posimvec
VEČER. VEČERJA. VEČ. EVENING IN/EVENING OUT
Ifigenija Simonvic tr. Anthony Rudolf & the poet
......
Vrata odpre. Zastira
pogled skoz hodnik. Slišim
več ljudi. Me spreleti.
 
Ali vejo? Kdo sem? Kaj
bo rekel? Za koga me bo
predstavil? Za koga me ima?
 

Brskamo po krožnikih. Ne rečemo
ne jaz ne oni
ničesar. Brskamo po krožnikih.
 
Povem nekaj malega. Oni nekaj
malega odgovorijo. Povejo nekaj
malega. Odgovorim.
 
Ali pa? Se sprašujem.
Kako se zmeraj pokaže nekaj
drugega. In drugače.
Kako me je zmeraj sram.
Svoje nekonkretnosti.
nesestavljenosti me je sram.
Kako se opažam razvaljano.
Raztreseno. V drobtinah vso.
Kako me je zmeraj sram. Neprestano.
Kako se ne morem zbrati. Kar naprej
pobiram okrog sebe. Pa kar naprej mi
pada iz naročja.

Oni gledajo. Za hip
se mi zazdijo čudoviti.
Portreti okrašenih zidov.
Potem divji ptiči. Grebejo.
Pulijo vse iz mene. Kljuvajo
mi v grlo. Nazaj jemljejo.
Kar imam od drugod.
 
Smejem se in kričim.
Brskam po krožnikih.
Oni po mojem.



He opens the door.
He blocks off the hall.
I hear more people.

Do they know who I am? What
will he say? How will I
be introduced? Who does he
take me for?

We pick at the plates, not saying
me, them, anything.
Picking at the food

I make small talk. They
make small
talk, I reply. They reply.

Or? I ask myself:
how come it always turns out
to be something else? And different?
How come I am always ashamed.
Of my lack of solidity. Of my being unconstructed?
I notice how thinly spread I am.
Scattered. In crumbs.
How ashamed. All the time.
I cannot hold myself together.
All the time picking up
what is falling out of my lap.

For a moment
they seem wonderful.
Portraits of decorated walls.
And then wild birds. Plundering.
Pulling everything
out of me. Pecking
my throat. Taking back
What I've accumulated elsewhere.

I laugh and scream.
I pick at their plates.
They pick at mine.



Copyright © Ifigenija Simonovič 1996; trans. © Ifigenija Simonovič & Anthony Rudolf 1996, publ. Menard Press


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