Lives Journal 13

Ivo Antich



(Two triptychs) 



(cyclonization in perihelion)





Wild sun, you throw my dark shadow

from the no-world into this world.

Burning shield over the Altay peaks!

On evenings, I see horsemen in the steppe,

yellow insects which grind the hard sea

of ​​grass. With a raging scream, yet

blooms the autumn, with a silent scream

you hide yourself off my eyes. You are cutting

a crack into my apex – the tamga, a sharp beam,

creeps into me raising dust, makes me to hang.





Savage light, slaughter of solitudes, the blood

which jets out of apex. In my hand,

I am holding a flash, steel, fingers are sticky

of marrow and blood. How you burn, still

I am just a cry, from all sides to all sides

thrown out, never begun, never

finished. Desert, roof. Glowing sand

swirls into the sky, across the sight of blades

which run from the no-side to the other side.

Broken jug. Nothingness. Only you. You.





Cruel flash, stab me into the ground! Make me

to be a grain, drip, pure spirit of matter.

Crash into my core, let the shudder

celebrate orgies. I see the seamen, happy

horsemen, happy priests with their

bloody heads. Axis, angelic howling

of wings. The masons of time are waving

into the wall. A deer troats. Mushrooms thunder.

You are flat, healthy, good, whole. From the book

of dream, an atom divides itself: the sun, the whip, the day.








I saw the light, I saw the day. In the

desert appears the master, like

a pearl of shadow. And gives order and always

pays off everything. I saw the light, I saw

the bottom. In narrow streets, chamber-pots,

in the dark and fog, in harbours, at

railway-stations where it is always full

of people, meaningless departures, arrivals,

directions from nowhere to nowhere,

calls, whistles, fairground of despair.





I saw your hand: fragile

bones of your fingers under the milky glove

of skin. A polished business man.

A man from the world of glass façades,

concrete fences, aluminium, steel,

boastful offices, carpets which

dampen down the steps. When you stepped

on the sun, you covered with black glasses

your eyes filled up with blood.

And in your pocket you grabbed a cold pistol.





From the cellar's bottom, the cage upwards only:

you kill your father or your mother,

you are the third. Whoever hears

the waves of salt once, never forget

them. Muddy river of childhood, above

the city stands the lavra. In the lavra, Laura 

still lets rooms, still in your rotten

memory there are stuck thighs, the smell of fish.

You shot at the mirror and fell into your own

blood. And the cage runs up: without end to bottom.




Slovenian (gajica)

Slovenian (bohorichica)