Blesok no. 59, March-April, 2008
Poetry


Premature Awakening
Translated by: Zoran Ančevski

Katica Kulavkova



Premature Awakening


You do not wake in the same room any more.
And what used to be invisible is not the same.
There are changes even in our habit of awakening.
The objects you identify with
are not equally strange to you.
Each shape seeks a special mould
of consciousness.
The hunger for recognition is an open process:
Finnegan's wake
.

The fruit on a cheap poster
unsettles the sediments below the larynx
makes them slippery and unstoppable
and transports you to the childhood
– as if it were on the side
and you on the other
as if you were without the order
you who shouldn't have –

you re-experience the excitement
of the eye and the pencil
when drawing grapes, pears, apples
overhearing the conversation
between the desire and the hand where
all future eroticism is gathered.

Childhood returns through a secret door
and reveals excess of life, excess of past:
Something you cannot give up.

And you stop wondering why reality
is not enough for dreaming
and what is it witch is not wakefulness

but exists!




A Child's Confession


”I don't know why
I have a strange feeling
that Judgment Day
is coming nearer every day

and then I got to choose bumps
and shivers creep up my back
and I become disheveled like a long
very long thin thread
full of knots, and I have no patience
to unite them!”

”Then I calm down and unconsciously
return to virtual reality
in a time machine
and continue to play
in flights of fancy

for I don't know
Mom –
How else am I to survive!”




Weltanschauung


Do not give in!
You must take the distance
as an advantage
and describe that irritating soap foam of hope
in the soul which has entered you so many times
occupying you as if someone else's territory
and smelling of musk at the same time.

You need that distance to continue life
that constant distancing from what was
that giving – taking
that unmistakable minus
that day of clarity, of ravine – like dark.

Climb the peak of yourself and withdraw
to the fertile soil of the foothills
to the apple groves that smell of parsley and mint
to the words that creep between your breasts –
tickling meaningful seed – bearing males –
to sights that run after you like hounds
to warning times
look behind, sound yourself
but do not stop
move higher, deeper
what you possess is only yours.

Extend the distance, burst into flames
from gazing at the same world, this world
from brushing against reality hastily

– the dissoluteness, the diving depths
the bunker for the clash with the imagined
the birth – house, the unresolved conflict
between the dream and the public opinion –

run away so far until you freeze with the wish
to return
distance yourself so much that you lose your instance
your youth
for return.




The Smell of Morel
For my father


Now I can't say
that between me and the day
when I first picked morel with my father
there is a clear distance


now when I smell of morel
more than of myself

when the years of life pass
as they don't do in memory

when all is absent in its own way –
the afternoon, the herbs
he and I

when everything is fenced within me
and every event has its own smell
its own soul – which
is beyond comparison!

The difference makes you die early.
”Not yet, but nevertheless” yes.
There wouldn't be a world, it wouldn't be
if it were not different
from everything else, and from my own
I.

From now on I'll need courage
to visit the same places without him
to remember and to look for morel
on a clear day

not those that he discover for me
but those that I'll smell for him.




Warm Blood


I don't know how to tell
a single tale
calmly. Why, for example
dose the hunter who saves Little Red Riding Hood,
like any other small character
necessarily for the denouement,
have to leave in the end?


How is it possible that in the The Red Flower
the ugly beast turns into a handsome young man?
Which one of them is an illusion?
Am I touched by the magic of change
or the shudder that I must suffer in disgrace
before I become loved by someone?
How many people in the world
remain unchanged, men mostly
because the woman is the one
who connect them?

The man is desired for, the woman too
and so the excitement of telling
goes on endlessly
the language becomes warm like blood
blossoming lasciviously
hardening the obscene
twisting like an eel
perfect when naked
without a shirt, a shell
as if just born from the worm.

Oh, let my tale be shameless
let disharmony be eternal,
between the appearance and the essence
there are tales of magic
where there is nothing I could tell
with calm and indifference!




Would You Like Some Water?


Water rises stirred with
excitement, sensitive, selfish.
We don't have to be fish
to understand those who have no sense
or intent to check their heritage.
The ethno-genesis of the ocean.
Of the rain.

We will suck it like babies, gulp each drop
of vague nursing nature,
dry springs will suddenly rise
and flood the subconscious, gushing
gurgling, vexing:

it is not just water rushing
but also an omen.

If we are to be betrayed one day
to be drowned in high-pitched vowels
that afterwards will flow away to alien planets

it will be hopeless, almost useless
to prevent them in their intention:

the water does not know when it is enough.




Water, oh Yes!


The water is my wider point of view.
Whether salt or fresh it willingly floods
the space between the earthly and non-earthly pelvis
between the holy and the secular.
It's one of those things
I don't choose of my own will
but I would.

It's dear plenitude.
Sovereign magnitude. Right from its estuary.
I enjoy seeing its wholeness.
A dipper to drink, a handful of the depths,
the surface and the deep together.
A self-sufficient entity, so to say.

Water, oh yes! With no end
and with no search for it.
Sheer excitement only.

Excitement is equal to
water plus soul, fresh water
spring water, impulsive water
essential.

I have a surrogate for you
but not for the water.
I love the water
and the water loves me
our love is mutual
    I take it
    it takes me.




The Great Mother


”I am her.
I rest on my crossed legs
and my hips are heavy with life
and have swelled so much
that they are almost severed from me
and are no more mine and no more here.
The whole world is my home.

Just like that:
I have the power to be
in different places at the same time.

I am constantly in touch with the erotic
procreation of a living, yet mortal world -
I turn into a Book of changes
I change my name, I swap symbols
and narratives, I cast off people
I change the casting
but keep the roles!

I, who communicate with the spiritual,
am fit for the worldly:
earth and sea, the Moon and the cold!
Oh, what contradiction:
to be a woman, a principle of fertility
and to carry a negative, passive
sign, an archetypal minus
rhythmical inserts from
life and death!

Who can give if not the one who has?

I, the matrix, the belly, the womb,
a mature, a calm, a wise matron
from the Other world
(no, this one has never been enough to me!)
order you:
enter the sea
don't think of weakness
for you never know
how long you can go
in pain, and in delight

swim as far as you can see
and see far away, even further
I speak shrewdly at the cape
I speak in my motherly tongue
(oh, what relief, what comfort!)
and give you strength
not consolation!

Later you'll read my palm
you'll read the broken line of my life
rendered in 64 hexagrams of the enigma

and he will insert in the rebus
a line, straight, prosaic
a positive dash.

A male synopsis!”




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