Brian Henry is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently Doppelgänger (Talisman House, 2011). His translation of Aleš Šteger’s The Book of Things appeared from BOA Editions in 2010 and won the 2011 Best Translated Book Award for Poetry. He has received numerous awards for his work, including fellowships from the NEA, the Howard Foundation, and the Slovenian Academy of Arts and Sciences.

 

 

Drevo, ki raste tam, kjer ljubezni se vrtijo v krog,

nevedni naraščaj strasti, drevo je že mogoče sveto,

ampak če pod njim ležiš, kot jaz, s prepolno glavo

in drobovjem, ki drgeta kot trop sestradanih meduz,

 

ti ostane bore malo možnosti. Kar se mene tiče,

je razglednica prispela že prepozno, vozni red

odprave se ni spremenil, sploh ne. Odpreti moram

usta: večerna sluz, stopinje do bifeja, slane preste

 

in riba, ki jo izpljunem v jutro brez pridevnikov.

Treba bo dvigniti zapornice: kdor zdaj sam ostane,

ne na varnem, ampak suh, kdor zdaj noče s tokom

usklajeno tarnati, kdor v tenki plamen raje gleda

 

kot pod gladino, ta bo še dolgo sam ostal, kavarne

komaj obiskane in knjige o vremenu in hladne pipe.

Drevo, ki raste tam, kjer ljubezni se vrtijo v krog,

je znane vrste, veliko moje blaznosti in malo lipe.

 

 

 

The tree that grows there, where love turns in a circle,

the ignorant offspring of passion, the tree might be holy,

but if you lie under it, like I do, head overflowing

and innards trembling like a swarm of starving jellyfish,

 

few options remain for you. As for me, the postcard

arrived too late, the timetable for the expedition

hasn’t changed, not at all. I have to open my mouth:

the evening slime, footsteps to the bar, salty pretzels

 

and fish, which I spit out into the morning without adjectives.

The floodgates will have to open: who is alone now stays,

not safe, but dry, who refuses now to lament in harmony

with the stream, who prefers to stare into a thin flame

 

rather than below the surface, he will long remain so,

hardly visit cafes and books on weather and cold pipes.

The tree that grows there, where love turns in a circle,

is of a known species, much of my madness, a bit of linden.

 

 

 

 

Zlezel sem skoz lino južne svetlobe, nekateri

so jo imeli za mrak, in šel peš do mesta, dobro

ga poznam, imel sem težke žepe in naletaval

je moker sneg: čakali so me časopisni snopi.

 

Nujna zadeva: kdor ljubi, tvega mnogo oblik

začudenja. Listi šelestijo, gorijo naslovnice

in popularni komentarji v zgornjem levem

kotu. Poročila o prepirih med štirimi zidovi

 

in stropom mrgolijo, med nebom in prosečimi

pogledi. Zlivajo se v reportaže o lakoti in

črno kroniko, osmrtnice za kurirje fantazije

in poglavja o govorici divjih rož, mogoče

 

sivka, tulipani gotovo ne. Bos hodim v tuji

zimi, nič prav dobro ne pomaga, zlorabljam

mnoge bralce in tiskarske škrate, novice

nadomeščam s ploščatimi skalami otoka Paga.

 

 

I climbed through the window of southern light,

some considered it dark, and walked to the city

I know well. My pockets were heavy and wet snow

fell: piles of newspaper were waiting for me.

 

An urgent matter: whoever loves risks many forms

of astonishment. Leaves rustle, headlines

and popular commentaries in the upper left corner

burn. Accounts of arguments between four walls

 

and the ceiling swarm, between the sky and pleading

looks. They flow into reportage on hunger and

the crime page, obituaries for messengers of fantasy

and chapters on the language of wild flowers, perhaps

 

lavender, certainly not tulips. I walk barefoot

in the foreign winter, nothing really helps, I abuse

many readers and misprints, replace

news with flat rocks from the island of Pag.

 

 

 

Prišla sva gledat, kako se je prijelo seme

na tujih tleh, fin arabski pesek v mednožju,

prijetno ščemenje med plovbo redne linije,

bazarji in dišave, mehke kaplje in ostre čeri,

 

med moškim in žensko je vsako srečanje prvo,

vročični poljub, možna izbira med tu in tam,

kjer ni opore, se je treba odločiti na lastno pest

in vlogo odigrati, ki ni prosila, ampak zahtevala,

 

da sem po terasah velikega trajekta, po kabinah

za potnike lovil vonje in strani, iztrgane replike

brez pomoči in šepetalke. Dobro ve posadka,

kaj je treba delati in kaj storiti, drugače kakor

 

ti in jaz, ko sva prišla pogledat, kaj se skriva

v črnici med razpokami lesa, tatinski prsti

in slabost v želodcu. Palubo so zasedli zbiralci

perja in zamujenih priložnosti: kdo je zdaj na vrsti?

 

 

We have come to see how the seed had taken root

in foreign soil, fine Arabian sand in the crotch,

a pleasant tingling during the regular voyage,

bazaars and fragrances, soft drops and sharp rocks,

 

between a man and a woman every meeting is the first,

a feverish kiss, a possible choice between here and there,

where there is no support, one must decide on his own

and play the role, which did not ask, but demanded

 

that along the terraces of the large ferry, through passenger

cabins, I chase odors and pages, torn-out replies

without assistance and a prompter. The crew knows well

what it must make and what to do, unlike

 

you and me, when we came to see what’s hidden

in the black dirt between the cracks in the wood, thieving fingers

and nausea. The deck has been occupied by collectors

of feathers and missed opportunities: whose turn is it now?