Varja Balžalorsky Antić

Varja Balžalorsky Antić (1979, Koper) is literary translator, critic and poet. She is working as assistant professor at the Department of Comparative Literature and Literary Theory at the Faculty of Arts in Ljubljana. She has translated from French (H. Michaux, P. Quignard, P. Bourdieu, J. L. Nancy, H. Lefebvre etc.) and Serbian (M. Pantić, I. Antić, B. Vasić, L. Blašković). Her poems were published in several literary magazines.




(Foto: arhiv avtorice)

Impression: New Lyricism

Mademoiselle Claire Dalcarière, 54, single, childless,
by profession a stewardess, by vocation a poet,
I write only in the air, I write constantly,
I write more than I smile
a literary date in lecture room R b 206, Block B
what can poetry do, what it can do, what it does,
hello, gray Nanterre, but 68 souls still wander here
on the lawn of the campus a garage band screeches
it is Doors Open Day, the childish throwing of water
balloons and not one of ten demonstrations on the day’s agenda
each evening you see the special corps on the bus in Saint Denis
if this is May 2007, the meaning of what is, the meaning of what is
the city guards, and today the neighborhood militia
at attention as they wait for the night bus
there where dissatisfaction burns the belly of the world
they ask you if you are the new teacher
what else would you be doing here, pale-cheeked baby-girl
or is it just wild to live next to the D track of the suburban line:
Saint Denis, Garges-lès-Gonesses, Sarcelles
where only a few cars were burned that day
down under the ZEP school, in priority education zones,
what can revolution do, what it did, what it does,
which one, Mademoiselle Claire Dalcarière I am a pastel woman
perhaps from Auteuil, perhaps from Versailles
Mademoiselle Claire Dalcarière I am a pastel poem
made from marzipan and lemon glaze
chocolate turtles flying through the sky
this is a velvet revolution on the roof of the mouth, a timeless event
writing while flying, sucking while flying,
I constantly scribble on coffee napkins, airplane plates,
ladies’ tissues during the layover of the Bangkok – Helsinki flight
wafting from my other flowers, I record the voice of angels
locked in the airport bathroom, from under the pilot’s seat
the wonderful impression, purified angelic it is to speak in the sky
what can poetry do
when we bite into a chocolate truffle with chestnut cream
and sigh: yes, this is the new lyricism.