The Life of a Poet
Love tore apart all my theories.
The stars devoured me.
I'm anonymous, what I always wished for so badly.
I am light, a tiny strand of light.
It's truly fantastic how the stars eat me.
Again and again, what endless food I am.
And then: pink!
I touch some hair,
pink! I write a poem, expand eternity.
Like here now: the Yaddo castle is an outpost for the renewal of
the world.
I look at a tree: I see, I sense, I know
I love Maruška, Maruška loves me.
A ladybug flies to my shoulder.
That's Ana.
Now she is painting or walking in puddles
with her mommy and saying:
"I won't have a birthday until Tomaž returns."
And a beautiful, multicolored bird crashes into my window,
the souls of friends, connected in a gentle net around the planet.
None of them is jealous of any other
because we're all lovers.
Then I take ten letters to the post office, only love letters.
For overseas, for here.
Poets pretend with physical contact and reading.
Junk! Junk! We splash into the sun.
All this goes too quickly for philosophers.
They think we're a bit crazy and simple-minded
because we use language like children.
Hey, you, blockheads, tedious pedestrians!
Wouldn't the world be more exquisite
if you were more physical toward your masters?
Boom! Boom! The kisses of the people fall on my head.
What a bang.
I hope that I'll hang on,
that I'll be able to return all this love forever.
Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry
The stars devoured me.
I'm anonymous, what I always wished for so badly.
I am light, a tiny strand of light.
It's truly fantastic how the stars eat me.
Again and again, what endless food I am.
And then: pink!
I touch some hair,
pink! I write a poem, expand eternity.
Like here now: the Yaddo castle is an outpost for the renewal of
the world.
I look at a tree: I see, I sense, I know
I love Maruška, Maruška loves me.
A ladybug flies to my shoulder.
That's Ana.
Now she is painting or walking in puddles
with her mommy and saying:
"I won't have a birthday until Tomaž returns."
And a beautiful, multicolored bird crashes into my window,
the souls of friends, connected in a gentle net around the planet.
None of them is jealous of any other
because we're all lovers.
Then I take ten letters to the post office, only love letters.
For overseas, for here.
Poets pretend with physical contact and reading.
Junk! Junk! We splash into the sun.
All this goes too quickly for philosophers.
They think we're a bit crazy and simple-minded
because we use language like children.
Hey, you, blockheads, tedious pedestrians!
Wouldn't the world be more exquisite
if you were more physical toward your masters?
Boom! Boom! The kisses of the people fall on my head.
What a bang.
I hope that I'll hang on,
that I'll be able to return all this love forever.
Translated from the Slovenian by Brian Henry