Reading Octavio Paz

         Tonight I am sailing down all my rivers, borne by the stream
of words, I sail as I speak, I speak as I sail . . .

. . . rivers, glittering like a child’s laughter, the staccato of rapids, the fast
chutes over cascades, rapturous drops down waterfalls, beads
of water, in each the sun, and finally the foam, bubbles of air
engulfing me like a great Jacuzzi . . .

. . . the river, the big brown god, carries me like a slumberous bough through
the height of summer, the buzzing of insects, I sail as I speak,
I speak as I sail, I can see: the blue sky, clouds and fish swimming
across, crabs hiding in treetops, in the green explosion of
joie de vivre, a flock of fry takes wing like startled quails  . . .

. . . I can see: Narcissus’ perfect countenance, heavy ashlars of Florentine
masonry, arcs of bridges traversed by poetry on transience (Apollinaire)
and by the lines of an epic, I am reading . . .

. . . I can see myself in the turning of the seasons, and my love,
sad as a willow, bowing over me, who am a river sailing
through winter, through the city de la Tour Unique du grand Gibet et
de la Roue . . .

. . . I am a river, absentmindedly receiving an unhappy lover,
a great poet, and I am not sad, when I stain myself with blood, and
I am not happy, when ice sheets thaw away, when I soar into the sky, neither
the dam nor the dyke can touch me . . .

. . . the river, the dark deity from beyond the swampy
entangled greenery, callous mired deity, my mouth
has a name for you – the Amazon, it calls you the Nile, the Mississippi, my eyes
erect secret places at your side (Eldorado), I
turn you into Okinawa . . .

  . . . two youths, as beautiful as Hyacinthus, atremble in the dewy morning,
gazing at you, lost in themselves, gazing at you, as beautiful as Hyacinthus,
and you, you don't even spare them a glance  . . .

          Tonight I am sailing down all my rivers, with you stars, stars
in the depths below me, tonight I am sailing myself, replicated into
countless currents, I am a stream, against which I sharpen a knife, a wild girl,
hastily making love upon the gravel, cleanses herself in me, my love
reaches into me and tells me River Kolpa and tells me River Rokava and tells me
“you cool and unveil the path” and tells me, you are ice, ice, ice . . .

. . . I speak and am spoken, I sail and am sailed, I am real
and I am an illusion, I am water, flooding over me, I am a swimmer
cutting sharply across the constant currents, the slow amble of the river towards the sea,
I am the sea, which is the river of all rivers, I am the sky, which is the sea of all seas . . .  

          Ljubljana, summer 1998:
In the garden of a suburban tavern I am reading Octavio Paz, two grey herons
flitting to and fro like fine kites beneath a translucent evening sky . . .

. . . the constant roaring of the Ljubljanica by the railings, the river’s
body of light, in it the big setting sun . . .

. . . from beneath my feet I pick up a stone the size of a child’s fist and
fling it across the fence into the water . . .

. . . don’t read me like a story, read me like concentric circles
on the water . . .

Branje Octavia Paza

Branje Octavia Paza

               Nocoj plujem po vseh svojih rekah, nošen s tokom
govorice, plujem, ko govorim, govorim, ko plujem . . .

    . . . reke, lesketave kot otroški smeh, staccato brzic, hitri
zdrsi prek kaskad, zanosno padanje prek slapov, delci
vode in v vsakem sonce in koncno pena, mehurji zraka, ki me
oblivajo kot velikanski jakuzzi . . .

      . . . reka, veliki rjavi bog, me nosi kot spece bruno skozi
visoko poletje, brencanje žuželk, plujem, ko govorim,
govorim, ko plujem, vidim: sinje nebo, oblaki in ribe plavajo
cezenj, raki se skrivajo v krošnjah dreves, v zeleni eksploziji
joie de vivre, jata mladic prhne iz njih kot preplašene prepelice . . .

      . . . vidim: pravilni Narcisov obraz, težke kvadre florentinskih
zgradb, loke mostov, prek katerih tecejo verzi o minevanju
(Apollinaire) in verzi pesnitve, ki jo berem . . .

      . . . vidim sebe v menjavi letnih casov in svojo ljubezen,
žalostno kot vrba, ki se sklanja nadme, ki sem reka, ki plujem
skozi zimo, skozi mesto de la Tour Unique du Grand Gibet et
de la Roue . . .  

      . . . reka sem, odsotno sprejmem nesrecnega ljubimca,
vélikega pesnika in nisem žalosten, ko se obarvam s krvjo, in
nisem vesel, ko se topijo ledeniki, ko se dvigam v nebo, ne.
prizadeneta me niti jez niti nasip . . .

      . . . reka, temno božanstvo onkraj prepletajocega se
barjanskega zelenja, brezcutno blatno božanstvo, moja usta te
imenujejo Amazonka, ti recejo Nil, Misisipi, moje oci
postavljajo ob tebi skrivnostna mesta (Eldorado), jaz
te delam za Okinavo . . .

      . . . mladenica, lepa kot Hijacint, drgetajoca v rosnem jutru,
zreta vate, izgubljena v sebi, zreta vate, lepa kot Hijacint,
a ti se niti ne ozreš nanju . . .

               Nocoj plujem po vseh svojih rekah, zvezde, zvezde
globoko pod mano, nocoj plujem po sebi, plujem, ko govorim,
govorim, ko plujem, plujem po sebi, razmnoženem v neštete
tokove, potok sem, ob katerem brusim nož, divja deklica se
umije v meni po hitrem ljubljenju na produ, moja ljubezen
sega vame in mi rece Kolpa in mi rece Rokava in mi rece
"hladiš, odstiraš pot" in mi rece, ti si led, led, led . . .

     . . . govorim in govorjen sem, plujem in plut sem, resnicen
sem in privid sem, voda sem, ki me obliva, plavalec sem, ki
ostro reže enakomerni tok, pocasni hod reke proti morju,
morje sem, ki je reka vseh rek, nebo sem, ki je morje morja . . .

               Ljubljana, poletje 1998:
Na vrtu predmestne krcme berem Octavia Paza, sivi caplji se
kot dobra zmaja spreletavata v prosojnem veceru . . .

      . . . enakomerni hrum Ljubljanice ob zapornicah, svetlobno
telo reke, veliko sonce ugaša v njej . . .

      . . . poberem za otroško pest velik kamen izpod nog in ga
vržem prek ograje v vodo . . .

      . . . ne beri me kot zgodbo, beri me kot koncentricne kroge
na vodi . . .