1 2 © Miha Fras 1971 Primo` ^u~nik Primo` ^u~nik is a poet and translator of Polish and American poetry (Miron Białoszewsky; Adam Wiedemann, Marcin Swietlicki, Piotr Sommer; Frank O’Hara, John Ashbery) who makes no attempt to conceal his poetic idols and who has opened his own, authentic space of language at the intersection of foreign languages as a polyphony of voices. His resounding fi rst work Dve zimi/Two winters, was followed by Ritem v rokah/Rhythm in hands, Zlata ptica 2002, Akordi/Chords and Nova okna/New Windows, nominated for Veronika 2005. He wrote the collection of poems Oda na Manhattanski aveniji/Ode to Manhattan Avenue together with poet Gregor Podlogar. His poems have been published in journals in English, French, Macedonian and Polish (Zapach herbaty). ^u~nik’s poetry is like bicycling through city streets. His is the urban environment: movement, rhythm, polyphony and – lightness. The relaxed, apparently unforced speech departs from the conjuring dark modernism of Zajc or Strni{a, and from the modernism of [alamun, and since 1999 has pioneered a new current in Slovene poetry. He is inspired in this by Polish poetry and by the New York poets and brings together various poetic strategies: from experimental to socially committed poetry and to the poem »Akordi« (Chords), which is presented here. There is sometimes a metaphysical theme concealed behind the relaxed surface, but Bach’s fugue is here transposed into a pop song, into jamming. ^u~nik’s poetry can be read as a double palimpsest. His poems are more than vulgar postmodern citations; they are efforts at polyphony of poetry. Polyphony also appears with ^u~nik when »something different« begins to shine through the urban veil. Skating through the city is a light, playful movement, there is joie de vivre. At the same time, skating over the frozen plates of the world, the skater knows that he can at any moment slip. And precisely this contrapunct, this transcendent urban aspect, is one of the most exciting features of his poetry. 3 Primo` ^u~nik Chords à Reverdy 1. Pick up castaway skates and glide across frozen pavements. Point-blank honed, cut into the surface and let the legs with the skates be one. Skate away quickly, alone, as though it were a race, pay no attention to shouts: “Where is he skating?” It’s good to skate this way, no bounds under skates everything is allowed. You’re the lone skater down here, you see neither marks nor shadows the skates cast. You glide among the city lights, you hold your balance, you don’t fall over backwards. The skates leave a sharp trace of lines, grooves in the shimmering surface under them. So, take a dusty old pair and skate away into a skidding substance, there you’ll feel whole. Skate by yourself and under you, ice will turn to a quickened liquid. Don’t tell people about your skating. Skate as though you weren’t skating alone. 4 Primo` ^u~nik 2. Boy, where are you skating, in your anger you have lost your bearings. There is a universe attracting you and your skates take leave of the ground. Do dancers dance on their heads here or do they simply fall and are deep in their fast falling. Tiny dots are planets and the skates every so often slide off the curved surface. Is this a dance of dancing or has the earth danced for all time and your skating is only a wish. If you move with such haste, can anyone ever stop you, see you take off your skates. You are a fine skater, your skating the flight of a comet’s shards through the cosmos. Did you ever see a shooting star, catch sight of lightning, suddenly, hear big banging. Did your inner human voice burst or close-lipped voice for the first time. Ah, you tremble (gliding into the void), the skates groan: regret nothing. 5 Primo` ^u~nik 3. Will you always skate alone. Will your skating pay off. Skater, the music blusters out of silence stronger, your heart keeps balance with the skates. The giant shapes of cities want you melancholy, but you can’t stop to catch the open talk. And you skate alone (as if someone was skating beside you), in a crowd of skaters (and yet you skate alone). How you change, you know what’s under the sky, how skilled your skates are! Even the first skater wants to show you how to be the fastest skater in the rink of the universe! That you are not the only one, that there are those more competitive, but not everyone can be in the wonderful thicket of the void. Are you following the sky, follow it, follow it, there’s always something momentous there. Just don’t tell people about your skating. They wouldn’t believe you kept your balance on your own. Stop always saying what makes you happy. You’re not the only one with jagged skates. Skate as if you were skating on your own. Skate as if you were skating alone. Translated by Ana Jelnikar and W. Martin 6 © Gabriela Babnik 1977 J u r e J a k o b Jure Jakob is a post-graduate student of comparative literature in Ljubljana. His fi rst work Tri postaje/Three Stations, received the Zlata ptica Award. His poems have been translated into English, Slovakian, Serbian and into Hungarian, and he was included in the internet Hungarian anthology Spanyolnátha, young Slovene poetry. He has been invited to the International festival Days of Poetry and Wine (Slovenia), and to International literary meeting Vilenica (Slovenia). Jure Jakob was already included in the Anthology of Slovene Poetry 1992-2003 with his fi rst collection of verse. Two voices alternate in his poetry: the fi rst, which fl irts with the tradition of dark Slovene poetic modernism (Dane Zajc, Gregor Strni{a), has an archaic tune. It is no coincidence that this voice is in a sense rough hewn and that it corresponds to - and fi nds its highest expression in - the matching form of Bildgedichte. The root of the poet’s dark modernist language is embraced on the level of motif by the poet’s home – by exotic Pohorje, a rural forested region in the northeast of Slovenia. Jakob’s second voice is lighter and airier: bound to the experience of urban life. Although he observes this urban nature from the shelter of a closed room, it is enough to begin to loosen the darkness of the fi rst voice. This, though, does not imply farewell to Slavic melancholic meditativeness, but the urban aspect gives Jakob’s speech dynamic movement. There is thus a kind of electric tension between Jakob’s fi rst and second poetic voices, between home and non-home. Precisely for this reason, Jure Jakob is a name that will further illuminate Slovene poetry. 7 Jure Jakob Flowers of 1st November It is usually foggy; when I wake up, I think of the flowers from the dreams, it is that time now. The scent of expensive wreaths coming from the garage, we eat bread and drink strong black coffee for breakfast. Do not go to see the neighbour, it is not appropriate today. Then I go out. A thick vein of living people stretches through the cemetery paths. In the trees up there crows are watching. The meadow is yellow with hidden flowers. The afternoon is waiting. Inside, among the walls, there are black rocks, and underneath bones are stored. The priest is always late. The altar boys feel cold in their hands. I watch their white foreheads and listen to the relatives whisper. Death is just beneath the surface. Then we go back home, we eat meat and horse radish, on our cheeks flowers are withering. Behind the door somebody sees Dane Zajc, playing like a child with the black and white keys of the accordion. There is no sound but the firewood cracking, in the range, like flowers burning. We do not speak much, grandmother is watching us in the corner, sometimes the yellow flowers of fear burst from our mouths, but we hang on. Cold is breaking out on the other side of the walls. It is already dark there, dogs’ barking runs across the street, public lights blossom dimly. Death is spread among us all, the sky is inclining slightly. Instead of the moon a large yellow flower rises above the night; in my sleep I keep fighting. 8 Jure Jakob Silence in a dim summer night The moon is light. Dogs are barking. Souls have a cold even if it is mid summer. The night has lain down quickly and completely naked, like a woman who opens the door and steps towards the bed with a pale dim body. Somewhere from behind I can hear the train moving, probably though Vi~, like a skater, wrapped in a fur coat. The fallings are inaudible. I sit on a chair, I feel my breathing, in the corners spiders have spread their webs like white tablecloths on the Sunday table. The glasses have not been emptied, the wine is drying out. I do not know which direction to face. I do not know if I can reach myself. The night is such, I do not think of emergency exits, the telephone is turned off. To sit down, watch, bear the time, devoted and dependant, that is how blood travels through the body. Of course I can hear steps approaching. The day is breaking, the town is awaking, on the market in the morning they will be selling fresh solutions.