By Lucija Stupica
Letter One
Below the window is a city, but there’s only enough space for two
in the hotel room. There aren’t any dreams, it’s too hot to sleep
anyway. I’m putting down word after word. Letters. Quotes. A
traveller’s diary. The forgotten roads travelled to be closer to my
loves. Trust always comes later, as well as the discovery that I’d
missed it. Not only the street, but the entire continent.
Him
The certainty that I don’t want to die without living it.
Without living – with you. The certainty. With you.
The certainty. I don’t want to die. Without living. With you.
Letter Two
On the plane. The mountains cast long shadows in the sunny day,
it smells of us. I’m returning. Where, I don’t know. The seagulls are
flying low as well. They cry when their offspring are nearby. Within
myself, there’s a swan stretching its neck, glaring, chasing away
anyone approaching. On the seat beside me, a father and his daughter
are looking at the photos from a family trip. I’m scared, Maruša. The
borders are packed down there. They’re looking at the children,
wanting the best for them. Looking at the children and seeing their
fathers. Looking at the fathers and letting them die slowly.
Letter Three
New shoes
for the journey
seven hundred and more
a hollow rhythm
overloaded boats
subdued voices
voices
almost breathless
new shoes
on the shore
surely –
inescapably –
Letter Four
If not us, you said. And me: If we jump into the water and resurface,
will we end up on the same shore? You: I’m sure we’ll make it. Love’s
always naïve at its beginning. No-one knows when the silence
ensues. It ensues and you say: It’s enough, I’m out. But if you stay,
you haven’t yet built a road or a house or planted a tree, and we
know how dark a forest can be and how dark the cabins are on
the inside. Your hand seeking mine. It’s real. We’re on the same
shore, but this is only just the beginning.
Letter Five
Perhaps this cabin in the middle of the forest, with its ceilings too
low to walk upright, teaches humility. The wooden porch with
a broken chair shining faintly in the moonlight. We’re not going
to sleep tonight. Perhaps the cabin and the wooden porch will
not sleep either. To be sure, the forest isn’t asleep. I venture outside,
along the road, into the unknown. Along the darksome road
through the forest. I turn around behind the third turn. I don’t like
humility, I say. I go and find you and we go out together. We leave
the cabin. Along the darksome road through the forest. Behind
the third turn, there’s another cabin. We knock. Nobody opens.
We turn toward the little cabin in the middle of the forest, with
its ceilings too low. We knock. The door opens. That’s enough humility,
we say. We’re not going to sleep tonight. We’re going to lie
down, hold hands and listen to each other’s stories.
Her
The certainty that I don’t want to die without living it.
Without living – with you. The certainty. With you.
The certainty. I don’t want to live. Without living. With you.
The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
As an immigrant poet who still writes in her mother tongue, Slovene, and a translator, I see my writing as translation in the broadest sense of the word, aiming to reveal the invisible and suppressed in everyday language. This enormous community connected by arts and humanities, creative people, represent a world that is meaningful, real, full. As an poet who still believe that poetry is important even in times like that, that kind of project, or better, ecosystem as you said, offers the air to breath.
