Now That We Are No More

For the painter Alenka Koderman


Now that we are no more,
Does the sky still part its hair,
Is it snug and serene,
Is it willing and decanting in its expectation?
Do the glowing faces still wash themselves in its bubble bath?
Are the cones coated carefully with resin,
Is the north wind favourable, does it anoint the sails going south?
Is the sea still salty, does it smell of love?

What a polished storm,
Hidden in the sharpness of a chiselling knife,
Which during the exhibition creeps into the
Shell of its skeleton!
Are the titles known,
Lined up, do the colours of the woods drip out of them
Into the endless convex seals of love
As blood drips out of mortal wound? Do grapes of tears,
Captured from the surface of a pond, reflect an aquamarine?
Do pads of an avalanche lie hidden beneath the leaves,
Weaving and unweaving the night beneath the white feathers of the surface?
Is a leaf,
Having wintered entirely and all by itself, aware
Of all the weight of its impression on the canvas?
The cosmic explosions of Jan Breughel’s bouquet
Give birth, eject Ross Bleckner’s Hot House.
Unbearable are the throes of water, drying out the pain.
Yet still the canvas is lighter than the raft
Which takes you safely to the shore.

The millstone of the body has to endure us, even
If the heart gone wild invents explosive units, shorter than a second,
Or else the bread images do not hold us, and crumble,
Evaporate into the ether,
The muffins –
Weightless as bivalent ferric iron.

Now that we are no more,
Does a jet of light at the Prvomajska 8 still exchange
A kiss with the cherry-wood table at 18.36 and a minute
Later tickle the back of literary lovers?
Do the colours of the early Hrastovlje spring blaze out, and
Are they sucked in by the sun as if they were Schweppes?
Is the Shoemakers’ Bridge weary
Of lying on its back, has it turned on its stomach? Do the reasons of
Ecstasy, dear poets, keep hidden and lap the opposite shore of the
Trieste Gulf; do they return refreshed,
Carried by the sea streams?

Now that we are no more, we seem
To be more present than ever. The wind, having
Evaded the old centenaries
Through the eye-let of the millennium half ajar,
Has seated us behind the table of an ancient spring:
With the dew – eye to eye.

Are we to be completed by the snow?
Is our image to be finished by the crickets lying hidden
In the acoustics of a rainspout?

Are we repeated by gestures of the poplars?
Are we to be exterminated by Cooper Light, which eats away
Our endeavour and denudation
                    To depilate the past
                    To shave the beard of the present
                    To trim the hedge of the future.
Now that we are no more;
Perhaps now the infinite succession of poets
May be drawing a line of trees on the cover of some mute folder.

Zdaj, ko nas več ni

Zdaj, ko nas več ni

Za slikarko Alenko Koderman

Zdaj, ko nas več ni,
se nebo še češe na prečko,
je lagodno in spokojno,
voljno in pretočno v svojem pričakovanju?
Se v njegovi peneči kopeli še umivajo ožarjeni obrazi?
So storži skrbno obliti s smolnim prelivom,
je burja ugodna, mazili jadra, ki gredo na jug?
Je morje še slano, še vedno diši po ljubezni?

Kakšen obrušen vihar,
skrit v ostrini olfa nožka, ki med razstavo
zleze v lupinico svojega ogrodja! So naslovi znani,
postrojeni, se iz njih cedijo barve gozda v
neskončne konveksne pečate ljubezni,
kakor kri iz smrtne rane? So grozdi solz
odsevi akvamarina, zajeti z gladine ribnika?
Se pod liste pritajijo blazinice plazu, ki
tkejo in parajo noč pod belim perjem površine?

Se listič, ki je sam
in v celoti prezimil zimo, zaveda
vse teže svojega odtisa v platnu?
Vesoljske eksplozije šopkov Jana Breughela
porodijo, izvržejo Hot House Rossa Blecknerja.
Neznosni so krči porodne vode, ki zasuši bolečino.
A še vedno je platno lažje od splava,
s katerim se rešiš na kopno.

Mlinski kamen telesa nas mora vzdržati, četudi
podivjano srce izumlja eksplozivne enote, krajše od sekunde,
sicer nas ne zdržijo krušne podobe, ki se zdrobijo,
izhlapijo v eter,
žemljice –
lahke, kakor dvovalentno železo.

Zdaj, ko nas več ni,
se curek svetlobe na Prvomajski 8 še vedno poljubi
s češnjevo mizo on 18.36
in minuto kasneje požgečka hrbte knjižnih ljubimcev?

Se razplamtijo barve zgodnje pomladi Hrastovelj, jih posrka
sonce kakor Schweppes? Je Šuštarski most naveličan ležanja na hrbtu,
se je obrnil na trebuh? Se razlogi ekstaze, dragi poeti, pritajijo in
pljuskajo na obalo na drugi strani Tržaškega zaliva; se vračajo sveži
z morskimi tokovi?

Zdaj, ko nas več ni, kot da smo
šele zares prisotni. Veter, ki se je,
skozi priprto očesno režo tisočletja,
izmuznil staremu stoletju, nas je
posedel za mizo pradavne pomladi:
z roso iz oči v oči.

Nas dokonča sneg?
Nas doslikajo črički, pritajeni v akustiki žleba?
Nas geste topolov ponavljajo?
Nas pokonča Bakrena svetloba, ki spodjeda
naše naprezanje in ogoljenje
                    depilirati preteklost
                    obriti brado sedanjosti
                    pristriči živo mejo prihodnosti.
Zdaj, ko nas več ni –
morda zdaj neskončno zaporedje pesnikov
izrisuje drevored na obličje neke neme mape.