Barbara Pogačnik (Slovenia)

​HOURS, SALLIED FORTH FROM THE CELLAR
 
                                                                                L`heure qui pousse son troupeau
                                                                                Mais on cherche ceux qui le gardent
                                                                                    Pierre Reverdy
 
We polish a clock                                           
like a drop in the sea,
and all the while it is falling back into the water.
 
The cats are worrying at socks & who'll hide solitude.           
Footprints around our sleepy fishing nets
are forming into clouds. A flock of hours sways by the jetty.
 
In the halo of pine resin new roads are emerging                    
shouting Schengen! Pages of history are buried below 
the cats' paws. Waters are posited according to new time.   
 
How will we fall asleep with our throats opened to                
a sea which is let into our dreams drop by drop ?
Even so, we are building a palace out of dry bread.
 
My temporary home is a cling foil bandage
separating me from unhappiness. My home is a paper house
which is leafed through whenever someone stops breathing.
 
Everyone changes colour when brushed by love.
We are getting ready for a shift from pigeon greys.  
A crash against the eyes, brimming coffees.
 
Someone is slotted into unhappiness like a filter into water.
You don't know what to do: you struggle with letters
yanking them from the earth which is not yet – or
no longer – yours.
 
And sometimes when the letters multiply
you no longer know what you are yanking for.
 
The drops have fallen into the sea.
Cats miaow in the middle of the path.
 
You have to stop a while & let dreams go.                                          
 
 
Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Stephen Watts

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