Blesok no. 107, May 2016
I have an unsolved issue with the city,
that is, I think that during the day we’re unable
to tell each other everything. I make up for it, willy
or nilly, at night, when the hedges draw closer
and the hills start rolling beneath my feet.
There’s usually a lot of drives streets vaults arcades
also a lot of bronze, made green by the wet darkness
in the seldom mown parks.
It keeps sending me on errands from façade to façade
by inconveniently connected tram routes
and often it spells out the names of buildings and squares
in completely arcane languages.
It rolls me down sidewalks, chucks me over to entrances,
hiding, nonetheless, its inner courtyards –
the proof that it can dream lucidly, while I
clamber where I have to through passages and underpasses.
And then in the morning it makes me laugh
and deride it, because I know that it multiplies braggingly
in me all night long, pulling wool over my eyes, blaring propaganda,
trying to appear larger blacker deeper
to build infinitely, illusively in vain.
The last mowing another quiet ritual.
It is not obligatory, but it is good,
and pleasant too, because it re-enacts August,
the time when mowing is as contagious as yawning,
when you start the engine and begin,
and when you stop for the first time
you hear the entire motor choir from the near
distance, from all the four corners of the world.
All of us conquering grass, playing cows,
playing neighbours in the suburbs of Chicago.
But the last mowing is beautiful and manly:
you are alone in it, it’s often dusk and there’s fog.
You do something unpleasant and painful to the grass
for its own good, like a doctor or a father.
You take care of the machine, you clean it before it sleeps,
you pour out the petrol, dealing with – as you never do,
since you are a philologist, a scribe and gay – oil and steel. In the end
you lock the door, breathing out an “everything’s ready” –
now winter may come, now the long nights without growth
spent far away from the earth,
that’s why you sigh.
tonight after years and years I
was taken once more to look for the desert and
I didn’t find it again the forest
took over again
it seduced tied up
darkened the paths and
buzzed in the night
the smell of finding
possible mushrooms and
an empty pheasantry of silence all
dragged me by the hand to where
shadows spread and the forest
breathily entered my spine
hiding with branches awareness with murmurs
Pots, earthen, cracked,
reusable nonetheless, lying long
in the rain and open air, flake
beautifully, just like skin. They function
as parts of a natural
echoing machine, reflecting responses
with their bottoms. Their use
is for water to pass through them
and to linger inside, and for demonstrating
clearly the roles of earth,
since they were made of it, lifting up
rot, germination, specimens of plants.
In a corner of the garden, under the hedge,
lie empty pots (here
is their room), waiting for spring
to be housed anew, until then
calling softly for moss,
something more permanent.
I hunted hares
abundantly and inaudibly:
the crosshair killed, there were no shots,
furry bags fell promptly down
on the parched grass in the dusk. They remained
stiff, eyes open, with not a drop of blood
on their clenched wounds: in fact ridiculous,
innocuous in their death which had not
taken over life, and so was see-through.
I did not run out of bullets,
and neither did they of death: they produced it constantly
in ditches and on mounds.
Autumn is falling, it’ll be that.