• Datum objave: nedelja, 7. februar 2016
  • Donald Hall: izbor poezije

    Jutranje verande

     

    Še jutro je formalno. Kašelj psa
    zbudi pahljačo ptičje histerije.
    Pred njo se umakne jutranja megla.

     

    Premlevam, da je les preveč trohljiv, –
    ko na verandi brez oblik posedam, –
    Da prave iz črnila bi gradil.

     

    To je noro jutro. Ko te prime,
    da s smrtno resnostjo najraje ujel
    Bi nedokončno, ukleščeno med rime.

     

    Tak ulov je dober in če nam uspe,
    analogija vsaj za hip je stvarnost.
    Verande so iz lesa. Tako pač je.

     

    A vendar globlje skriva se resnica;
    čeprav žival je ena, sestoji
    iz dveh milijard atomov vsaka ptica.

     


    The Morning Porches

     

    Even the morning is formal. A coughing dog
    scatters the birds, whose quick hysteria
    Becomes a lady´s fan against the fog.

     

    I sit upon a changing porch, and think
    ideas about the insubstantial wood,
    That I may make real porches out of ink.

     

    This is a crazy morning. There are times
    when it seems highly serious to catch
    The indeterminate between two rhymes.

     

    Yet such a catch is fond, for in the act
    analogy becomes the thing itself.
    Porches are made of wood. This is a fact.

     

    So look again, and deeper. I have heard
    that though the animal is singular,
    Two billion particles make up a bird.

     

    ***

     

    Pogreb

     

    Je škatla, ki iz nje pajac ne skoči.
    Zaprite jo, a naj vendár poboža
    Mu roke še in prstan njena koža.
    Plašijo jo objemi nenavzoči.
    Zaprite jo, pokrov je tam, da loči.
    Motri ga in stoji samotna roža,
    Vsa žalna govoričenja so kloža
    Užitka izzvanih solz, ki naj jih toči.

     

    Zaboj sploh ni pomemben. Je pač tak
    Kot vsi ostali v nepregledni vrsti.
    Da v njem zaprt je, je postal enak,
    Ves obnemel in gluh, kot vsak mrtvak,
    Za njen še najneznatnejši korak.
    Črni možje, pokrov zaprite krsti.

     

     

    The Funeral

     

    It is the box from which no jack will spring.
    Now close the box, but not until she kisses
    The crossed, large hands which she already misses
    For their caress, and on his hands the ring.
    Now close the box, if we close anything.
    She sees the wooden lid, and she dismisses
    At least a hundred thoughtful artifices
    That would enjoy the tears that they would bring.

     

    The coffin does not matter. It was one
    Like many in the row from which she chose it.
    Now to be closed in it, he must become
    Like all the other dead men, deaf and dumb,
    Blank to the small particulars that stun
    Her mind all day. Black men, now come and close it.

     

    ***

     

    Bela jabolka

     

    ko je bil moj oče en teden mrtev
    sem se prebudil
    z njegovim glasom v ušesu
    sedel sem na posteljo

     

    in zadrževal dih
    in strmel v bleda zaprta vrata

     

    bela jabolka in okus po kamnu

     

    če bi me poklical ponovno
    bi si nadel plašč in galoše

     

     

    White Apples

     

    when my father had been dead a week
    I woke
    with his voice in my ear
    I sat up in bed

    and held my breath
    and stared at the pale closed door


    white apples and the taste of stone

    if he called again
    I would put on my coat and galoshes

    Donald Hall (*1928) je ameriški pesnik, pisatelj, urednik in literarni kritik. Napisal je več kot 50 del vseh žanrov, od otroške literature preko esejev in biografij do opusa poezije, ki obsega 22 zbirk. Leta 2006 je bil imenovan za pesnika lavreata Združenih držav Amerike.

     

    Žiga Kosec je podiplomski študent oddelka za primerjalno književnost in literarno teorijo. Rad pije kavo, bere poezijo, poleg tega pa hrani in rešuje brezdomne mačke.

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