Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Brane Mozetič

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch
on. Every so often he stops, sniffs, runs on.
Goes in circles. Sniffs around the mole-hills
mostly. Pokes right into them. It is then
I’m distracted by the phone vibrating in my pocket.
I’ll be there soon. What are you doing,
asks a well-known poetess. Are you reading? Writing?
It’s probably nice in the park. No, no, I’m confusing
myself. I’m watching mole-hills . . . and a dog
who’s sticking his nose in them. Oh, really? I
thought you were working. Well, I’ll call you when I
finish.  He has now begun taking on the great task.
He digs furiously, sniffing. I’m too stupid
to write smart poems. I run over to him
where he has gone in. I shout, but he pays no
attention. I pull him back, kneel down
next to a tunnel leading to that land
of moles. He’s already destroyed one. Behind them,
someone is salving tree-bark, a thin
mole-poet putting together his book.
He’ll drag it deeper, into the earth, have it
bound and then through thousands of tunnels
will make its way to the central mole-library
where history is already noted in millions of books.
Once again my pocket’s vibrating. So be it.
I get up, move away, the dog watching me, and
when I turn around, he’ll know that he’ll be allowed
to destroy what remains.

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch

Pes se podi po travniku in jaz ga opazujem.
Vsake toliko se ustavi, povoha, odbrzi
naprej. Dela kroge. Največ šnofa po
krtinah. Prav zarine se vanje. Tedaj
me zmoti brnenje telefona v žepu.
Saj bom kmalu. Kaj počneš,
vpraša znana pesnica. Ali bereš? Pišeš?
V parku je verjetno lepo. Ne, ne, se
zmedem. Gledam krtine... in psa, ki
rine gobec v njih. A, takoooo? Sem
mislila, da delaš. No, te pokličem, ko
končam. Sedaj se je lotil največje.
Besno koplje, ovohava. Preneumen sem,
da bi pisal pametne pesmi. Stečem do njega,
ker že pretirava. Zakričim, ne zmeni se
zame. Potegnem ga stran, pokleknem,
zavarujem rov, ki vodi v krtovo
deželo. Vidim, enega je ugonobil. Zadaj
pa nekdo v paniki rešuje lubje. Droben
krtji pesnik, ki sestavlja svojo knjigo.
Zvlekel jo bo niže, v zemljo, dal jo
v vezavo in potem po tisočerih rovih
bo prišla v centralno krtjo knjižnico,
kjer že na milijone knjig beleži zgodovino.
Nasmehnem se, v žepu spet brni. Naj le.
Dvignem se, umaknem, pes me gleda, in
ko se obrnem, ve, da lahko uniči, kar
je še ostalo.
Close

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch
on. Every so often he stops, sniffs, runs on.
Goes in circles. Sniffs around the mole-hills
mostly. Pokes right into them. It is then
I’m distracted by the phone vibrating in my pocket.
I’ll be there soon. What are you doing,
asks a well-known poetess. Are you reading? Writing?
It’s probably nice in the park. No, no, I’m confusing
myself. I’m watching mole-hills . . . and a dog
who’s sticking his nose in them. Oh, really? I
thought you were working. Well, I’ll call you when I
finish.  He has now begun taking on the great task.
He digs furiously, sniffing. I’m too stupid
to write smart poems. I run over to him
where he has gone in. I shout, but he pays no
attention. I pull him back, kneel down
next to a tunnel leading to that land
of moles. He’s already destroyed one. Behind them,
someone is salving tree-bark, a thin
mole-poet putting together his book.
He’ll drag it deeper, into the earth, have it
bound and then through thousands of tunnels
will make its way to the central mole-library
where history is already noted in millions of books.
Once again my pocket’s vibrating. So be it.
I get up, move away, the dog watching me, and
when I turn around, he’ll know that he’ll be allowed
to destroy what remains.

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch

The dog runs about the meadow as I watch
on. Every so often he stops, sniffs, runs on.
Goes in circles. Sniffs around the mole-hills
mostly. Pokes right into them. It is then
I’m distracted by the phone vibrating in my pocket.
I’ll be there soon. What are you doing,
asks a well-known poetess. Are you reading? Writing?
It’s probably nice in the park. No, no, I’m confusing
myself. I’m watching mole-hills . . . and a dog
who’s sticking his nose in them. Oh, really? I
thought you were working. Well, I’ll call you when I
finish.  He has now begun taking on the great task.
He digs furiously, sniffing. I’m too stupid
to write smart poems. I run over to him
where he has gone in. I shout, but he pays no
attention. I pull him back, kneel down
next to a tunnel leading to that land
of moles. He’s already destroyed one. Behind them,
someone is salving tree-bark, a thin
mole-poet putting together his book.
He’ll drag it deeper, into the earth, have it
bound and then through thousands of tunnels
will make its way to the central mole-library
where history is already noted in millions of books.
Once again my pocket’s vibrating. So be it.
I get up, move away, the dog watching me, and
when I turn around, he’ll know that he’ll be allowed
to destroy what remains.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère