A Poem for Slavica, Giving it My Best

The best poems are still to come.
I feel it in my bones, in those same bones
that five years ago wanted to fold into a shrine          
and sleep from exhaustion. Sleep on and on                                  
in no one’s memory.

The best poems are still to come,
they collect like white blood cells round a cut,    
like puppies round the nipples,
they seethe like new wine, they smell
like babies smell of milk, of mother, of life,
o, water, o, earth, o, those who are thirsty!
They return to the sea like aging sailors.                

The skyline is high today, says Jana, it’s as though
I was watching it from the bottom of the well, but
the air is clotting slowly, and I am glad
we have that landing that isn’t
slippery, those young doves to flap their wings.
We have two small Zivas, born in the same year,
to babble, dribble, and smack their little mouths over breakfast, and Vid,
touching the floor with his head,
having infinite fun.

You won’t find the sentence
wunderbare melodische Gedichte
if your book was turned down.
People walk around like loaded cartridges
with a broken lid and a rusty ability to judge,
though there is someone whose eyes glitter,
and who, as taut as a string, sent vibes
through a place you once knew but had forgotten.

The bastard epistemology in the global:
horrendous lead pellets and their flatulent
promotion. Rewind! Reset!
All the things you have to swallow before
you set eyes on a patch of fertile land. An eyelid,
weighted heavily with the tears of those who were silenced but
didn’t bend under the burden.

There’s no one who would dedicate
such a beautiful poem to me, Slavica said. There is.
The best poems are still to come.

Pesem za Slavico, pri najboljših močeh

Pesem za Slavico, pri najboljših močeh

Najboljše pesmi še pridejo.
V kosteh čutim, v istih kosteh, ki so se
pred petimi leti hotele zložiti v relikvijarij
in od utrujenosti zaspati. Dolgo spati v
nikogaršnjem spominu.

Najboljše pesmi še pridejo,
zbirajo se kakor bela krvna telesca okoli vnetja,
kakor mladi psički okoli seskov,
vrejo kot mlado vino, dišijo kakor
dojenčki po mleku, po materi, po življenju,
o voda, o zemlja, o žejni!
vračajo se kakor ostareli mornarji na morje.

Nebo je visoko, pravi Jana, kakor
bi ga gledal z dna vodnjaka, a
zrak se počasi strjuje in dobro je, da
imamo tisti podest, na katerem
ne drsi, golobčke, da prhutajo s krili.
Dve mali Živi imamo, rojeni v istem letu,
da čebljata in mlajskata in se slinita pri zajtrku, Vida,
ki se z glavo dotika tal in se pri tem
neznansko zabava.

Stavka
wunderbare melodische Gedichte
ne srečaš, kjer ti zavrnejo knjigo,
ljudje hodijo okoli kakor nabiti šaržerji s
pokvarjeno zaklopko in zarjavelo presojo,
čeprav se sveti v očeh nekoga, ki
je, pozoren kot struna, zavibriral  
skozi znani, a pozabljeni prostor.

Bastardna epistemologija v glokalnem:
strašne svinčene kroglice in njihova zaripla
promocija. Rewind! Reset!
Kaj vse je treba požreti, preden
ugledaš krpo rodovitne pokrajine. Veko,
obteženo z jokom zamolčanih, ki
se ne povesi od bremena.

Nikogar nimam, ki bi meni posvetil tako
lepo pesem, je rekla Slavica. Imaš.
Najboljše pesmi še pridejo.