I suggest listening to Tone Škrjanec read his poems in the Slovene while you read these English translations, for a delicious confluence of languages in your ears and mind. - Emily Wallis Hughes
A View of Scenery That Evades All Laws
I had lacy underpants
lowered to my knees and I was running
back and forth among prickly bushes.
It was night and I could hear
lots and lots of mysterious noises.
Endless shining eyes
who twinkled in the twilight like stars
were strolling over my silky
skin without shame.
Touches that I experienced
as gentle caressing,
driven to perfection.
this time we’ll sit down very quietly
together
we’ll spend an entire evening and night sitting around
totally quiet
giving each other names and bottles as gifts
covering our tracks
and hiding broken branches
wiping our eyes and tucking curls behind our ears
we’ll never talk about our ancestors who have been gone for so long
or about our descendants our memories
we won’t set the table with fruits and pastries
we’ll eat from each other’s hands
lick our fingertips and guess the flavors
like deer
we’ll fall asleep just for a moment these first mornings in each others’ palms
and forget about all the days before
and all those to come.
New Times
Today rain isn’t falling
but slowly slipping
like across a windshield
of a car.
It’s dusk
though the clock doesn’t show it.
It’s clear there’s no solution,
that victory isn’t possible.
Though we play
to the end.
We’re jobbing with colored
beads
and swilling beer
until we fall.
Then we fall
all fragile, helpless,
without wings
and without even knowing
whether at the end
we’ll be able to land on our feet
or react with dignity
to a whole list
of impatient temptations
in accordance with our
national character.
Cold days are coming.
A season of watching
and touching.
A time of eyes and skin.
history
rain was falling at night. i liked it, this darkness
and chattering filling up space. then i fell asleep.
and dreamed, probably. i woke up
with some unknown taste in my mouth. maybe
everyday life was happening to me,
just following different sequences,
with faces, bodies and voices that vanished inside me
a long time ago. like that pineapple yesterday.
how good it smelled and cried. and the cut piece of salami
stubbornly drying on a plate is also
part of history, and the fly buzzing over it.
meaning of food
who knows what negotiations will bring.
some snow or thin, transparent
ice which will cover everything that exists. maybe
even warm, incomprehensible tongues
licking it away to the skin. food is
extremely important, it prevents headaches,
oils the body properly so it doesn’t rattle
while strolling slowly down the tree-lane by the river.
we get along better this way,
constantly touching each other as if by accident,
sipping extreme amounts of teas and beers.
we’re sitting close to each other.
smelling each other.
Humming
Giving in to despondency
is a resigned sentence. My thoughts are racing.
Coming and leaving. The best are sitting
in a corner of a bar and they don’t look like the best.
But we have winter with some sun today. A dog is lying
at Maša’s feet. It’s dozing with half closed eyes.
She’s constantly fiddling with the computer
and muttering something to herself.
She’s hummingly communicating with the machine.
Years ago I wanted her breasts on the cover
of my book of poetry. It didn’t work. We picked something else.
Time is suspiciously stretched out. As if a storm
and shortage were to follow this stillness,
as if water might cover the whole country
and cars be replaced by boats.
A whole eternity is hidden in these moments
that disappear.
People are coming and leaving all the time.
Rarely the same people. They’re like
a river. Only you can never really
enter them.
An Island
a corpse is brought to an island
in a special fishing boat
because its freezer is big enough.
like fish and lobsters.
dim steam covers the island like a hat.
we’re lying around on the beach
gaping at the sea and listening
to its roaring. in my case
it mixes with the music from my walkman.
we’re shining really systematically
like pebbles washed by the sea.
we’re lighting our cigarettes in the wind
that’s constantly putting out the fire
from the faint lighter.
days pass like the rain.
i love to love. i’m handing you
a piece of a watermelon so you can
spit the seeds into the gravel.
A Poem in the Shade
I sit in the shade of an old bay laurel. I’m smoking
and pretending to write. As if I’m
deep in my thoughts I stare through infinity.
A cup of tea, my afternoon meal,
is empty. Just like memories,
digested several times. Buzzing of flies
and indistinct voices from a distance. I’m looking
at luxurious passion flowers. Ripe
orange fruits and completely unbelievable
blossoms with antennas built
into their floors. All this miracle on a single limb.
I can’t sniff out any higher truths.
The sun that creeps through the bay laurel
is feeding on my body. A midge on the tip of my nose.
Still I’m remembering, feeling, seeing.
I write this down. I write a painting.
Words aren’t always a game.
depending on clouds
i feel i need — suddenly — more space.
nothing but forests all around, for a few moments they’re dark blue,
then bright green. everything depends on clouds,
moving back and forth over the sky like big, gray lakes.
i’m not sure what i’m thinking about as i soak my feet
in a lukewarm lake, seemingly absorbed in thoughts,
and a white hairy dog walks by like a cumulus.
a little green bug lands on my elbow
for a moment, to take a breath.
evening before night and night before morning
everything very weird. this grey-haired rock. stone with dark-grey skin
like a wrinkled dog. tame and mellow. green tea with a touch of
wild mint is quite bitter. a bird singing all night. we know
which one it was. we know it. the world i’m placing under my thoughts is like that.
nothing lasts forever. everything is very weird. bodies are beautiful.
they’re climbing a hill and panting. when the first drops of rain start to drizzle
i grasp their arm and squeeze under an umbrella. how
horrendously beautiful the warmth is traversing between them.
half of the sky covered with
thin clouds, beautiful faces aren’t necessarily dark and young. trees aren’t necessarily olive trees.
at night, when i’m sleeping, the past finds me helpless.
i dream of shiny, smooth lips and small, flat breasts
like a wave on a calm sea. ancient sensations. i escape
into early morning. sitting under a canopy, i can feel the scent of young trees
in the air. rain is slowly subsiding. drops sliding down greasy, spear-shaped
leaves of oleander. birds are reporting from all sides.
the body isn’t listening to the head, it stubbornly rocks around the world
leaving sticky drops behind. i cough, light a cigarette,
take a sip of cold tea. a grey sky stretches above me.
birds on all sides sing. everything else is asleep.
Tone Škrjanec: "What I am reading now, or just finished reading, and what is lying around the house to be read or read again: Arkadij & Boris Strugacki Piknik's na robu ceste (Arkady and Boris Strugatsky's Roadside Picnic), Slovene poet Jure Detela, Apollinaire (I especially like to read his poem "Zone" every now and then), Henry Miller's Colossus of Maroussi, Australian poet John Forbes (1950 – 1998), and Chika Sagawa (1911–1936). And yes, Basho."
Ana Pepelnik is a poet and translator. She is the author of a five books of poetry: Ena od variant kako ravnati s skrivnostjo (2007), Utrip oranžnih luči na semaforjih (2009), Cela večnost (2013), Pod vtisom (2015), Tehno (2017), and Treš (2021). Her first three books were published by LUD Literatura; her most recent books were published by LUD Šerpa.
She translates poetry from the English language, focusing on Elizabeth Bishop, James Schuyler, Matthew Zapruder, Joshua Beckman, Noelle Kocot, and Matthew Rohrer. In the United States, her translation (together with Matthew Rohrer) of Skin (a book from Slovene poet Tone Škrjanec) was published by Tavern Books, and was among the ten finalists for the PEN America Award for Poetry in Translation. Her own poems have been translated into a few additional languages.
Ana took part in the international project Metropoetica, under the mentorship of a poet from Wales, Zoë Skoulding. As a speaker, she collaborates in sound-impro performances with trio CPG Impro – Čučnik Pepelnik Grom). As both, she participated in the project Poetrix, the sound work of musician and sound artist Jaka Berger–Brgs.
Matthew Rohrer: "Some recent books that have been extremely inspiring to me are: Caleb Williams, by William Godwin; Red Shelley, by Paul Foot; Salad Anniversary, by Machi Tawara; Tolstoy Killed Anna Karenina by Dara Barois/Dixon; Troubles, by JG Farrell; Dreaming as One, by Lewis Warsh; Far from the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy; and Lives like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family Feuds, by Lyndall Gordon."
