Blesok no. 65, March-April, 2009
Grimaces of Language
Translated from Norwegian by Ingrid Haug
From “Под виножитото на ноќта / Under nattens regnbue / Underneath the Rainbow of the Night”, Blesok, 2012.
Blue Pictures on a Green Easel
your ocean compass is bathing in sunshine
and the prow is digging into
white sand before stopping ..
no footprints left by naked feet here
nor any bird carcasses dissolved in salt
only wet flapping sails clapping you on your back
and wind across your sun-burned shoulders ..
the Tristan albatross is still hovering over the mast-top
polishing its scientific gaze against the surface of the sea
this ocean on eternity's ball bearings
and rocks worn round and shaped by wavy fingers ..
you stand at the shores of your own body
feeling the tide rise in your eyes
while you observe the lonely coconut
which the ocean has brought here from another shore ..
maybe cut loose with a sharp machete
or chewed into freedom by the dentures of the wind ..
there is no tsunami on its way into this island kingdom
do these micro-continents know each other's names?
you wonder while time becomes a large strange bird
across the same ocean which answers its own echo
and rolls on with its sleep-walker's heart intact ..
your skin desert drinks this all-embracing blue
waiting for the night to light its diamonds
Thoughts in a Moon Catamaran
of all the hidden treasures on earth
muteness and silence are
among the most exclusive ..
a bird's beak without notes
an adam's apple without worms
an auricle at the bottom of the ocean ..
this is the very germ and seed
of a race different from the flowers
buried in the black soil ..
the subversion of the problem causes
a derailing from the historical terrain
with an articulation that shatters the border of light ..
what witchcraft makes us see
unfamiliar landscapes through the words
the way you read a face drowned in music
or interpret the wrinkles in an aging hand?
where has this life gone
in all the other teeming colored pictures
which the sun releases from its fishing net
in order to nail us to the totem pole of now?
everything which shoots our shadow on the open street
or sets fire to the nocturnal scenery of dreams
still there are lungs out there
willing to release the rush of life
and mingle with your own
Back Across the Opposite Pole
we refuse to pick all those snow flowers
stand close together inside the tree in order not to wilt
soon the tree breath will also throw itself into the wind's arms
and the smoke which filters out through the foliage
confirms that the heat will bring the world forward ..
when the dream's enigma runs through your fingers
you yourself become a door in the forest and close the words behind you
Larger Than Everything
think of the distance between two human hands
and the night sky dressed in white flowers
where only the bird beak of the moon can pick the seeds ..
think of the light years of the interplanetary calendar
with distances which cause the thought container to topple ..
but still the earth harp accepts the fingertips of rain
when they hit the strings in the beautiful prelude of silence ..
and my hand traces all your beautiful coastlines
in order to drown in your gaze or once again retrieve the sun's pulse
which drives us on beyond every circumference ..
we glide through the blood's net of notes in the very labyrinth of life
where our breath oscillates between the soft and the strong ..
we can force the light out of the tunnel opening blinding us
then turn the rudder in order to run aground on a bleached shoreline ..
listen to the wind and our shouts when the sea breaks against the cliffs
and the second's own components explode in foam
an airy water-net revealing the carnival underneath the make-up ..
there is a lushness of lips growing on every rainforest branch
and underneath the bark the wind musicians sit practicing their work
every string-busted and naked nerve lost in overtones
a symbiosis of coral breath at each other's expense ..
in the city jungle on the other hand love may be a snakebite
not only hitting the eye but with poison spreading in the landscape of the flesh
for the human being does not always recognize his own walls
nor does he stop in these endless dreamy movements
even outside the reach of his gaze and in moral riverbeds ..
still everything consists of pictures cut out from the same reality
radioactively the sap rises in bark and skin mixed with visions
a conglomerate of desire flickered into blood showers and watered flowers
everything which sinks and gathers in a puddle around our feet ..
does this hand catch up with you before you disappear over the ridge
do the leaves cover their ears before they hit the grassy knoll in thunder
does an unknown woman live in every man's heart?
see life climb higher and higher towards the gull's cry in the mainsail
between your oxygen-drunk lungs and the jackal in your own throat
the way the ecstasy in the pit of a sweet cherry flowers in the next generation ..
with the seed as map reader we will conquer new and unknown fruits
still part of a solar system forever fleeing from itself
the way every thought is a kingfisher across its own sky
Behind the Mask
when the storm has subsided
behind your temples
a mirror-ship heads out of the inner haze
its sails filled with words
and sentence parts from our own time
as thick as anchor chains ..
some expressions may keep
the rust in check
through several centuries
before they let go of the water
and sink ..
only the outlines of your thoughts
still remain on the mirror of writing
and are carried away by the heaving waves
From the Top of the Moment
from the top of the moment we look out across nothing
it is better to lead an exciting landscape into the poem
and freshen it up by adding color ..
a deep-red sun still hangs for a little while at the end of the runway
where fields of flowers and grain lean down towards the sea
at this frozen moment the sky is completely without clothes
the enormous flood waters become an eye rolling across the earth
that on its wanderings carries with it visible spices ..
this is the salt I lick and gather with the tip of my tongue
from the silky surface of your taut breasts ..
now my ocean also rises washing
the endless series of red waves through my lungs
while silence swims across your sunburned hands
the same silence that slumbers in the bread until you cut it ..
soon the moon fingers will look for planetary fallen fruit
not only on the mossy forest floor but among the army of grain in the field
stiff and lined up like Giacometti's sculptures?
you lift a flat rock .. a miniature space ship
feel the wind sitting there dangling its legs in ancient trees
the same wind that with curiosity peeks up your skirt ..
here I will plant a wild flower in each of your pores
while we cling to each other like in a movie by Fellini ..
here as stowaways on board the speck of dust called Earth
where you wonder what it is that drives this carefree machinery
which once again slowly turns on the light from above in the large dark ballroom
not only making your eyes sparkle but also feel the dizziness
which accompanies our goals all the way to the top of the silver-plated sky ladder
where I can hear the stars and your hand singing
Linguistic Search Party
death is without logic and only a circle
placed outside another to fix the limit
of the glowing mass of our volcanic lives ..
every thought has its own egg as a hiding place
for shooting stars and breakneck exercises
the core of our pointless leaps into survival ..
the dark cathedral may easily be transformed into amniotic fluid
set free by the moon's quivering fingertips
like flotsam towards all our chained enigmas ..
in the linguistic search for new paintings
the goal is what can save us from point zero
while the trough between the waves drowns out all our cries ..
life's energy discharge and the planet's rotation
are not only remedies against sleep
but against the sound of glass ringing in our throat ..
in order to have the rainbow drip from our armpits
and green sprouts grow out of the lovers' eyes
this brief story is lifted onto a broader plane?
see the human being drag a wing across the earthen floor
and the army of black shoes which hone the corner of the world
back on the wet asphalt lies only a run-over moon
We Count the Year Rings of the Body
in order to forget the language of love
you throw up your fingers into the glass bowl
before also draining your weightless head ..
soon you are blazed like a tree in the forest
and must from now on study and stare at the fish
as they knot their own dark nets
out there where the stitches may tear in the sun ..
for there are still dreams that happen in the dark
and disappear instead of cancelling the law of gravity
or inventing a landscape you have never seen
and where every mountain top exhibits an insidious color
which hides the blood hounds hidden in the text ..
even in the letters' built-in flowers the pain lives
and in the reflexes the ocean returns to the glowing planet ..
only in the eyeballs' fresh cheeks may the distance bathe
and our gazes stagger towards the upper treeline of experience
hunting for the sapphire light which blows out the night ..
is the earth really the encapsulated body of a woman
with breasts of flying stones and diamonds?
we hear our common heart fall from our breathing bridge in the clouds
and stare at the moon .. a brass button in the night's black coat
Grimaces of Language
that one's vision is infinite is an incredibly beautiful illusion
but utopias exist in order to make the pictures stretch
further that the coloring allows and open new revolving doors ..
last night we looked at the moon with fingers sewn together
not an evening of great gestures but lit up by reflection ..
I ran through your locked room like a horse
and ordered the entire ensemble into the circus ring
in such delusions things emerge from the pupils
to avoid having the inner stairway of the sun disappear in the heat ..
soon we run along the well-stocked shelves in the library
our fingers clutching the pen before the tableau is extinguished ..
now we hear the voices lose themselves in the labyrinth of sound
while the world brings us ever closer together ..
no great strides across prime meridians and the equator
but under silent bells chiming in the inner room
the way that love can remember every little wrinkle
in the other person's face if one is able to retain it ..
or everything transforms itself into a kind of strange hypnosis
it does not suddenly appear in order to show its sun virility
but to yank all spoken letters up by the root
before the snake-crawling fear of parting takes over ..
everything may sneak into the text while it is about to
lose its overview on the easel of oblivion ..
the sand-filled winds which only wreak havoc in the canvas stretcher
may like thought be fixed directly to the cave wall
the timeless reflection arose however long before the words
which also whirl onwards over our erogenous zones
without the vagina thereby creating video images on her own cave wall ..
the course of history has been brought in to secure the fear of pictures
the abstract curve of the paintbrush which worships only colors
the way the cave-dwellers of the past fertilized a nocturnal darkness
enormous flame-cast silhouettes bent over a steaming carcass
while bones and wolf skins breathed in blood steam and sulphur
on board a blue earth apple .. cocooned by ozone ..
we find each other's arms again and wake up from the vision
still the birds of language fly up from quivering guitar strings
and stroke our nerves with their colored wingspan
we provide shadow for the eyes in order to better observe the flock
as it slowly disappears in the flames ..
on the opposite side of the fabricated frame of text
we see a boat fish in its own mirror image and pull with its net
the clouds up from the ocean thus to transform a panorama ..
with a blue mouth and an extended tongue of sand you speak to the ocean's dead calm
drawing the head's bow and shooting the arrow of thought straight into the poem's heart