ON THE BORDER OF THE DISTANCE – Slovenian Poems in the moonlight, in the short days of April

The Vitruvian Man, is a drawing by Leonardo da Vinci. https://leonardodavinci.stanford.edu/submissions/clabaugh/history/leonardo.html It is accompanied by notes based on the work of the architect Vitruvius. The drawing, depicts a man in two superimposed positions with his arms and legs apart and inscribed in a circle and square. Leonardo’s image has become much more than a literal illustration of a proportional canon. Over the centuries it has developed into a cultural icon adopted by various causes that Vitruvius never dreamed of. That perfectly proportioned man, correlating the symmetry of human anatomy with the symmetry of the universe, it’s also what you everyday see, hear, eat and feel, also reading Slovenian poems https://www.amazon.co.uk/Soy-Realidad-Poems-Slovenian-Literature/dp/162897088X

APRIL – Poetry by Lana Judnic

If I would be stronger, without crucial mistakes, if I would have last longer, wouldn’t step on the brakes. Wouldn’t consider an ending, surrender at last, get depressed at a bird sing, I would live with a blast. But youth keeps me safe, would not live without me, I slide with the wave, for youth I’m building a family tree. But as I collect brick blocks, I still slide against rocks.

THE MOONLIGHT BELL – Poetry by Peter Rangus

Dum, dum, dum, the moonlight bell, beyond the city noise of cars I overhear the moonlight bell. Warm fatherly advice and smell of fresh baked pies, the sister’s hug and even my first cries endear the moonlight bell. Sweet childish kiss she gave with fear in her blue eyes, and youthful sweets, retrieves in my forgotten ear, the moonlight bell. Old roads between green plains and hills where grapevines rise, they softly reappear whenever I rehear the moonlight bell. The city tears in my brown eyes now advertise, that where rock rolls and where it ends there I will hear the moonlight bell.

UNTITLED – Poetry by Andrej Hočevar

The border between me and the air has risen above the treetops, the remoteness of the day at its most tangible. The sky is an inverted lake, the bristled branches, soon to be swallowed by the dark, stand upright like a man in his eighties. Today is my grandfather’s birthday, and the new season brings me old pleasures. I’m beginning to believe in once again. But the days are short now, and so it is earlier when we begin, thinking of the person we want to end them with.