Reading Octavio Paz
Peter Semolič,
Translated by Ana Jelnikar & Kelly Lenox Allan
Tonight I am sailing down all my rivers, borne by the stream
of words, I sail as I
speak, I speak as I sail . . .
. . . rivers, glittering
like a child’s laughter, the staccato of rapids, the fast
chutes over cascades,
rapturous drops down waterfalls, beads
of water, the sun in each
one, and finally the foam, bubbles of air
engulfing me like a great
jacuzzi . . .
. . . the river, big brown
god, carries me like a slumberous bough through
the height of summer, the
buzzing of insects, I sail as I speak,
I speak as I sail, I can
see: the blue sky, clouds and fish swimming
across, crabs hiding in
treetops, in the green explosion of
joie de vivre, a flock of fry takes wing like
startled quails . . .
. . . I can see:
Narcissus’ perfect countenance, heavy blocks of Florentine
masonry, arcs of
bridges crossed by poetry of transience (Apollinaire)
and by
the lines of an epic I am reading . . .
. . . I can see myself in
the turning of the seasons, and my love,
sad as a willow, bowing
over me, a river, sailing
through winter, through
the city de la Tour Unique du grand Gibet et
de la Roue . . .
. . . I am a river,
absentmindedly receiving an unhappy lover,
a great poet, and I am not
sad when I am stained with blood, and
I am not happy when
ice sheets thin away, when I soar into the sky, neither
the dam nor the dyke can
touch me . . .
. . . the river, the dark
deity from beyond the swampy,
tangled greenery, callous
mired deity, my mouth
has a name for you – the
Amazon, it calls you the Nile, the Mississippi, my eyes
erect secret cities at
your side (Eldorado), I
turn you into Okinawa . .
.
. . . two youths, as
beautiful as Hyacinthus, atremble in the dewy morning,
gazing at you, lost in
themselves, gazing at you, as beautiful as Hyacinthus,
and you, you don't even
spare them a glance . . .
Tonight I am sailing down all my rivers, stars, stars
in the depths below
me, tonight I am sailing through myself, I sail
as I speak,
I speak
as I sail, I sail through myself multiplied into countless
currents, I am a
stream against which I sharpen a knife, a wild girl,
hastily making love upon
the gravel, cleanses herself in me, my love
reaches into me and tells
me River Kolpa and tells me River Rokava and tells me
you cool and unveil the path and tells me, you are ice, ice,
ice . . .
. . . I speak and am
spoken, I sail and am sailed, I am real
and an illusion, I am
water flooding over myself, a swimmer
cutting sharply across the
constant currents, the river's slow amble towards the sea,
I am the sea, which is the
river of all rivers, I am the sky, which is the sea of all seas...
Ljubljana, summer 1998:
In the garden of a
neighbourhood pub I am reading Octavio Paz, two grey herons flitting to and fro
like fine kites beneath a translucent evening sky . . .
. . . the constant roaring
of the Ljubljanica by the railings, the river’s
body of light, and in it
the big setting sun . . .
. . . from beneath
my feet I pick up a stone the size of a child’s fist and
fling it over the fence
into the water . . .
. . . don’t read me like a
story, read me like concentric rings
on the
water . . .
