Mummies are a method, not the result.

Five poems by Meta Kušar translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson.

Voda

by Meta Kušar

Grk oživlja z mesečevo vodo.

Ljubezen ne pozna trupel, čeprav je mrtvo telo usoda.

Pesmi ne zavržeš.

Ljubezni ne zavržeš.

Pesem srka drobljivost.

Delčke zloži v belo luč obdano z lupino.

Pingvini z majhno nesmrtno dušo naredijo enako.

Njihova vera je jajce pri nogah narave.

Water

by Meta Kušar

A Greek will revive you with moon water.

Love knows not of corpses, although a dead body is fate.

You don’t throw away poems.

You don’t throw away love.

The poem absorbs fragility.

Composes the small parts into the white light of a shell.

Penguins with their small immortal souls do the same.

Their faith is an egg at nature’s feet.

translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson
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Mumije

by Meta Kušar

Dróbci so kost.

Ni ženske brez moškega in njegovega sveta.

Ni moškega brez ženske in njenega sveta.

Ljubezen je edina garancija za duševno obnovo.

Kadar pridem iz goreče hiše molčim.

Uveljavljati se začno grozni stvori in nakaze,

Heraklit že tipa za piščalko in kliče izravnavo.

Vojaki in samostalniki so takoj pepel.

Tintni svinčnik drsi po dolgih spiskih strahu.

Zapisuje mrtve in dolžnike, ceno in trpljenje.  

Od vekomaj oživljamo mrliče.

Mumije so metoda, ne rezultat.

Španski vetrc drži skupaj konec in začetek.

Kadar zavržeš del, ne moreš več sestaviti celote.

Mummies

by Meta Kušar

Fragments are bone.

There is no woman without a man and his world.

No man without a woman and her world.

Love is the only warranty for the soul to revive.

When I come out of the burning house I’m speechless.

Hideous freaks and monsters begin to assert themselves.

Heraclitus is already feeling for his flute and calling for balance.

Soldiers and nouns turn to ashes.

The grease pencil slides down the long lists of fear.

It makes note of the dead and the debtors, the cost and the suffering.

For ever we bring the dead back to life.

Mummies are a method, not the result.

Meringue cookies hold the end and beginning together.

When you reject a part, you can no longer assemble the whole.

translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson
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Eden

by Meta Kušar

Prvi ima njegove oči,

drugi njegove lase,

tretji njegov glas.

Dvajseti njegove stavke,

dvestoti njegov posluh,

tisoči njegov smeh,

tristo tisoči njegov jezik.

Imam jaz njegovo srce?

Nisem si izmišljevala.

Nič prirejala. Nič čakala.

Samo pričakovala.

Okušam domišljijo starih in novih dni.

Kakšen vesel študij.

One

by Meta Kušar

The first has his eyes,

the second his hair,

the third his voice.

The twentieth his sentences,

the two hundredth his ear for music.

The thousandth his laughter,

the three hundred thousandth his tongue.

Do I have his heart?

I wasn’t imagining things.

Embellishing anything. I never waited.

Only expected.

I taste the imagination of days old and new.

What a happy course.

translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson
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Zakaj ne pišem ljubezenskih pesmi?

by Meta Kušar

Popek sredi doma je resnična večna lučka.

Vsaka celica telesa se prebudi z enim samim dotikom.

Presvetli vse od Ahilove tetive do medulle oblongate,

od levega mezinca do desnega kazalca; sredica je zraven.

Objemi in poljubi zbujajo večno željo,

da bi bil vsak delček telesa prežet s svetlobo.

Presvetljeno telo! Ne zapušcaj ga. Jaz ga ne zapustim.

Kaj bi z ljubeznijo, ki je dovoljena ali prepovedana!

Vse je zamena za ogenj in ogenj je zamena za vse.

Razsvetlí jetra in oči in nos.

Obraze, ki jih pogledaš, zagledaš.

Črka naredi besedo in beseda naredi vrt

in vrt naredi toploto in toplota posuši dušo.

Suha duša je Kneipp. Vse ozdravi z vodo.

Kos brez postanka smisel žgoli.

Rožnata ni manj resnična od Hudiča, ki razbija puščavo.

Človeka ne, če ne pusti. Ljubezen sveti kot Hánuka,

kot diváli, kot sv. Lucija. V šotoru zastane.

Za mrtve in žive gori. Zveri zadrži. Strela je ogenj kovač.

V glasu ga slišim, ko še nisi skovan.

V glasu ga slišiš samo podkovan. Ves isti, a drug.

Iskra takoj preobrazi. Ogenj gori, da smrt ne pride zraven.

Najtanjša folija, brezsnovna, odceja zlo.

Nič sem in tja. Nič tja in sem in spet nazaj.

Oči odgrnem! Zora je resnicna mana. Pozobljejo jo ateisti.

Why don't I write love poems?

by Meta Kušar

A bud in the middle of home is a true eternal flame.

At a touch every cell of the body awakens.

Illuminating everything from the Achilles heel to medulla oblongata,

from the left little finger to the right index finger; the rest accordingly.

Hugs and kisses ignite the eternal desire

that every inch of the body were shot through with light.

Illuminated body! Don’t leave it. I won’t.

What do you do with love that’s permitted or forbidden!

It’s all a substitute for fire and fire’s a substitute for all.

Illuminating the liver, the eyes and the nose.

The faces that you look at, see.

A letter makes a word and the word makes a garden

and the garden creates warmth and the warmth dries the soul.

A dry soul is Kneipp. Water heals everything.

Without pause, the blackbird chirps meaning.

The rose is no less real than the devil swirling storms in the desert.

But not in the man unless he lets him. Love lights up like Hanukkah,

Diwali, and St. Lucia. In the tent it pauses.

Burns for the dead and the living. Holding the beasts at bay.

A lightning bolt is the blacksmith’s fire.

In my voice I hear him not yet minted.

In your voice you hear him only just shod. All the same, only different.

A spark transforms on the spot. The fire burns so death can’t come close.

The thinnest foil, immaterial, strains evil.

No back-and-forth. No forth-and-back and back again.

I draw open the eyes! Dawn is the true manna. Pecked at by atheists.

translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson
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Prva miza

by Meta Kušar

Temno modra smokva zori.

Mladiči lastovic še poznajo rdeče sladkosti.

Zgarana lastovka jadra v vročini in pôje,

ko mladiči že sami lové.

Prehraniti dve legli je skoraj umreti.

Noga ene mize stoji na izviru.

Zarana pobiram verze z nje.

Sonce jo nagne in sadeži zdrsnejo, ne vem kam.

Z rokami na kolenih poslušam,

kaj mizica hoče. Zahodna je morska, ležerna.

Pisma že devet let nisem prepognila.

Besede materializiram z juga na sever.

S severa na sever? Ne vem, kje sem.

Iz srca v srce je najkrajša pot.

Z roko napisati pismo je prelepo.

Najprej zakroži med zvezdami.

Netopirji ga ubranijo vseh pasti.

 

Kako brez papirja položiti glas na dlan?

First Table

by Meta Kušar

A dark blue fig tree ripens.

The swallows’ young still know of red sweet things.

The worn-out swallow sails in the heat and sings

while its young already catch on their own.

To feed both nests is almost to die.

One leg of the table stands at the source.

At the crack of dawn I pick the verses off.

The sun tilts it, the fruits slide off, I don’t know where.

With my hands on my knees I listen

to what the little table wants.

The western one is the seaside one, the leisurely one.

I haven’t folded the letter for nine years.

I materialize words from south to north.

From north to north? I don’t know where I am.

From heart to heart is the shortest path.

To handwrite a letter is lovely.

First it does a round among the stars.

Bats ward off all the traps.

 

How to lay your voice in the palm without paper?

translated from Slovenian by Ana Jelnikar & Barbara Siegel Carlson
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the self had use
for the self

Mesandel Virtusio Arguelles    KristineOngMuslim

A poem by  Mesándel Virtusio Arguelles translated from Filipino by Kristine Ong Muslim. 

Sumpa

by Mesándel Virtusio Arguelles

Dahil sa natuklasang hindi sa iyo

ang daigdig, gumuho

 

ang iyong daigdig. Ang iyong daigdig

 

na dahil hindi sa iyo

gumuho hindi dahil sa iyo

 

Hanggang tumindig ka sa ngayon

sa daigdig na sa wala nakatindig

 

 

 

Nais mong magpatuloy

pagkaraan ng lahat, pagkaraang lahat

 

ilahad. Ngayon

 

mahinahon ang mga tinig, wala na

ang nagsasalitang salitang minsan

 

mayroong sariling silbi. Mayroong silbi

 

ang sarili, nais mong masabi, sa sarili

sa huli, bilang pagtanda sa inaakalang buhay

 

 

 

Isusulat mo

ang sarili. Isusulat mo

 

sa bawat salitang pipiliin

 

upang maiharap ang sarili

sa bawat salitang tatalikuran

 

upang muli lamang mabigo

sa bawat pagtalikod

 

 

 

Sa araw na kailangan mo

nang magpaalam, hindi mo maiiwan

 

ang iyong silid. Sa huling sandali

 

ipapasya mong isilid ito sa iyong bulsa

Naroon ang iyong kama, mesita, ilaw

 

sa pagbabasa. Maglalakbay ka

 

mula roon nang hindi iniiwan

ang iyong silid. Sa muli’t muling pagpasok

 

dito, kailangan mong laging magpaalam

 

Bawat araw, hindi mo maiiwan

ang iyong silid. Sa iyong bulsa

 

bawat huling sandali, ito ang iyong isinisilid

 

 

 

Sa sandaling ito, muli mong isusumpang mabuhay

para sa sining

 

Curse

by Mesándel Virtusio Arguelles

Because you discovered that

the world was not yours, your world

 

crashed. Your world

 

that just because was not yours

crashed but not because of you

 

Until you stand up now

to a world that stands on nothing

 

 

 

You want to continue

after everything had come to pass, after everything

 

was made known. Now

 

the voices are calm, no longer

one utters a word that once

 

had its use. The self had use

 

for the self, you wished to say

in the end to commemorate what passes for life

 

 

 

You will write

yourself. You will write

 

on every word you will choose

 

in order to submit yourself

to every word you will renounce

 

in order to once again fail

in every renunciation

 

 

 

On the day you need

to say goodbye, you cannot walk away from

 

your room. At the last moment

 

you will decide to slip it inside your pocket

There’s your bed, small table, lamp

 

for reading. You will travel

 

from thereon without leaving

your room. In your frequent reentry

 

into it, you need to always ask for permission

 

Each day, you cannot walk away from

your room. Inside your pocket

 

every last moment, you slip it in

 

 

 

At this moment, you curse once again having lived

for art

translated from Filipino by Kristine Ong Muslim
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