Zakaj ne pišem ljubezenskih pesmi?
by Meta KušarPopek 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 KušarA 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