Contempo- rary Slovenian poetry 2 - Ljudmila

Pagan Death
Translated by Marjan
Golobič
Dreams. Hot willing woman.
Her body like heaven’s gate,
her scent sharp and mild,
breeze divine inspiration.
There is but one god, o, Tien!
There is but one penetrating deeper.
To me she runs dark and bright merriment,
At once. As usual.
She cries not. She wants me.
Something in her eyes strikes me,
From her eyes I beg her.
I come near. I caress her.
I prey on her. Drink from her.
With the tips of my fingers I touch
her scarlet skin. She is mine, she is mine.
I sense her through the depths… the skin responds.
What more do you want,
As if you were boiling, but never boiling over.
At least not that way. Burdens me. And beauty burns up.
Slowly she scratches the skin. Burns like embers
of sacrificial rites. So open-heartedly.
Something strange, something very strange.
The skeleton begins to receive serious touches.
Threatening forms. Skeleton soul.
I get scared and bewildered. I awake.
Instead of a face, living death stares at me.
It struts about, enwraps me, opens me up.
I stay awake all night
and in the morning I rage – absent-minded frightened shadow.
Fecundated from a dream.
Like the negation of the end.
How strange, how very strange.
Like the existence of non-existence.
Displaced belligerent attitude.
Truly kind and terrible.
I smite, I kill not, I bandage.
Singing are the hands. My dear, my death!
I rage into the flesh and save myself. Endlessly I sizzle.
31
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Translated by Jure Novak
On chilly days
moss – a sizzling thought
atop a forest rock