Janko Lozar

slovène

[Perhaps if I'd nurtured some]

Perhaps if I'd nurtured some divine disease,
like Keats in eternal Rome, or Chekhov at Yalta,
something that sharpened the salt fragrance of sweat
with the lancing nib of my pen, my gift would increase,
as the hand of a cloud turning over the sea will alter
the sunlight – clouds smudged like silver plate,
leaves that keep trying to summarize my life.
Under the brain's white coral is a seething anthill.
You had such a deep faith in that green water, once.
The skittering fish were harried by your will –
the stingray halved itself in clear bottom sand,
its tail a whip, its back as broad as a shovel;
the sea horse was fragile as glass, like grass, every tendril
of the wandering medusa: friends and poisons.
But to curse your birthplace is the final evil.
You could map my limitations four yards up from a beach –
a boat with broken ribs, the logwood that grows only thorns,
a fisherman throwing away fish guts outside his hovel.
What if the lines I cast bulge into a book
that has caught nothing? Wasn't it privilege
to have judged one's work by the glare of greater minds,
though the spool of days that midsummer's reel rewinds
comes bobbling back with its question, its empty hook?

© by Carl Hanser Verlag München Wien 1998
Extrait de: Mittsommer / Midsummer
München Wien: Carl Hanser Verlag, 2001
ISBN: 3-446-20102-5
Production audio: 2001 M. Mechner, literaturWERKstatt berlin

[Morda, če bi živel s kakšno]

Morda, če bi živel s kakšno božansko boleznijo,
tako kot Keats v večnem Rimu ali Čehov na Jalti,
z nečim, kar izostri vonj slanega znoja
z urezano konico peresa, bi moja nadarjenost narasla,
tako kot bo obračajoča roka oblaka nad morjem spremenila
svetlobo – oblaki, umazani kot krožnik iz srebra,
listi, ki se trudijo povzeti moje življenje.
Pod belo koralo možganov vre mravljišče.
Bil si tako globoko zaverovan v tisto zeleno vodo, nekoč.
Tvoja volja je plenila vznemirjene ribe –
električni skat se je prepolovil na čistem peščenem dnu,
njegov rep bič, hrbet širok kot lopata;
morski konjiček je bil krhek kot steklo, kot trava, vsak koder
klateške meduze: prijatelji in strupi.
Preklinjati rojstni kraj pa je poslednje zlo.
Lahko bi zarisal moje meje štiri metre od obale –
čoln polomljenih reber, višnjeva pražiljka, ki daje samo trne –
ribič, ki pred kolibo odvrže ribje drobovje.
Kaj če mreže, ki jih odvržem, nabreknejo v knjigo,
ki ni ujela ničesar? Ali ni privilegij
soditi o lastnem delu s sijajem veleumnejših,
četudi se tuljava dnevov, ki previja tisti trak visokega poletja,
brbotajoč vrača s svojim vprašanjem, praznim trnkom?

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