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About
Poets
Writing
Walking
Cities
Beyond



Ana Pepelnik



thirteen days for the blackbird

the river is moving.
the blackbird must be flying.
Wallace Stevens

I.

winter was still
so very still
that we forgot
the beauty of inflections
when the blackbird sings
when it rains
and it just keeps singing

  II.

rain and blackbird are one
but the blackbird lasts longer
as part of what I know

III.

the tram has outgrown the street
though it was the sun
which was shining so brightly
that you couldn’t see the blackbird
even blacker under the rainbow

  IV.

i don’t know
who
saved the morning
that cherry tree
with open buds
or a song
about the blackbird

in the bright park
both
part of the evening

V.

i went through several cities
across squares into bright alleys
in every shadow the blackbird was resting

VI.

i’m looking into the nest
you’re weaving
assiduously
singing three melodies

 and it’s april
dance dance black
bird and sing
about the beauty of innuendoes

VII.

circles
you discover only
when the blackbird flies
far to the edge
of one of many

VIII.

here…want a crumb?
one for a beautiful day
one for later
one for not stopping
for you.

IX.

it had to be in movement of wings
beneath the shadow cast on the ground
pierced only with clover
that had stopped growing

or in the wind’s game caught in a bottle 

X.

a tree doesn’t fall
when three hundred blackbirds
fall asleep on it

when one single blackbird whistles
and accidentally sits
on a bonsai
centuries collapse

XI.

for seven days the sky was grey

a scrap of blue nearby
was a glare on grey sky
and only a blackbird flew low

XII.

on the edge of the moon you flew
because of May or the rain
today it’s full
of silent overflights

XIII.

these days the river calmly
meanders

running under red and white
chestnuts 

blossoms are lightly
dropping

 between fingers turning towards
the clouds

but it’s all in this
movement 

like the rain that catches in the feathers
of a blackbird


shakes

 No wind. Just episodic shakes
of  air released by a robin.
Right beside me. We left a whole week
of walking between blocks of flats behind us.

Up and down the street several times a day.
People still have their own gardens.
They take good care of them if they’re not too busy.
Vegetable plots full of spinach

that nobody cooks.


so many colours

A note about colours
is colourless.
Just black and white.

Black letters
resting
on white paper.

But I’ve walked
the green park
for you collecting 

the colourful world
for your
tiny fist.


walk like

Suddenly the street empties.
That’s the effect snow has. Today
it’s falling down like curtains on a stage.
It brings some peace of its own and
smooth as butter everything dirty
disappears. Now I know it means the piano
will appear again and, later, the muffled
sound of gloves sliding too fast over the keys.
Again you’ll hold the ladybird in your hands
and put it down on my lap at the end of the street.
So I won’t shiver and so that the calm
will hold for a couple of days. The street and everything
on it is different today. White and empty.
Its effect is slightly strange so I concentrate
on the warmth in my lap. With both hands
I hold the ladybird which brings me luck
every time I look at it.

Translated by Ana Pepelnik and Zoë Skoulding


december

Čez umazanijo posuto po mestu
se je naredila tanka skorja ledu.
Ljubljana kot torta z marcipanovim
prelivom. Če obhodiš malo ulic
še preden se stemni in se mesto sprazni
lahko vidiš kako se ljudje rahlo zaletavajo.
Nanje se usipa sneg kot v krogli
s figuricami. Ko jo potreseš
se figurice zaletavajo in nad njimi krožijo
bele pike. Če je naokrog tišina lahko slišiš
praznično petje in rahlo potrkavanje.
Danes sem utrujena. Drsam se po tankem
ledu in pazim da se ne zaletavam.
Mrmram si sveto noč ker se je že stemnilo.
V žepu imam marcipan. Vsakič ko se kdo
rahlo zaleti vame ga malo odgriznem.
Samo zato da sneg ki ga lovim med prste
postane topel. Samo zato da zdržim.


december

Over the dirt-infested city spreads
a thin veneer of ice. Ljubljana’s
a marzipan-covered cake. If you wander
through a few alleyways even as dark
is emptying the town you’ll see how people
are softly colliding. Snow falls on them
as on the figurines in a crystal ball
when you shake it the figurines begin
colliding softly in a swirl of snowflakes.
If it is quiet you can hear carols,
a tinkle of chimes. I am tired today.
Skating on thin ice I try to avoid
those slight collisions. I murmur holy night
to myself because it’s already dark.
In my pocket I keep marzipan and each
time someone bumps me bite a little off
so that the snow is warm when I catch it
in my fingers. So that I can hold out.

Translated by Ciarran O’Driscoll & Ana Pepelnik

Metropoetica News

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