I wait for the warmth from the body to spread 
across the surface of the bed.
A fear that you'll return home as a stranger,
that what I know about you got stuck on the way to me,
halted on some corner and you'll come empty,
with miles of alienation on your shoulders, 
that I'll look in the eyes 

and it won't be your eyes, 
those same morning eyes, 
but some other two irises, brown like yours.
That only words that don't move anything 
will come out of your mouth,
that won't move you closer to me,
they will be just a wobbly bridge forward or past.

Look, darling, I'm on top now and you're too far,
to be able to catch what falls from me, what rolls towards the foot.
What will come to you will be brittle sand clots.
Then watch out how you touch them!

Words: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Out Of Numbness

Lakota
I
Neka lakota lega na telo
kot nekoč,
ko ni bilo svetlobe
in smo komaj dočakali,
da se je »ne« prevesil v »ja«,
nismo premikali
ničesar,
niti samih sebe,
v mirovanju
se je vse okoli nas prerajalo
iz nič v vse in spet nazaj,
niti dotik
le velike oči,
čakajoč dneva.

II
Iz globin
neke teme
vznikamo
en za drugim,
visoko nad nami so se odprla vrata,
plezamo 
brez naglice,
kot da je to tisto, 
kar je treba narediti -
iti navzgor,
kot valovi bitij 
pred nami.

III
V dan,
ki si sveti s svojo svetlobo,
sveti svetu 
in bitju bitij,
kot da se svet šele začenja,
znova spočit,
izmit
od vsega hudega,
ki je brnelo na ves glas.

Words: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Lakota (Hunger)

Collaboration with https://soundcloud.com/pressureworks5

Words: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos.
Music & Sound Manipulation: PressureWorks.

Leaving (collaboration with PressureWorks)

We have been pleased to collaborate with KateR at this project, we think she is really talented and has very good ideas.  
Check her work on sc! 
https://soundcloud.com/user-143414916

Frame
The wooden frame of the ship,
It allows me to dream.
When the weight of the distance
becomes
unbearable,
I begin to imagine
that the sea 
and the coast
are not so far,
they are just invisible 
to my eyes.

Poem: Manca Klun
Bass Synth/sounds: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos
Strings/Melo synth: KateR

Frame (collaboration with KateR)

Du ziehst in die Gegenständlichkeit ein

Du ziehst in die Gegenständlichkeit ein,
zwischen Stühle und Tisch,
in ein großes Bett mit zwei Matratzen,
zwischen Plüschsessel und Bücher auf Dänisch
(Liebesromane und Krimis),
Kerzenleuchter und Untersetzer,
Weihnachtsdeko und Putzklamotten,
die abgeschlossen in der unteren Schublade liegen,
zwischen die Gemälde an den Wänden,
die durchsichtigen und dickeren Vorhänge an den Fenstern.

Du bringst deine eigenen Klamotten und Bücher,
eine Tasse Tee und Obstschale,
Laptop und die Improvisation eines Nachttischs,
eine Lampe und einen Löffel von der Reise.

Du koexistierst mit allen diesen Sachen,
die nicht deine 
und auch nicht nach deinem Geschmack sind.

Du hältst sie in gutem Zustand,
diese ausgeliehenen Sachen,
behandelst sie
wie alles, was dir nicht gehört. 

So treibst du den Wunsch nach Materiellem aus,
so treibst du die Anhäufung aus,
so grenzt du dich ab,
so gehst du über 
das Eigene.


Words: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Du Ziehst In Die Gegenständlichkeit Ein

V samoumevnost jezika

Poskušam se vsiliti v samoumevnost
jezika,
ga kot motor razdreti 
in spet sestaviti
po zakonitostih, ki zdržijo
spremembo stalnega naslova.

Words by Manca Klun
Soundscapes and music by Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

V samoumevnost jezika (Into the self-evidentness of language)

Nič ni tako srečno

Nič ni tako srečno kot poletje, 
ki je opustilo svojo stražo,
ki je stopilo naprej 
in našlo svojo senco
v soncu.

Words: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Nič ni tako srečno

Z levenjem se prenavljam,
ko odlagam plasti jezika,
ki je povedal svoje  
in utihnil. 
Njegova skorja se počasi
lušči z mene,
ko se obdrgne ob kamenje dneva,
ob prisotnost ljudi in
tišino okrog njih.
Ko se v njegove razpoke
vtikajo besede tujih pesmi,
pod njim že raste nov jezik,
mlad kot pomladno listje,
prosojen na trdnih vejah telesa.

Words by Manca Klun
Music by Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Levitev

Trg golobov

Lahko bi se imenoval Trg golobov,
ko tako sedijo simetrično razporejeni na drogovih luči, 
zajemajo vse sonce, ki se ga da dobiti. 
Ko se odločijo, razpotegnejo peresa v zrak 
in jim uspe tisto, o čemer mi samo sanjamo - nepadanje.


******************
Taubenplatz

Er könnte Taubenplatz genannt werden,
weil sie so symmetrisch angeordnet auf den Lampenstangen sitzen.
Sie schöpfen die ganze Sonne, die man kriegen kann.
Wenn sie sich entscheiden, strecken sie die Federn in die Luft 
und schaffen das, wovon wir nur träumen 
- das Nichtfallen.

Wörter: Manca Klun
Musik: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Trg golobov (Taubenplatz)

Our first published work - Na križiščih spomina (On The Crossroads Of Memory)

Words: Manca Klun
Sounds: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

(Scroll down to poem and English translation)

Na križiščih spomina

Gledam nazaj, na križišča spomina.
Si mislim, da sem hodila po svetu brez zaključkov.
Prav imaš, ko praviš - ko je preveč prehitro, utihneš. 

In v meni se s hrčkasto motnjo kopičijo kupci ljudi,  
za katere ne vem, če jih bom kdaj uspela ubesediti 
ali pa me bodo zgolj obarvali, ne da bi se tega zavedla.

A ne glede na vse - vedno sem jaz, 
v vsem spreminjanju.


On The Crossroads Of Memory

I look back on the crossroads of memory.
I think to myself that I walked around the world without conclusions.
You are right saying "when it's too much too soon, you grow speechless".

 Inside of me grow "bunches" of people
that might never get a word,
maybe they'll just color me
without me noticing it.

 But no matter what - in all the changing
I remain me.

Na Križiščih Spomina (On The Crossroads Of Memory)

Keep the memory of happy mornings.

Waking up slowly, 
opening your eyes 
into a half darkness of early day 
without human voices. 

Everything is steady breathing. 

Also that hand, 
that head, 
that face, 

that is becoming 
familiar,
that is becoming 
family.

Keep The Memory Of Happy Mornings

WESTHAFEN

Exit
A young pair of heroin addicts with a cigarette in their mouths.
They are standing in the middle of the corridor with bags full of plastic.
Are they listening?
To what?

A bit further on
a clarinet (with the accompaniment of a music box) plays the waltz
from a different time.
His fingers don't need a face
to extract the music.

All of a sudden,
but only because the train spit them out,
the people come pouring out,
empty as blank pieces of paper,
motionless in their moving forward.

And the man walking in front of me, whistling,
raises his finger (as if in warning),
but only to the rhythm of the waltz.
Forward.

Westhafen

Forest 

When the forest gets empty,
the forgotten clothes remain 
hanging on the branches.
Trunks of birches lay around
like white human bodies.
I dive in to the green leaves, 
that spread endlessly around  me 
and I become endless as well.
I keep coming back,
becoming a child
again and again.

Forest

All alive and well

... that everything will be fine,
that we'll be holding hands,
dancing around fire
as friends,
as non-enemies, 
that we'll be able 
to see ourselves in others 
and others in us,
that we won't 
build up in sky 
with heavy bricks,
that we'll breath
freely
as after a long hard winter,
that we'll plow the field,
insert the seed
deeply in to the soil,
that will grow good,
so that our kids won't have to,
like us,
be sinking in the mud,
that we'll go
we'll move on,
all alive and well,
all ...

All Alive And Well

Melancholy

Ticking clock reminds me 
of the childhood place,
where all I did was 'to be'
but the landscape sneaked in to me anyway
and became melancholy.

Up, up to the woods and vineyards, 
abandoned wooden houses, old trees, 
full of ripped fruits and chickens 
tinker without boundaries 
and hawks that watch.

And you sitting in front of the house
with certainty like the master of the world        
like someone who knows
the meaning of life.

Melancholy

Houses I

I´m returning to the attic,
to the brittle wood and wasps nests, 
so I can watch through the little window
the cascades of childhood.

I stand under the roofing tiles,
where unknown people stood before me,
unaware that I will come after them,
they built their home 
for me as well.

They left behind the remnants of their lives
as gifts
in the black kitchen,
in soot ingrained in the walls,
under the roots of walnut trees,
between the leafs of ivy and blackbird nests,
among the stones and animal bones in the barren soil.


Words: Manca Klun
Sounds: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Houses I

Houses II

The house that was growing, 
while you were cooking,
had too much concrete,
too many doors  and 
too many crevices
to become a home.

It had too many walls,
against which anger and sadness were banging,
without being flushed through the drain.

The silence of long afternoons,
needles knitting by themselves,
chamber pots motionless under the beds. 

There were no blankets woollen enough
to cover the winter evenings
and mornings that followed.

The switched on lights were signals falling through.
Slides of words were bouncing off big heavy carpets
like dust
on the floor.

Words: Manca Klun
Sounds: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Houses II

Rectangle of thin walls
and even more rectangles inside of it
repeating themselves in floors towards the sky.
Voices that silence by themselves
when they are able.

Bugging the footsteps and pant of strain on cold staircase,
decades of footsteps, that added on a person,
invisible through day invisible through night.

You recognize them
in their movement, halt or quickness,
you see the face, that belongs to them

and eyes, 
when you meet them,
you know, that they saw you to the bottom,
they heard your voice, when you wanted to be silent,
when you wanted to be far away
and only by yourself only with yourself,

when you were shifting days around the corners of your home
and it was echoing in pipes of central heating.
You two became one with every blow 
without ever wanting it
a bit of you and a bit of him dragged under the skin.

Words: Manca Klun
Sounds: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Houses III

Ko gremo domov,
mali dilerji še vedno prodajajo svoje blago.
Čudim se svetlobi,
ki brez premora nastaja iz teme.

As we go home,
small dealers still offer their goods.
I wonder at the light,
steadily arising from darkness.  

Words: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos

Steadily Arising

When the weight of the distance
becomes
unbearable,
I begin to imagine.


Poetry: Manca Klun
Music: Alessandro De Oliveira Bastos



VagueWanderer is a project born in 2018 to unite poetry and music inspired by everyday life, it's words and sounds.

VagueWanderer

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