Poem
Marko Pogačar
Minestrone
Put your arms around me and I’ll let you imagine me naked.
from this day on I’m a
Judith Butler of male emancipation.
I stopped thinking because it leads nowhere. from now on I look
when looking is necessary.
if I really had to think now, it would be about God.
or, once again, about emptiness. the space between arms,
dark matter,
what’s left between the vegetables, it doesn’t matter,
the point is in no-man’s-land.
about how beautiful the hair is when it’s falling out. about the last days in May,
the space when emptiness goes black.
when you imagine me, that’s the filling up of emptiness, again.
at the key point
everything is brought down to exotic particles. minestrone. you have no clue
what’s inside, but everything works. the thing is, believe me,
in what’s in between.
well-filled emptiness is the limit of love.
the principle is webbed toes, imagine me
before I do that to you.
embrace me somehow not only with your arms. arms are rural weapons.
leave them to the Croats.
take out all the silicone and make a house from it. nail yourself to the wall
like a virtual shadow, a step forward,
into the volume of defense and time of unconditional freedom, point of clear danger.
be considerate as you’re mixing the minestrone.
let it be as thick as possible. reduce emptiness to the smallest possible measure.
even those who cower in those plants sometimes become depressed
from all that space around them.
© Translation: 2008, Tomislav Kuzmanović
Minestrone
Minestrone
Zagrli me i dozvolit ću ti da me zamisliš golog.
od danas sam
Judith Butler muške emancipacije.
prestao sam razmišljati jer to ne vodi nikuda. od sada gledam
kada je potrebno gledati.
ako bih baš morao sada misliti, to bi bilo o bogu.
ili, još jednom, o praznini. prostoru između ruku,
tamnoj tvari,
onom ostalom između povrća, sasvim svejedno,
bit je u ničijoj zemlji.
o tome kako je kosa lijepa dok otpada. o zadnjim danima svibnja,
prostoru kada praznina pocrni.
kad me zamisliš to je, isto tako, popunjavanje praznine.
u ključnoj točki
sve se svede na egzotične čestice. minestrone. nemaš pojma
što je unutra, ali sve funkcionira. stvar je, vjeruj mi,
u onom između.
dobro popunjena praznina je granica ljubavi.
princip je plivaća kožica, zamisli me
prije nego što ja to učinim tebi.
zagrli me nekako samo ne rukama. ruke su ruralno oružje.
ostavi ih Hrvatima.
izvuci sav silikon i od toga napravi kuću. pribij se uza zid
kao virtualna sjena, korak naprijed,
u volumen obrane i vrijeme bezuvjetne slobode, točku jasne opasnosti.
dok miješaš taj minestrone budi obazriva.
neka bude što gušći. prazninu reduciraj na najmanju moguću mjeru.
i oni koji sad čuče u tim biljkama postanu ponekad depresivni
od svog tog prostora oko njih.
© 2007, Marko Pogačar
From: Poslanice običnim ljudima
Publisher: Algoritam, Zagreb
From: Poslanice običnim ljudima
Publisher: Algoritam, Zagreb
Poems
Poems of Marko Pogačar
Close
Minestrone
Put your arms around me and I’ll let you imagine me naked.
from this day on I’m a
Judith Butler of male emancipation.
I stopped thinking because it leads nowhere. from now on I look
when looking is necessary.
if I really had to think now, it would be about God.
or, once again, about emptiness. the space between arms,
dark matter,
what’s left between the vegetables, it doesn’t matter,
the point is in no-man’s-land.
about how beautiful the hair is when it’s falling out. about the last days in May,
the space when emptiness goes black.
when you imagine me, that’s the filling up of emptiness, again.
at the key point
everything is brought down to exotic particles. minestrone. you have no clue
what’s inside, but everything works. the thing is, believe me,
in what’s in between.
well-filled emptiness is the limit of love.
the principle is webbed toes, imagine me
before I do that to you.
embrace me somehow not only with your arms. arms are rural weapons.
leave them to the Croats.
take out all the silicone and make a house from it. nail yourself to the wall
like a virtual shadow, a step forward,
into the volume of defense and time of unconditional freedom, point of clear danger.
be considerate as you’re mixing the minestrone.
let it be as thick as possible. reduce emptiness to the smallest possible measure.
even those who cower in those plants sometimes become depressed
from all that space around them.
© 2008, Tomislav Kuzmanović
From: Poslanice običnim ljudima
From: Poslanice običnim ljudima
Minestrone
Put your arms around me and I’ll let you imagine me naked.
from this day on I’m a
Judith Butler of male emancipation.
I stopped thinking because it leads nowhere. from now on I look
when looking is necessary.
if I really had to think now, it would be about God.
or, once again, about emptiness. the space between arms,
dark matter,
what’s left between the vegetables, it doesn’t matter,
the point is in no-man’s-land.
about how beautiful the hair is when it’s falling out. about the last days in May,
the space when emptiness goes black.
when you imagine me, that’s the filling up of emptiness, again.
at the key point
everything is brought down to exotic particles. minestrone. you have no clue
what’s inside, but everything works. the thing is, believe me,
in what’s in between.
well-filled emptiness is the limit of love.
the principle is webbed toes, imagine me
before I do that to you.
embrace me somehow not only with your arms. arms are rural weapons.
leave them to the Croats.
take out all the silicone and make a house from it. nail yourself to the wall
like a virtual shadow, a step forward,
into the volume of defense and time of unconditional freedom, point of clear danger.
be considerate as you’re mixing the minestrone.
let it be as thick as possible. reduce emptiness to the smallest possible measure.
even those who cower in those plants sometimes become depressed
from all that space around them.
© 2008, Tomislav Kuzmanović
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