Title: Sport 40: 2012

Publication details: Fergus Barrowman, 2014, Wellington

Part of: Sport

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Sport 40: 2012

Maja Haderlap

page 213

Maja Haderlap

piran

there’s a coming and going in the house next door,
but the spindle tree keeps me out of sight.
only paths for cats, toads and snails
lead through the overgrown garden.
with a roar the sea throws off
its stink cloak.
on my desk imagined people
practise the missing dialogue.
i sit there as if at the bottom of an old disturbance.
i force air into my memory cells
to keep them alive, in the evening walk
over piazza tartini and come
in the morning with fresh melons from the market.
twice a week frida comes by.
why don’t you get married, she calls from the bushes,
it’s not much, but better than being lonely.
today a toad will lose its warts,
because i’m going to kiss it, i say.
i’d like to be the bridesmaid, dear poet.
another door swings shut.

page 214

[Untitled]

in the year of mourning
the window frames moulder
in our kitchen.
the table isn’t laid
and the radio has a broadcasting ban.
only seldom do we still hear the
newsreader above the door.
we don’t switch languages
but observe the holidays.
sunflowers wilt
tied to the tree trunk.
the bees swarm out
even less often. in the year of mourning
a fridge salesman presents
new models.
the machines in the shed
are dropping their teeth
out of their forked jaws.
the men’s hair doesn’t grow back.
like copper walls the wax scales
shine in front of every beehive.
dead people are rare.
everyone is somewhere else, on this side.

page 215

when my language left me

maybe i was just drinking coffee
or opening a newspaper.
maybe i was closing the curtains,
or looking down at the street when it
left me. i was still thinking,
what a groan coming
from the depths of the wall,
what a rattle in this room. no window pane cracked,
no chair fell over in the kitchen.
on the street-signs
names dissolved to letter ash.
over the houses the word-tanker
drove away, massive, silent.
my tongue twitched like a
beached whale in my dry mouth.

i fled from the town,
retreated behind the border.
no letters got through and replies
failed to appear. where i
was, a gaping hole.
i am, my shadow
drifts into seed.

page 216

what was

once a year
when bookmarks
fall out of my books
with memoranda like
counting ferns,
registry carnations,
nettle clips,
i go back to my village.

on open pages
stories yellow.
they have turned
to legends
nd laid down their arms,
mockery, tumult,
the dance sweat
that dripped from the brows
of the dancers.

i put on my red smock,
put my hair
over my head like a bush,
wear dirty socks
and boots that would
fit a man.
i smell the pig fat
in the unventilated kitchens,
try out names
and their shadow stories
page 217
that once kicked free,
crash about
like floating wood.

i stop at the yard entrance.
here i laid a stone
with a furrow
encased in lime.
it was supposed to remind me
where i came from.

[Untitled]

it could be a woman
who shows me the way to the village
i’m looking for. it could be a village
with hostels for strangers
and pairs of eyes for counting.
it could be a village
with axes and spades, well known to me.
but at night my mother comes.
she points into the valley. none of that
belongs to us, she says.
my suitcases stand packed
in front of her door. I recite verses
about arriving.
they’re not songs, not lamentations,
just loose sound.

© Maja Haderlap, 2004. English translations © Richard Millington, 2012.