Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Taja Kramberger

Questa mostra (Florence, 1972)

What you see is a road;
two figures nearing an intersection.                  
At its tail-end, one figure picks up a stone               
and turns it over lingeringly in his hand.
   
Conversation assumes the shape of the stone,
it becomes smooth and round,                         
impermeable and warm,
almost glowing with touch.                        

The figures draw apart.
You still see the road,                                                  
but what you don’t see:                                                        

the stone slipping into the pocket,
the ways parting, and the conversation,
now hidden inside the stone, continue
in the sculptures of Henry Moore.

Questa mostra (Firenze, 1972)

Questa mostra (Firenze, 1972)

Kar vidiš je cesta;
dve postavi se približujeta razpotju.
Na izteku ena pobere kamen,
ki ga dolgo valja po rokah.

Pogovor dobi obliko kamna.
Postane gladek, obel,
neprehoden in topel,
skoraj žareč od dotikov.

Postavi se oddaljita.
Kar vidiš je še zmeraj cesta.
Kar ne vidiš:

kamen zdrsne v žep,
poti se razidejo in pogovor,
ki je ostal skrit v kamnu,
se nadaljuje v Moorovih skulpturah.
Close

Questa mostra (Florence, 1972)

What you see is a road;
two figures nearing an intersection.                  
At its tail-end, one figure picks up a stone               
and turns it over lingeringly in his hand.
   
Conversation assumes the shape of the stone,
it becomes smooth and round,                         
impermeable and warm,
almost glowing with touch.                        

The figures draw apart.
You still see the road,                                                  
but what you don’t see:                                                        

the stone slipping into the pocket,
the ways parting, and the conversation,
now hidden inside the stone, continue
in the sculptures of Henry Moore.

Questa mostra (Florence, 1972)

What you see is a road;
two figures nearing an intersection.                  
At its tail-end, one figure picks up a stone               
and turns it over lingeringly in his hand.
   
Conversation assumes the shape of the stone,
it becomes smooth and round,                         
impermeable and warm,
almost glowing with touch.                        

The figures draw apart.
You still see the road,                                                  
but what you don’t see:                                                        

the stone slipping into the pocket,
the ways parting, and the conversation,
now hidden inside the stone, continue
in the sculptures of Henry Moore.
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Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
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