Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Barbara Pogačnik

HOME-MOVE

Doors make of themselves a torso, a leg catches
into a smile and the entire flat surrenders to tardiness.  
The removal guys come from all sides, sticking 
their meters even through the cracks in the wall,  
their sticky tapes slapping all the way to the street below.  
I wait for them to wrap up all the images from the TV,
smells from the restaurants, gestures, the flow of people.
The measurers of happy days and hours of family screaming
penetrate into the plug-holes and pipes. Everything we've
ever hidden behind the wardrobes and beneath the floors 
is now openly socializing with these tailed racoons.  
Naked-eyed we stand in the centre of all the rooms. 
From under the impact of broken shadows
and many teas drunk down to the dregs,
a few crumbs slip away from 
our numerous and invisible departures. 

Funny: as if the crumbs had put themselves
between all the calls and I am trapped with them in sound space,
and as if the rooms in their merging were to lift me on high  
rather than quarter me. 
 

VERHUIZINGEN

Deuren maken een torso van zichzelf, een been wordt gevangen
in een glimlach en de hele woning geeft zich aan vertraging over.
De verhuizers komen van alle kanten, zelfs door de spleten van de wand
duwen ze hun meters,
hun plakbanden, die weergalmen tot aan de straat.
Ik wacht, totdat ze alle beelden van de TV met papier omwikkelen,
geuren uit restaurants, gebaren, het lopen van mensen in de stad.
De meters van gelukkige dagen en uren van familiegeschreeuw
dringen in de gootstenen en pijpen door. Alles, wat we
ooit achter de kasten en onder de vloer verstopten, gaat
openlijk om met deze bestaarte wasberen.
Met blote ogen staan we in het midden van alle kamers.
Met de kracht van gebroken schaduwen, onder tot de laatste druppel gedronken theeën
worden in onze talrijke en onmerkbare
vertrekken nog wat kruimels uit de weg gegaan.

Vreemd: alsof de kruimels zich hebben geplaatst tussen alle
roepen, ben ik met hen daarmee gevangen in het gehoor tussen ruimtes,
en alsof de kamers mij bij het kruisen zouden optillen
en me niet zouden vierendelen.
 

SELITEV

Vrata se postavijo v torzo, noga se ujame
v nasmeh in vse stanovanje se prepusti zamudi.
Selilci prihajajo od vseh strani, celo skozi reže v steni
potiskajo svoje metre,
svoje lepilne trakove, ki odmevajo vse do ulice.
Čakam, da v papir zavijejo vse slike s televizije,
vonje iz restavracij, kretnje, hojo ljudi po mestu.
Merilci srečnih dni in ur družinskega kričanja
prodirajo v lijake in v cevi. Vse, kar smo
kdaj skrili za omare in v podtalje, se razkrito
druži s temi repatimi rakuni.
Golih oči stojimo sredi vseh sob.
V sili razbitih senc, pod do konca popitimi čaji
se našim številnim in neopaznim
odhodom izmika še nekaj drobtin.

Čudno: kot bi se drobtinice postavile med vse
klice, sem z njimi ujeta v sluhu med prostori,
in kot bi me sobe v svojem križanju dvignile
in ne razčetverile.
 
Close

HOME-MOVE

Doors make of themselves a torso, a leg catches
into a smile and the entire flat surrenders to tardiness.  
The removal guys come from all sides, sticking 
their meters even through the cracks in the wall,  
their sticky tapes slapping all the way to the street below.  
I wait for them to wrap up all the images from the TV,
smells from the restaurants, gestures, the flow of people.
The measurers of happy days and hours of family screaming
penetrate into the plug-holes and pipes. Everything we've
ever hidden behind the wardrobes and beneath the floors 
is now openly socializing with these tailed racoons.  
Naked-eyed we stand in the centre of all the rooms. 
From under the impact of broken shadows
and many teas drunk down to the dregs,
a few crumbs slip away from 
our numerous and invisible departures. 

Funny: as if the crumbs had put themselves
between all the calls and I am trapped with them in sound space,
and as if the rooms in their merging were to lift me on high  
rather than quarter me. 
 

HOME-MOVE

Doors make of themselves a torso, a leg catches
into a smile and the entire flat surrenders to tardiness.  
The removal guys come from all sides, sticking 
their meters even through the cracks in the wall,  
their sticky tapes slapping all the way to the street below.  
I wait for them to wrap up all the images from the TV,
smells from the restaurants, gestures, the flow of people.
The measurers of happy days and hours of family screaming
penetrate into the plug-holes and pipes. Everything we've
ever hidden behind the wardrobes and beneath the floors 
is now openly socializing with these tailed racoons.  
Naked-eyed we stand in the centre of all the rooms. 
From under the impact of broken shadows
and many teas drunk down to the dregs,
a few crumbs slip away from 
our numerous and invisible departures. 

Funny: as if the crumbs had put themselves
between all the calls and I am trapped with them in sound space,
and as if the rooms in their merging were to lift me on high  
rather than quarter me. 
 
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère