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Poetry of My Country

I.
I was kneading the thought at home to carry it with me
to other countries
to pronounce it in Eastern Europe and in the Balkans
but in every climate it bounces at a different angle
and sounds somehow unusual
as though it were a thought of someone else
with darker skin than mine
and wider shoulders
the thought I needed a rather long time for

it was about something poetic
highly esteemed, truly wise
the images were creeping in all the time
I did not know what to do with them:
the sight of the pianist arriving in New York
not thinking badly about Americans
flying above the ocean entirely open, crossing borders, stepping from the plane
taking in the American air intraveinously
caressing black and white keys
meanwhile sighing and smiling
caressing the piano
his face having deep wrinkles from smiling

the thought, wanting to be highly esteemed and truly wise
became confused, broken, beaten
actually I know this man, I know the smell of his skin
I carried the thought to the balcony and shook it off myself

II.
I started anew, ab ovo
dug out fresh clay
and was kneading the thought to carry it with me
somewhere to the Balkans and Eastern Europe
I needed a rather long time
it was about highly esteemed things, about poetry
a new image appeared:
the photographer taking a seat in a car
and with € 300 in his pocket rushing toward the West
to be free at last
waiting by the traffic-lights notices a duck
and eight little ones
wanting to cross the road
he jumps out of the car, flapping hands, stopping the traffic
calling 911, society for animal protection, local council, fire brigade
no-one feels competent
he stops the traffic
catches yellow fluffs and carries them to the water
not until that does he leave

nice
very noble
but actually I know this man
he has black eyes
black eyes and the look that enchants
the thought distracted, got out of tune, got lost
I went to the balcony and scraped it off me

the thought like an unfinished statue
walked through the brain's serpentine windings
I needed a long time for it
I wanted to shape it finally
to carry it towards the East
it is important what you say about the poetry of your country

III.
it is important to say something about the poets of your country
something highly esteemed and wise
to make known what we are talking about when we are talking about Slovene poetry
the thought was struggling like a half run over cat
a new image confounds it again:
the night

(I spent the night with a poet
with all of the books he has written
I had the candles lit
the light was mellow and soft like his poems
I drank golden muscat
and let the verses pierce me through
there were less and less words, more and more silence
minus seven outside
after reading I went to the balcony and watched the stars until the morning)

I had to put this in brackets
and write it down in the past tense because it is about personal matters
sometimes I think about his tender hands
writing verses
the thought, wanting to be about poetry
would not let me end it
I carry it with me abroad
but in every climate it bounces at a different angle
and sounds like the thought of someone else
that calls me
and lures me

whenever I have an appointment with a poet
the state punishes me
I get a ticket for illegal parking
or something even more stupid

I do not know what I do wrong
we sit down at a wide table 2 meters apart from each other
we talk about reading Kavafy
about frightful consequences of doing this
about southerners' cuisine
about women's masturbation, about the sea
we drink schweppes and beer
exchange opinions about literature workshops
get up and leave

my parking is impeccable
I stop precisely parallel with a curb
2.5 to 4 inches away
I do this with male elegance
but I prefer it when nobody watches me

my car is full of abrasions and punches
not my fault
some men, you know, are really bad drivers

no-one cares about
what you think of the teacher of physics
from the grammar school
when you swing
with your husband
hand in hand
across the park
your husband
a metaphysic
does not
come after you
to the bathroom
you anoint your legs with a gel
it turns into a foam
smells like raspberries
a new razor
is mercifully sharp
blood nowhere
how smooth your legs are
no one cares about it

Translated by Ana Rostohar