleda
za vedno
grda prasica
grda prasica
Vstanem
kri na rokah,
sperma v hlačah,
nebo je črno
drevesa so zelena
počutje odlično
ravnokar sem bil
divja zver!

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

Today

anglais | Sapphire

Today is the day you have been waiting for
when you would finally begin to live
when you would at last open the door

This is the what, the circumstance, the more
you have been withholding, saving to give.
Today is the day you have been waiting for

when you could sit down to your desk for
hours, take pride, time, find out what work is,
when you would at last open the door

to your own self-development, what god has for
you. Today is the day you come out of prison, live.
Today is the day you’ve been waiting for

the tomorrow you pined away yesterday for.
I think love rhymes in a way with give.
You at last open the door

to the possibility of now, the core
of life is the moment, now, how you live.
Today is the day I have been waiting for
when you would at last open the door

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Danes

slovène

Danes je dan, ki si ga čakal,
ko lahko končno pričneš živeti,
končno odpreš vrata.

To je zdaj to, okoliščina, več
ki si ga hranil, da bi ga dal.
Danes je dan, ki si ga čakal

ko boš lahko sedel za mizo cele
ure, užival, si vzel čas, priučil dela
končno odpreš vrata

lastnemu samorazvoju, odkriješ kaj ti je namenil
bog. Danes je dan, ko prideš iz zapora, živet.
Danes je dan, ki si ga čakal

tisti jutri, za katerim si včeraj koprnel.
Mislim, da se ljubim nekako rima z dam.
Končno odpreš vrata

možn osti sedanjega, jedro
življenja je trenutek, zdaj, kako živiš.
Danes je dan, ki si ga čakal,
končno odpreš vrata.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

Some Different Kinda Books

anglais | Sapphire

I

She asks why we always
read books about black people.
(I spare her the news she is black.)
She wants something different.
Her own book is written in pencil.
She painstakingly goes back & corrects
the misspelled words.
We write each day.
Each day the words look like
a retarded hand from Mars
wrote them.
Each day she asks me how
do you spell: didn´t, tomorrow, done
husband, son, learning, went, gone . . .
I can´t think of all the words she can´t spell.
It´s easier to think of what she can spell:
MY NAME IS CARMEN LOPEZ.
I am sorry I was out teacher.
My husband was sick.
You know I never miss school.
In that other program
I wasn´t learning nothing.
Here I´m learning so I come.
What´s wrong with my husband?
I don´t know. He´s in the hospital. He´s real sick.
I was almost out the room
when I hear the nurse ask him,
Do you do drugs?
He says yes.
I say what!
I don´t know nuthin´´bout no drugs.
I´m going off in the hospital.
He´s sick.
I´m mad.
Nobody tells you nuthin´!
I didn´t hear that nurse
I wouldn´t know
nuthin´.
Huh?
Condoms? No teacher.
He´s my husband.
I never been with another man.

        II

I think he got AIDS
he still don´t tell me.
I did teacher. I tried
to read the chart at the hospital
but I couldn´t figure out those words.
Doctor don´t say, he say privacy.
The nurse tell me.
She´s Puerto Rican. She say your husband
got AIDS.
I go off in the hospital.
Nobody tells me nuthin´.
He come home.
He say it´s not true,
he´s fine.
He´s so skinny without his clothes
he try to hide hisself nekkid
don´t want me to look.
I say you got to use
one of those things.
He say nuthin´s wrong
with him.


           III

He stop sayin´ that.
Now he just say hes gonna die
all the time
all the time
dying.
I say STOP that talk,
the doctor say you could
live a long time
my sister-in-law say,
he got it so you got it
it´s like that.
I say, I don´t got it,
my kids don´t got it either.
Teacher, I need a letter for welfare
that I´m coming to school
on a regular basis.

       IV

He´s in P.R.,
before that he started messing around
again.
Over the Christmas holidays
he died.
That´s where I was at
in P.R.
I´m fine. Yeah, I´m sure teacher.
What do I wanna do teacher?
I just wanna read some different
kinda books.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Drugačne knjige

slovène

I.

Vpraša zakaj zmerom
beremo knjige o črnih ljudeh.
 (prihranim ji dejstvo, da je črna.)
Nekaj drugačnega hoče.
Njena knjiga je napisana s svinčnikom.
Pregleda in natančno popravi
narobe črkovane besede.
Vsak dan piševa.
Vsak dan besede izgledajo kot da
jih je napisala
retardirana roka marsovca.
Vsak dan me vpraša
kako črkuješ: nisem, jutri, konec
mož, sin, učiti, šla, šel...
Ne morem se spomniti vseh besed, ki jih ne zna črkovati
Lažje se spomnim tistih, ki jih zna:
IME MI JE CARMEN LOPEZ.
Se opravičujem, da se manjkala, turšica.
Moj mož je bil bolan.
Saj veste, da nikoli ne manjkam.
V tistem drugem programu
se nisem ničesar naučila.
Tukaj se in zato pridem.
Kaj je narobe z mojim možem?
Ne vem. V bolnici je. Resno bolan.
Skoraj sem že odšla
ko slišim sestro, ki vpraša
se drogirate?
On reče ja.
Jaz rečem kaj!
Nič ne vem o kakšnih drogah.
Besnim v bolnici.
On je bolan.
Jaz sem besna.
Nihče ti nič ne pove.
Če ne bi slišala sestre
ne bi vedela
nič.
Kaj?
Kondomi? Ne turšica.
Moj mož je.
Z nikomer drugim še nisem spala.

II.

Mislim, da ima AIDS
še vedno mi ne pove.
Saj sem turšica. Poskusila
sem prebrat karton v bolnici
pa nisem razumela besed.
Doktor mi ne pove, zasebnost pravi
Sestra mi pove.
Iz Puerto Rica je. Pravi vaš mož
ma AIDS.
Besnim v bolnici.
Nobeden mi nič ne pove.
Pride domov.
Pravi da ni res,
da je z njim vse v redu.
Suh je brez obleke
hoče se skrit, ko je nag
noče da ga vidim.
Pravim moraš natanknit
eno tisto reč.
Pravi da ni nič
narobe z njim.

III.

Ne pravi več tega.
Zdaj pravi, da bo umrl
ves čas
ves čas
umira.
Pravim NEHAJ s tem,
doktor je rekel da lahko
še dolgo živiš
moja svakinja pravi
on ima zato imaš tudi ti
tako je s tem.
Pravim, nimam,
tudi moji otroci nimajo.
Turšica, rabim pismo za zavod,
da redno prihajam
v šolo.

IV.

V vežici je,
pred tem ga je začel spet srat
naokrog.
Čez božične praznike
je umrl.
Tam sem bila,
v vežici.
V redu sem, ja turšica, res sem v redu.
Kaj jaz hočem?
Rada bi brala
drugačne knjige.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

Sestina

anglais | Sapphire

Last night after school I finally got around
to looking at the formula for a sestina
& thought of Crazy Horse dancing in the desert
& I asked, Is god gonna appear here?
I want god
      a blue light so dark
it stains everything for centuries
radiative hallucinatory rood smelling
like urine & frankincense.
One hip has always been higher
one breast longer
& my thighs & belly at midlife,
like stupid teenagers
are totally out of control
like Billie
& Bessie or diamond black Big Maybelle
bawdy ballad red
dirt
rooster
throat cut in the sign of the cross
sodomized with a black cat bone
full moon
crossed with lye
road sign turned around
early death
gun shot
untreated
TB
HIV
roach wings floating
in the semi circular canal
(a white boy in the workshop, hip downtown grunge, shaves his
prematurely bald head, tattoos [you know, the whole bit], wonders
aloud if roaches get in poor people’s ears when they sleep)
A girl says, Yeah, yeah they do, running like roads
out of nowhere, out of lines, & I fall back twenty-five years
before most of them were born & I whisper to Chris:
It didn’t make any difference which side of the line you were on,
did it? When the wheel hit that dip & the motorcycle flipped
in the air in the light of a cervical vertebra
snapped in infinitum electrons spinning like wheels
around a dying nucleus of light scurrying
under cracks in some linoleum in Queens
& sometimes under the concrete the city is walking on
I see the cotton fields my daddy ran away from;
& his face, the love pulls me like an eclipse
to the worn envelope of poems I found in his drawer
when he died—
lines crossed in gasoline, burning.
& you know those ol’ niggers back then
had about as much a chance of making it
as butterflies at Auschwitz.
Is that why he did it?

Now time is a light dimming as it burns brighter
turning me toward the dark then the light again. I hope.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Sekstina

slovène

Zadnjič po šoli sem si končno
ogledala formulo za sekstino
in pomislila na Norega Konja, plešočega v puščavi
in se vprašala, če se bo pojavil bog.
Hočem boga,
  plavo luč, tako temno
da vse zamaže za stoletja
radioaktivno halucinogeno razpelo, smrdeče
po urinu in kadilu.
En bok je že ves čas višji,
ene prsi daljše
moja stegna in trebuh na sredi življenja,
so kot neumni najstniki
povsem izven nadzora
kot Billie
in Bessie ali diamantno črna Big Maybelle
bahavo baladno rdeča
prst
petelin
prerezan goltanec v imenu križa
sodomiziran s kostjo črne mačke
polna luna
prekrižan z lugom
obrnjen cestni znak
zgodnja smrt
strel
brez pomoči
TB
HIV
ščurkova krila plujejo
po polkrožnem kanalu
 (bel fant v delavnici, kul mestni grandžer, z obrito,
prezgodaj plešasto glavo, tatuji [saj razumete, celotna slika pač], se
glasno sprašuje, če ščurki lezejo v ušesa revnih, ko spijo)
Neka punca reče, Ja, ja seveda lezejo, tečejo kot ceste
od nikoder, iz črt, jaz pa padem nazaj za petindvajset let,
nekam preden jih je bila večina rojenih in šepetam Chrisu:
Vseeno je bilo na kateri strani črte si bil,
ne? Ko je kolo padlo v jarek in se je motor obrnil
v zraku na luči in je počilo vratno
vretence v neskončnih elektronih vrtečih se kot kolesa
okrog umirajočega jedra svetlobe
bežeče v razpoke nekega linoleja v Queensu,
ki včasih pod betonom mesta hodi še naprej.
Vidim bombažna polja s katerih je pobegnil moj očka,
njegov obraz, ljubezen me pritegne kot eklipsa
k zrabljeni ovojnici pesmi, ki sem jih našla v njegovem predalu
ko je umrl
vrste zarisane v bencinu, goreče.
In veš da stari nigri takrat davno
niso imeli niti toliko šans, da preživijo
kot metulji v Auschwitzu.
Je zato to storil?

Zdaj je čas luč, ki ugaša in se prižiga
me obrača k temi in nazaj k svetlobi. Upam.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak


Ghosts

anglais | Sapphire

There are thirteen windows in this room.
I see the tops of trees and sky, my parents
run thru my mind; my father
scurrying like a mouse. My mother is sitting. Why have I come
here, and what do their ghosts
want with me. I know I’m not writing poetry

but trying to build a bridge back to poetry.
I will go home to a hot stuffy room.
I have lived with their ghosts.
The black haired mother, her parents
on her back. We had, all but one, come
to bury her twelve years ago. My father

died at seventy-five, a stroke, my father
myself? Or me, myself—where is poetry,
the feeling I used to have, will it come
in the middle of exercises? Finally I have a room
with windows. Finally my parents
are dead, are ghosts.

How they beat me, left me, laughed at me, are ghosts.
I see him frozen, hurrying, in a picture, my father.
I seldom saw my parents
together. My mother never mentioned my father’s poetry.
I found it after he died. I was in his room
before his funeral. I had come

from New York to bury this father, come
to throw dirt on the recovered ghosts
of memory, willing to believe as I lay down in his room
I was a liar. Then my sister says, my father
got her while she was in diapers. In his poetry
he talks of sunsets and doesn’t mention his parents.

My mother said he was ashamed of his parents.
When it is my time who will come?
I have no children except this poetry that isn’t poetry.
Our father’s penis is the ghost
we suck in our dreams. Still I miss that father,
raise him from photographs to come sit in my room.

Here at the writers‘ colony I attempt poetry in a room.
I see my mother and father at the top of the sky. My parents
have come here, home, to help me, ghosts.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Duhovi

slovène

V tej sobi je trinajst oken.
Vidim vrhove dreves in neba, moja starša
mi gresta po glavi; oče
drobenclja kot miš. Mama sedi. Zakaj sem prišla
sem in kaj hočeta njuna duhova
od mene. Vem, da ne pišem poezije

temveč gradim most nazaj k poeziji.
Domov bom šla v vročo tesno sobico.
Z njunima duhovoma živim.
Mama črnih las, njena starša
na njenem hrbtu. Vsi razen enega smo prišli,
pred dvanajstimi leti, da jo pokopljemo. Moj oče

je umrl pri petinsedemdesetih, kap, moj oče
jaz sama. Ali jaz, mene, kje je poezija,
občutek, ki sem ga imela, bo prišel
med vajami? Končno imam sobo
z okni. Končno sta moja starša
mrtva, duhova.

Kako sta me tepla, zapustila, se mi smejala, sta duhova.
Vidim ga zamrznjenega, v naglici, na sliki, mojega očeta.
Redko sem videla svoja starša
skupaj. Mama ni nikoli omenjala očetove poezije.
Našla sem jo, ko je umrl. Pred pogrebom sem bila
v njegovi sobi. Prišla sem

iz New Yorka, da ga pokopljem, prišla vreč
zemljo na okrevane duhove
spominov, pripravljena verjeti, ko sem legla v njegovi sobi,
da sem lažnivka. Potem sestra pravi, da jo je oče dobil
ko je bila v plenicah. V svoji poeziji
govori o sončnih zahodih in svojih staršev ne omenja.

Mama pravi, da se jih je sramoval.
Kdaj je moj čas, kdo pride?
Nimam otrok, razen te poezije, ki ni poezija.
Penis našega očeta je duh,
ki ga vlečemo v sanjah. Vseeno pogrešam tega očeta
dvigam ga s fotografij, da pride sedet v mojo sobo.

V pisateljski koloniji poskušam poezijo v sobi.
Mamo in očeta vidim na vrhu neba. Moja starša
sta prišla sem, domov, da mi pomagata, duhova.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

Found Poem

anglais | Sapphire

„The dead,“ the doctor says, „are speaking to us.“

some skeletons will be enclosed in a glass case
inside the church as a permanent reminder

the doctors move quietly through the church in nylon
surgical suits and masks. They have set up an X-ray
tabel powered by a generator in a corner of the church.
and behind the building in a tent, a modern autopsy room
     with three operating tables.
inside the chapel the bodies are laid out between pews
     each in a numbered bag.

the killers worked at close range with machetes and clubs.
„You had to be looking the person in the eye, basically,
   to do it.“

the bones tell a violent history of their last moments

a few had their Achilles tendons cut

#467, a young man, about 20 years old
his left hand is cut across the kunckles
another machete blow
drove deep into his hip
through the ball and socket
and cut a good four inches into his pelvic bone
crippling him

his shoulder shoulder shoulder blades
have similar similar similar cuts
where his attackers came down
on his back
splitting it open to the bone.
Finally, there is the mortal wound—
a gash on the left side of his skull
that crushed the eye socket socket socket and
drove into his brain.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Najdena pesem

slovène

(New York Times, James C. McKinley Jr., o Rvandi)

»Mrtvi,« pravi doktor, »govorijo z nami.«

nekatera okostja so spravljena v steklene zaboje
v cerkvah kot trajen opomin

zdravniki se tiho premikajo skozi cerkev v najlonskih
kirurških opravah in maskah. V kot so namestili
rentgensko mizo, ki jo napaja generator.
zadaj za zgradbo v šotoru je sodobna soba za avtopsije
  s tremi operacijskimi mizami.
v kapeli so trupla zložena med vrstami
  vsako v oštevilčeni vreči.

morilci so ubijali od blizu z mačetami in gorjačami.
 »V bistvu si moral osebo gledati od blizu, v oči,
da si jo lahko pokončal.«

kosti govorijo o nasilnem poteku njihovih zadnjih trenutkov

nekaterim so prerezali ahilove tetive

št. 467, mlad moški, okrog 20 let
levo rok ima prerezano čez členke
drug udarec z mačeto
se je zakopal globoko v njegov bok
skozi sklep
in se ustavil kake štiri inče globoko v medenici
ter ga ohromil

njegove lopatice lopatice lopatice
imajo podobne podobne podobne vreze
kjer ga je napadalec zasekal
od zadaj
in ga odprl do kosti.
Končno, smrtna rana-
zareza na levi strani lobanje
ki je zdrobila očesno votlino votlino votlino in
se zakopala v možgane.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

Broken

anglais | Sapphire

I think everything in me has been broken. The shiny ceramic red heart
lies on the floor in shards, its light that used to flash electric now glows
steady in the dark. Outside the window I watch the souls of my mother
and father wrapped in black shawls ride down the river, weird water, in
strange boats. They are without hearts, liver, feet—except soles, they
are all souls now. I am here in my time, lit, broken, fire burning, full of
holes. Vibrating, at last, light, life, mine. At last, broken.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Zlomljeno

slovène

Mislim, da je vse v meni zlomljeno. Svetleče, keramično rdeče srce leži na
tleh v črepinjah, svetloba, ki je električno utripala, zdaj enakomerno sveti
v temi. Za oknom gledam duši očeta in matere ogrnjeni s črnimi šali, ki
plujeta po reki, čudni vodi, v nenavadnih čolnih. Brez src sta, brez jeter,
nog – razen stopal, vsa sta duši. Zdaj sem tu, v svojem času, osvetljena,
zlomljena, z gorečim ognjem, polna lukenj. Vibriram, končno, svetloba,
življenje, moje. Končno, zlomljeno.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

Benin Silver Father Slaves

anglais | Sapphire

I the ancient kingdom of Benin water was the realm
of the ancestors; it was seen as a mirror reflection
of the land of the living. So where is my father?
Is he waiting for me under the water.
Will he approve of me or beat me or love me,
or even know me. In the kingdom of Benin metal

was traded for pepper, ivory, and finally slaves. Metal—
brass, silver. History lives in the realm
of the imagination as much as dreams. How does „me“
arrive in this equation? How does the reflection
of my culture shine on me? Slaves across te water,
the trauma of racism. My father

did not particulary like the word black. My father
would grow up acquire metal,
then what escape and peace it could buy. If water
brought us here, and it did, and, it is the realm
of the ancestors—where’s my mother? The reflection
in the mirror this morning is somewhere beyond me.

The construction of the African American me
goes back over the water, past father,
Daddy. So much of my life has been a reflection
of that decision to trade flesh for metal.
My life has been lived in the realm
of shame, I look to water, water

to heal, water to cleanse. Water
to nourish. Though I think honesty is what will heal me—
honesty and the courage to feel again. The realm
of the ancestors, if it’s water and my father
is there, he is there without the metal—
wedding ring or gun. He is bathing in the reflection

of a young boy’s dreams. When we look at his reflection
it is of a boy without shoes or shame. Water
can be polluted. The history of Benin was preserved in metal,
stolen by the British, put in museums. Now it is me,
centuries from home taking notes in a museum, learning my father
is in the water, ancestor, in another realm.

In the morning’s mirror the reflection goes into the realm
of the land of the dead. In my lips, my jaw I see my father,
metal, and ships upon water. Did he ever really love me?

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Srebro Benina oče suženj

slovène

Pradavno kraljestvo Benin je bilo vladavina
prednikov; razumljeno kot odsev
dežele živih. Kje je torej moj oče?
Me mar čaka pod vodo?
Bo z menoj zadovoljen, ali bo rekel jaz
te sploh ne poznam? V kraljestvu Benin so kovine

menjali za poper, ebenovino in končno sužnje. Kovine -
bron, srebro. To je zgodovinska vladavina
nad domišljijo in sanjami. Le kako naj jaz
vstopim v to enačbo? Kako odsev
kulture sije name? Sužnji čez vodo,
travma rasizma. Moj oče

ni preveč maral besede črno. Moj oče
je zrasel, nabiral kovine
nato pa kupil mir in pobeg. Če smo čez vodo
prišli, in tudi smo, in je ta vladavina
prednikov – kje je moja mati? Odsev
v ogledalu je to jutro nek drugi jaz.

Konstrukcija mene kot afroameričana, ta jaz
gre nazaj čez vodo, kamor še oče,
očka ni šel. Povečini je moje življenje odsev
odločitve zamenjati meso za kovine.
Moje življenje vodi vladavina
sramu, gledam v vodo, vodo

da očisti, da izpere. Vodo
da hrani. A mislim, da me ozdravi poštenost; jaz
si upam spet čutiti. Vladavina
prednikov: če je pod vodo in je oče
tam, je tam brez kovine,
poročnega prstana ali pištole. Obliva ga odsev

mladeničevih sanj. Ko gledamo njegov odsev
je to fantič brez čevljev ali sramu. Vodo
je moč zastrupiti. Zgodovino Benina so zapisali v kovine,
ukradli Britanci, shranili v muzejih. Zdaj jaz
stoletja od doma pišem zapiske v muzejih, se učim, da je oče
v vodi, prednik, druga vladavina.

Iz jutranjega ogledala sije odsev: vladavina
mrtvih. Moje ustnice, čeljusti, cel jaz sem slike: oče,
me je sploh kdaj ljubil?, kovine, ladje nad vodo.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak



August 9th

anglais | Sapphire

Hate, black teeth, half an
eyeball, torn light, green grass, dirt
wings. Sick, blind angel.

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

9. avgust

slovène

Sovraštvo, črni zobje, pol
zrkla, raztrgana luč, zelena trava, umazana
krila. Boln, slep angel.

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak

An Ordinary Evening

anglais | Sapphire

My sister tells me it was just an ordinary evening, but evening is never
ordinary is it? Once the sun has started to climb down the sky things
change. You and she were sitting in the den—the olive green vinyl
couch, sports trophies, new color TV, pictures of Kennedy and King we
keep turning to the wall, plate glass door, concrete steps to the back-
yard. You were sitting in the den, by the tone of your voice you could
have been asking are there any more hot dogs left or saying let’s go get
high. She said you just turned around and looked at her and said, „Let’s
kill him, let’s kill the old man.“

© 1999 by Sapphire / Ramona Lofton
printed by permission of the author
from: Black Wings & Blind Angels
New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Publisher, 1999
ISBN: 0-679-44630-3
Audio production: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

Navaden večer

slovène

Sestra pravi, da je bil samo navaden večer, a večeri vendar niso nikoli
navadni. Ko se sonce prične spuščati se nebne stvari spremenijo. Sedeli
sta v čumnati – olivno zeleni polivinilen kavč, športne trofeje, nov barven
TV, slike Kennedyja in Kinga, ki jih obračava k steni, steklena vrata,
betonske stopnice na vrt. Sedeli sta v čumnati, po barvi glasu bi jo lahko
spraševala, če je v hladilniku še kakšna hrenovka ali predlagala, da se
zadaneta. Pravi, da si se obrnila, jo pogledala in rekla: »Ubijva ga, ubijva
starega.«

Translated by Jure Novak
© by Jure Novak