Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Tomaž Šalamun

To Metka

If I set fire to the white frame of the house, will the flame burn
brighter than the weight falling off our bodies?
Brighter then the samba? Brighter than my watery head?
I’m in the snow. You are dancing. Under the gigantic

green trees with your sad watery eyes.
We’re listening to the rhymes and slippers of your paintbrush.
Of meadows in which you see moss and what’s under
the mixed moss. A white lynx  scratching in a dark green throat.

Does the sky ever stop itself up and rattle? Where do you rest?
In an avalanche or on the earth? I gorge myself here, gorge myself,
swelling to keep from being torn apart in the heights

by the clouds, pink, blue, and violet, and the flowers,
like Tiepolo, the air cleansing itself behind him,
before the light floods and crushes us.

VOOR METKA

Als ik de witte planken van het huis in brand steek, zal het vuur dan
helderder zijn dan het gewicht dat van onze lichamen valt?
Helderder dan een samba? Helderder dan mijn sappige hoofd?
Ik ben in de witte sneeuw. Jij danst. Onder de groene
 
enorme bomen, met je vochtige, droevige ogen.
We luisteren naar de rijmen en naar de slippers van je penseel.
Naar de weiden van waar je mos ziet en wat onder
het mos zit. Een witte lynx krabt in een donkergroene keel.
 
Zal de hemel ooit tot stilstand komen en gaan ruisen? Waar rust je?
In een lawine of op aarde? Ik houd hier een feestmaal, een feestmaal,
ik vreet, zodat ik daar boven niet word verscheurd door de roze,
 
blauwe en violette wolken en de bloemen,
zoals Tiepolo, achter wie de lucht zich reinigt,
voordat het licht ons overspoelt en verkruimelt. 

Metki

Če požgem belo desko hiše, bo plamen bolj
svetal kot teža, ki pada z najinih teles?
Bolj kot samba? Bolj kot moja sočna glava?
V belem snegu sem. Ti plešeš. Pod zelenimi

orjaškimi drevesi s svojimi sočnimi žalostnimi
očmi. Rime poslušava in copatke čopiča. Loke,
ki se iz njih vidi mah in kar je pod mahom
vmes. Bel ris prasketa v temno zelenem grlu.

Se nebo kdaj zabaše in zašumi? Kje počivaš?
V plazu ali na zemlji? Tu se mastim, mastim,
žrem, da me v višini ne strgajo rožnati,

modri in vijoličasti oblaki in rože
kot Tiepola, ki se za njim zrak umije,
preden naju svetloba zalije in zdrobi.
Close

To Metka

If I set fire to the white frame of the house, will the flame burn
brighter than the weight falling off our bodies?
Brighter then the samba? Brighter than my watery head?
I’m in the snow. You are dancing. Under the gigantic

green trees with your sad watery eyes.
We’re listening to the rhymes and slippers of your paintbrush.
Of meadows in which you see moss and what’s under
the mixed moss. A white lynx  scratching in a dark green throat.

Does the sky ever stop itself up and rattle? Where do you rest?
In an avalanche or on the earth? I gorge myself here, gorge myself,
swelling to keep from being torn apart in the heights

by the clouds, pink, blue, and violet, and the flowers,
like Tiepolo, the air cleansing itself behind him,
before the light floods and crushes us.

To Metka

If I set fire to the white frame of the house, will the flame burn
brighter than the weight falling off our bodies?
Brighter then the samba? Brighter than my watery head?
I’m in the snow. You are dancing. Under the gigantic

green trees with your sad watery eyes.
We’re listening to the rhymes and slippers of your paintbrush.
Of meadows in which you see moss and what’s under
the mixed moss. A white lynx  scratching in a dark green throat.

Does the sky ever stop itself up and rattle? Where do you rest?
In an avalanche or on the earth? I gorge myself here, gorge myself,
swelling to keep from being torn apart in the heights

by the clouds, pink, blue, and violet, and the flowers,
like Tiepolo, the air cleansing itself behind him,
before the light floods and crushes us.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère