There’s November in everything, cold air affixing to tough skin like curious fingers.
By Andrej Hočevar / Ljubljana, Slovenia
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Getting Used to the Light
There’s November in everything, cold
air affixing to tough skin
like curious fingers.
Each evening is a small defeat, a poem
never to be written.
My body started speaking
French. I can hardly understand it,
I can’t catch up with it at all and have no idea
where my words are going.
That’s why I want to start this poem all over,
I want to grab it and do with it
what I do with your body –
but a poem doesn’t always lie before a man
as full and naked as a woman.
Without any sleepiness I sleep
like a shadow under a tree,
the roots intertwining beneath me,
and there, left forgotten on a branch,
an apple. Its persistence is
yellow and senseless.
Here, there is no love – in a poem
a woman can’t be easily exchanged.
The Sun is Shining Above Europe
I’m still walking on damp sand
flat-footedly pressing upon the history
of the sea. Clouds are shedding from my body.
The day already fuller than usual
and the light lets its petals
fall all over your neck.
Previously I saw people carrying
thick bouquets of leeks, big as a meter.
Now the cold is spilling over the city
and outside on the doorknob
hangs a bag with two leeks,
upright and more ordinary in size,
while on the shellfish ever less visible
pearls are forming – towards the end of the year
everything returns to its usual routine.
Neglected thoughts are arching
through me, the city walking on me,
wrapped in a woman’s hair for a scarf.
I’d forgotten everything about this poem.
At times, the hand that softly holds us
suspended in air, shakes us like salt.
Of all the lives I don’t live, this one
is the best.
Last Updated ( Tuesday, November 2, 2010 )