Ales Debeliak was born in Ljubljana, Slovenia (1961 - 2016). Next philosophy and comparative literary studies at the University of Ljubljana. In the USA, defended a thesis on sociology of culture. There are 8 poetry and 14 essay books. His poetry, for me at least, is short moving pictures that fascinate with his sincerity and precision in detail. But that detail, which is beyond the material, which captures the moment and pulls away from it the whole psycho-emotional background present in the space behind the observed objects and actions.


The following poems are from the books included in the Bulgarian edition End of Nostalgia.





In the morning, when each of us has less blood sugar.
In the morning, when the white day floods the window glass.
In the morning, when the nap goes to zenith. And the tide
is too soon. Then despair comes from the joke of memory.


And my morning is a miracle. However, I am also flesh and blood. -
The blanket emits steam. The waking moment is clear in advance.
Like the rest of the day. The arteries are filling. The horizon
shudders with anticipation. I would not speak of symbols here at all.


It's not their time. Now I would like to avoid the painful words
equally warm on both sides.
Equally luminous - cooler than the stars caked in cerebral cortex.
As bright as the traces of the Golden Age and like this verse.





It is the same here as there. No difference. Your death
makes eternity. I had a dream where I was lost
the name. The drawers in the bedroom are open.
Under the feet of friends - snow. I have the feeling


that of the last signature of the death letter
a pelican emerges. And the whole sky disappears for a moment
in his wings. Unless it's a glare of indifference
in the pupils of the people leaning over the dead. Ah, I would be silent,


I wouldn't say a word. I would become the ashes that loved ones
take it to their homes. And yet: at every death he dies
absolutely everything. Everyone knows what to list.
I'm done here. After my song - cloud, wind, nothing.


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Angels, close relatives


In Memory of Mark Chagall


How there is no drop of delight or sorrow
on the faces of men and women,
how the halo is reborn over the heads
in times of slow reconciliation,
their fate on the crown of our money,
and how they fly in the best clothes
over fabulous lost villages, and how
they pop out of flour sacks
and from the still purple sky,
and the captive of the shadows barely follows them
through the dunes and abandoned houses,
and in that ancient ritual after which
you will need instead of the crazy witnesses
to keep secret their ghostly bodies,
for their canvas flight between the frames,
so beautiful and endlessly sad, and beyond
the sand grains of the clock dandruff
with capes over our heads when under
our heels feel an innocent squeak
returning home without them noticing
there is not a drop of rapture on our faces
or sadness because every cry is denied
and the salvation of the tears is forgotten.


Before the storm


The Russian hound behind the door stopped barking. Pieces of ice
crawling in the trough. The toy is broken in pieces and there is no way
Clock to fix it. Rust covers the sword. Samodives are wheezing
On the quay. And the river lures them and the old nun in the yard


feels the blue mist with timid fingers. On the way home
you suddenly stop, extinguish the faint glow from within. For a short while
the lark is calling. Then nothing. It evaporates above the place,
tormented by the feeling that oaths and myths are insufficient.


You, stepping on the waters of Jordan, are now trembling on the arms
on the facades? You no longer listen to the Eastern liturgy, which
it comforts the strangers, and it burdens you. They shake your mouth when


you pass by the tomb of a tyrant whose descendants more than once
they will come to the stone. Tonight, a young mother is watching her as a dead guard
the child complains, but does not know that it can only be sunk in sleep.



Translation: Lyudmila Mindova

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