home
in this place language also comes to me
as a confidante who knows every secret.
where i hid my first toy and
my mother’s ring, where I buried
the stolen coins, made my first child
in the hay, rubbing my naked body against
a thigh and kissing a girl,
because babies came from kissing. where
the magnificent plastic gondola stood
that signaled to me in my sleep, where
to find the honeycomb or the candies
the baker sold. language opens
rotted doors, thrusts the dusty boards
from their brackets, reveals the buried stone.
it flies at my face like a flock of startled
swallows, confronts me as the smell of mold,
drops from the jagged armor and
hulls of kids’ stuff like silt shed from all that was.
as soon as its bird heart beats calmly,
it shows its skin, appears unscathed and
hardly used. keep me safe, language,
wall me off against time.
* * * * *
dreaming language
my small tongue dreams up
a land where it builds nests of words
to swarm out over the borders
that are not its own. it wants
to outgrow itself, to glide through distant
spirit paths of water or gas,
to dive down to deep sea vents,
to have a term for every phenomenon
and its dubious shadows, to inhabit
those who speak and write it
as shimmering populations of words, to lay
its larvae in their pores. my language
wants to be unbridled and large, it wants
to leave behind the fears that occupy it,
all those stories, dark and bright,
in which its worth and weight
is questioned. only when it dreams
does it soar, supple and light,
by its very nature nearly song.
* * * * *
king matjaž visits his village
one day the old king left the mountain
to ensure that all was in order. he walked
through the village and greeted the residents,
now in this language, now in the other.
he saw little towers growing from the farmhouses,
now in this color, now in another.
seen from above, the little village looks
like a stone bouquet, the king said.
we also decorate our gardens with colorful
garlands, the mayor announced. our graves,
as you see, have become lawns for sunbathing. everything
turns to the good under the new king’s reign. we celebrate
progress every month with fireworks.
the village band plays songs about the north pole and
the south pole, we also speak a common language
and have taken on new names. i, for example,
am now called nearby-recreation-area-maximizer. oh,
how nice, said the king, how marvelously
cheery! crossing the village square he lost his way
and stopped short in a moment of shock.
you’re blocking the picture, a girl called
from the other direction, please step aside. i should
start to dance, the king thought, and raised his thin leg
several times. the king is dancing, the residents rejoiced,
he’s finally begun to understand! lovely to be at home
again, the king waved goodbye
and laughed and wept and stepped into the shaft.
* * * * *
talking with thistles
my thistle-head hides
behind courteous sentences,
unrecognizable in its disguise,
unapproachable in its rebelliousness,
tedious in its reticence.
but appearances deceive.
i could tell you stories
from a thousand and one days,
audacious tales
that scramble over my churlish head
like frizzled thoughts
in a salto mortale. i
was tempted to talk myself into trouble
when you asked me
if i ever still thought of you.
but don’t come too close!
my lines have hooks
that will crudely catch your ears
with spiky words and stalks,
my dear, when you beguile me
with loose lips.
/ / /
Infused with movement, Maja Haderlap’s poetry traverses Slovenia’s scenic landscape and violent history, searching for a sense of place within its ever-shifting boundaries. Avoiding traditional forms and pronounced rhythms, Haderlap unleashes a flow of evocative, captivating passages whose power lies in their associative richness and precision of expression, vividly conjuring Slovenia’s natural world – its rolling meadows, snow-capped alps, and sparkling Adriatic coast. Belonging to the Slovene ethnic minority and its inherited, transgenerational trauma, Haderlap explores the burden of history and the prolonged aftershock of conflict – warm, lavish pastoral passages conceal dark memories, and musings on the way language can create and dissolve borders reveal a deep longing for a sense of home. The poems are taken from distant transit, Haderlap’s first volume of poetry to appear in English, published in March, 2022 by Archipelago Books. — Tess Lewis
Tess Lewis and Maja Haderlap