Blesok no. 51, November-December, 2006
Requiem for a Girl
Someday perhaps there will be no need to speak. Someday
perhaps the dead power of reason will be. Someday perhaps
you will say: I want love. Through the body the mother of becoming
will be sketched and the mother of becoming will wait until
the day I miss her. We will always be together on this path,
immature for the time of nuptials. Everything will touch with a quiet
whisper and everyone will hurt you with a passion of something that
you dare not bleed. O, you offered lady! Far will I be and yet too
close for you to hear my greeting. Today I cannot imagine
that you were not Bach's fugue. Today I no longer am aware that
you are not cocooned, that you are not curled up, but you wait, hope
and say nothing. Lady, lady sensitive, who flexes your senses, who removes your thoughts, who comes and leaves?…. She offers:
scratched out with the aid of words. She sings: larva hidden
in a stone, the possibility of a butterfly
in a sigh. She says: it's true, no lie.
Inscriptions at the Centre of Gravity
On the fringes of the bloody thought breathes our quiet
silkworm. She comes to us and we come.
No-one nowhere to tell about these blue
blossoms, about these dark treetops, about these
nimble odours, about these simple and hairy
trunks. Through existence the uncounted scarlet
wreaths, through formlessness gradually
all too many purified desires, through
unsuitability, despite the dense ground layer
of imbued anguish, through disorder of the most delicious
climaxes of the same image, scarlet wreaths continue
to drip, offering themselves from the blossoms reaching
into a naked manifestation, clenching its jaws and murmuring about the contradictions in process: so simple for the same
amount of its own simplicity. But this is just
hands turning rugged. But this is just a spell
slithering over bewitchment lower to the door ajar, to make sure
he is not there. But it is true: the sigh sighed,
but this simply means that
the spirit escaped from the bottle. And now
it is captured. Will you ever again guide your hand over your
seedlings? Will you offer your strawberries to everyone,
lest I forget, what remains neither in the memory nor in the bosom, encircled with undulating silence, uttering the holy curse: may your body split in half, may your arm dry up and may the pale curse await you, curse cold, curse consummate: don't you see!? This is not a bright red song, this not a sun-filled flesh wound, this is not a flame
grown into the trunk. It is a blooming iris, the power of reason,
another seed with a down-cast look seven times.
A red smudge has smeared the sparkle of white
teeth in the pit of the jaws that spat out its
thorn, as if from afar, who knows when,
who knows where, ravens would take off
in their most ardent plea, but from the haven of the loved one,
before the veiled face,
the voice would crack and sink
into the holy symbol. At dawn,
it would start conquering the vastness of tender designs; let us love!
Oh, startled tufts, heavy is the symbol;
Oh, lovely cliff, overheated are the oceans; oh, fish
immaculate, the cradle of peace. Anointed are the bubbles
in the pit of the jaws that spat out its thorn;
anointed are the bodies of elusive solitudes;
anointed are the sighs of the approaching;
anointed are anointments with the sword of the cross,
with the sword of silence, with the sword of hell. Crumbled are the pillars,
that gave support to the noblest shudder. Rejected
blues, blue, kind, mythical blues, sparkle in their completeness
which cannot be claimed even by the sheen of everyday. On the
overheated sky the stars battle the blood
of speech, and on my shore, a seaweed-spangled fish
swallows the azure star.
I beseech my myrrh; from head to tail, the fish scrapes itself
with the knife’s handle. I see: chopped up, someone will bury it in embers.
The ancient horrors will be horrified! The red blade will awake
from a cloud, there, somewhere in the pit of the jaws!
Legacy of Love
I thought I was. I was sifting through my ashes
as if making out the nuances of passion in relation
to your sweetness and bitterness, girl. Every
day, every night, without giving it a thought to help me.
Do you remember; when I want, in the middle of the night,
persecuted, to reach into the poured blood; then as if the path was
falling into the tomb: something is always already lost. Time flies
on the paths that doubt does not reach, and to be on them
is like being on them. Do you remember, when we played two children, no bigger than the thumb of a hand, when we, bogged in mud, played lunch like two slender birch trees neighing merrily,
when we played like two little elves, so fleet-footed, so wise,
so crazy. Entranced, I studied, little and serious, to be happy.
My pains were the buckles I tore off my clothes. I said and still say: ridiculous are the scores and ridiculous are the laws, useless
for the body’s spirit to wrap itself in them: cast off the gossamer from your body and wrap it in your loveliness. The play as a story about no-one. Birth as the human soul. Suffering as the springhead of beliefs. Madness as the yearning stone. Your hand stopped even before you drank up. Someone saw: eyelashes are sticky, smoke makes them stick, the girl trembles, there she is, like a butterfly’s wings in the rain. Someone said: even before the curtain went up
on a thousand and one nights, she said: You are not. Someone sensed: may a hyena pounce on my black bones, may the volutes salivate over my outspread loneliness, if I say anything. Someone knew: she is alone Come, girl and be gentle
There in the distance, enticing horizons are inviting each other.
Words, as if healing future memories. We are not worthy,
they are silent. They re-appropriate psalms, and above all
they sprinkle gold-grey ashes on everything. Our spirit,
what do you give, if you have anything? We are not worthy…
Beneath the white thighs grow the proffered offerings
of festive times, to reach, to lie down, to rest and spawn a legend
about the warm eyes, or cold stares, or soft breasts, or prickly warts;
to spawn the legend about the springs of oblivion, or victory’s
favourite sons, which are now no more. Legends are bathing
in milk and the traces are healing, now the springs run dry and the
paths turn black. We are not worthy, they are bleeding. They only smoothen themselves. How they forgive themselves the stars
on their limitless milky ways, incense smells sweet, blades of grass
wither away into eternity, fruits father and beings please. O, say nothing. Distances are not too close and loads are not without
weight. From there to here legends are celebrated.
They are conceived up to seven times, seventy times.
And every time shoots a star. Up to seven times, seventy times.
It ascends, consents. Pardons. It reddens and bares itself.
From the sky bare gymnosperms sprinkle peace and forget.
And down below the paths meander, the fields are covered,
no-one anywhere, the horses of undying end hope.
In the washed out time
and place. Now they are afraid now,
sealed for good.
(a thought not thinking)
Thought unbearable. Rolling ball. Pure
and transparent water drop. Magic wand, threatening.
Red flaming flame. Word, never burning down.
Ready for everything. Present and foreign.
It happens. Sublime. Carved into the wound of the world.
Everywhere and nowhere. Homeless at home.
Attentive to itself. Dreamed of. Recognised in the experienced.
Trembling. Offering itself and destructive. Wishing.
Scooping from a non-existing world. Sobbing. And yet so ready
for that thing… Clad in the unavoidable mesh of singularity.
Tense. Skewered on a pole of loneliness. Blood-smeared and still
warm. Believing it or not. Trapped or not. Leaps. Trusts without
hope. Ill, suffering, wishing painfully. Even if it thunders down into
the power of the void.
And this can be desired. What comes and is. To summon up
in fear what is inexorable and good. To open up from narrowness
into broadness. On the side of painful dreams. Into transcendence of
ruddy admissions. Right there. All alone. Intercepted. Entranced.
Aligned with the sharpened world. Removed into the untouched over-measure. Honed and devoted. More than a thought and
more than a day. Miserable thought staring into eternity.
Inscribed without letters. The will of memory. Not the figure
of an often disquiet desert. Beauty. Absent. Divine. Lonely charity. Obscured within itself, sinking its teeth into the maddening night.
Willing and ready for everything.
Daydreaming, running to its death. The thought festering painfully.
The call for help is stifled. Slithering among the tears, quenching the soil.
It’s never too late for happiness. The desired happens,
if it happens. And then it rests. And then in the manger
it plays and waits to grab her, strong and healthy cheeks,
one courageous lad. But soon time runs out and the desired one
puts on the gas and disappears. Unappreciative she says: it’s done. Insolent she thinks: the brood…
Half-pilgrims, and half-undertakers. Half-mixed up ,half-alone.
Embarked on a long, too long a road. From hell. Purified.
Warriors without swords. The repentant of every rebellion.
But still the hour of strife arrives. And it arrives
soon. I arrive alone. The right one. Not knowing where.
Split in half, axed in half and chosen. The repenter of the spirit.
Here I am to exchange a sinister sin for a sunny smile.
Unworthy for the moment. Here I am to turn a pallid world
into a useless fly. The right one. Barely seen. The joy of doom.
With a taste of spiced happiness. Enticing and red coloured.
Yearning of expression, painful of foreboding. Happiness coated with
never-too-late hope. Filled with emptiness. With pure Trust.
Happy joy. In the burning coals of millennia. Perfection tested in the
proto-source. Realised? Unrealised? Heart’s delight. Expected in ardent appeals and curses. Known to madmen.