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.