N. N. 

Translator

Unter uns gesagt

es liegt auf dem Boden wie fein gemahlener Staub,

der sich trüb erhebt vor unserm Gesicht,

wenn wir uns nähern.

Den Notausgang haben wir gefunden.

Wir schmuggeln durch ihn

alle zärtlichen Gesten an einen anderen,

schärferen Ort.

Doch dabei machen wir die Augen zu.

Die Augen verschüttet

sind wir wieder Kinder während zu langer Streite,

erniedrigt von der Unverschämtheit des Bösen.

Denn wo wir stehen, versteinert

der Winter den Schritt,

gefangen treibt er einen Sprung in den Boden.

Schmuggler sind schon andere,

wir die Verlierer.

Anderswo atmet man Meer.

Durch erblindete Scheiben

differenziert sich das Licht,

das von außen kommt

und schräg einschneidet

ins zaghafte Profil, das,

unter uns gesagt,

bricht.

And so they left, and abandoned the chairs on the street,

and we never had a chance to ask them where they were from.

Other people came to look out of their windows

on the square of the sky, so to say, prayed over.

but they did not pray too diligently, and didn’t believe in much;

perhaps they only believed in a couple of Saturday candles and their circle

of light.

Only their little girl whom they did not tell

to do this, found a white crystal of mountain quartz

in the tea can

between many dusty souvenirs from which

the ethers of emotions evaporated.

It refracted the bezels of rays, transforming them

Into fountains of radiance. The girl said:

God is here.

And nobody could argue

against it.

And so they left. The little girl

kept the treasured bag with God on her lap.

And in the new home, in a hole, from all sides surrounded

by the ribs of other people’s houses, a different light

came to live with them: it did not spread out on the roofs,

did not capture the birds into the shining maelstrom. And the crystal

seemed angry. It did not refract the rays,

did not bring back the radiance.

Will God hear my prayers from another place?

Will he see me here, where I ended up? –

the girls asked with her first grief in her voice.

And nobody could explain anything

to her.

And so they left, and God stopped smiling.

I

Modlitwa myśliwego

              _{G. Ž.}

Kiedy myśliwy się modli

żaden szept, żaden dźwięk

nigdy

nie wsiąka w ziemię daremnie

kiedy myśliwy się modli

słuch zwierzęcia pęka

kiedy myśliwy się modli

jego dziecko

wypasa nad rzeką

chmarę

drewnianych jelonków

łowca od kilku dni nie wraca

matka

nie wyrusza jego śladem

spokojna

ubrana w ochronne futro

przegryza

żyłę zwierzęcia

rodzi się

pulsująca jedność

wokół

wszędzie

nikt nie umiera

zmienia się jedynie forma życia

łowca kończy modlitwę.

V. 2011 09 02

II

Wężowa macocha

Jestem matką

szyję lalkę

sama ceruję swoje rany

naciągam cięciwę

i strzała

wbija się głębiej

moja igła

przeszywa kamień, pamięć, myśl –

płynie strużka krwi

małanki* latają

po ogrodzie

ktoś go starannie zaplanował

wyszył na nim

koła Wielkiego Wozu

psy Oriona i plejady

czerwony ścieg ucieka

przez skórę

gdybym go złapała

pewnie byłby nagi

czuję

jak mi w płucach szumi

skłebiona mgła lasu

Przepłynę święte jezioro ja

wężowa matka.

Z. 2013 09 01

^{* Małanka – w niektórych gwarach określenie na błyskawicę bez grzmotu}

III

Lisica

Nie wiem, czy jestem twoją lisicą

nie wiem, kto uwolnił żywioł

jestem tylko barwą ziemi

wyraźnieję wraz z jesienią

wszystko było wieki temu

wieki możesz nie dostrzegać

pustki

nie poczuć nie możesz

lecą liście i otwiera się wszystko

–––––––

jaki pełny czas

i jaki potężny żywioł

już wiem, że jestem twoją lisicą

a polowanie

to bitwa

w której możesz na mnie liczyć.

V. 2013 wiosna – 09 28

Рудымэнтам у памяць крокаў

укараніўся ім стэп

іх ногі

звыклі напінацца ў стрэмені

яшчэ ад нараджэньня дзядоў

тут чатыры дзесяткі

волатаў-сыноў Амэльдэша

       пакінулі

чатыры дзесяткі пар

адбіткаў ног

яшчэ ад нараджэньня дзядоў

ад падзеньня

         ў глебу

хмарак нябесных

ад першага сусьветнага выбуху

рытуал якога паўтарае

вясна

дрэвы

што восеньню сеюць волатаў

нагадваюць як

аднойчы

ў адзін месяц у адзін год

адзін бацька пасеяў семя

ў чатыры дзесяткі жанчын

тут –

стэп і пявучы час

у паўгадзіны ад Вільні

прыгарадны аўтобус

зьмятае іх

як танюткае павуціньне сьвету

пакідаючы нас

туляцца

ад мячэту

і да сельмагу

і ўжо здаецца

пявучага часу

тут не было ніколі

але ўсё злучае

прабегшы па вуліцы

чарнабровая дзеўчынка

з доўгай касою

---

*Сорак татараў – назва вёскі пад Вільняй, адзін з цэнтраў расьсяленьня татараў у Вялікім Княстве Літоўскім (заўв. пер).

The full moon pours milk

and a hundred thousand thoughts

surge in the sea of my mind

Once before

at a time like this

the gentle breeze lulled the coconut palms

bathed in moonlight

and music wafted on the silent air

the sky spread out like a blue canopy

under which we walked on the wet sand

holding hands as stars drew designs

while from the thatched hut

a song to the throbbing of drums

rended the midnight hours.

The full moon pours milk

but there has been no rain for three months

And as the sun scorches the crops,

and the tops of trees

Craning our necks

we look up in vain

Hands are needed to dig

to seek water

and we appealed

some young men responded and came armed

and vowed ‘We won’t rest

till we strike water.’

neighbors came with crowbars and pickaxes

and others sent them food

Who else could be so lavish, we thought

and decorated our streets with thoranams

We garlanded them and welcomed them

to the sound of drums

Having received those celestial beings

we took them round in motorcades

we were in a trance for over a month

But one day the gods turned into demons

they pestered us who had asked for a homeland

and our homes were destroyed

The transformed gods had to be appeased

with fowls and goats

with ornaments and houses

and wine and women

Not water but tears welled up

the youth were hunted for trying to dig

an unlawful well

and they went everywhere to give credence

to a pack of lies!

The demons were incited

to rob and steal and loot

we had sought to worship the crescent

through the murunga tree

but the crescent we saw

was on the fourth day

We cried, we wailed

Then one day the cyclone uprooted the murunga tree

and the demons vanished

The youngsters undaunted

started all over again the blasting of rocks

Some complained

that their sleep was disturbed;

they conferred: 

“Without asking us?

A venture unheard of!

We cannot permit such nonsense!”

So the river was blocked

and the well ran dry

Parched crops and scorched groves

broken plams and cracked temples

and the ruined homes

the palmyra is blasted?

This is not the time to moan or mourn.

The full moon pours milk

The palmyra will sprout again

and grow erect

as impetuous as ever

never bending its knee

in the face of oppression

Let the throb of the drums

rend the late night air

Let the melody of the flute

pour nectar in our ears

At last we can walk, burying our feet

once again in the wet sand

The full moon pours milk!

Note :- Hindus consider it auspicious to worship the crescent on the third day after the new moon, but to look at it on the fourth day could bring misfortune.

Look at the range of handbags!

symbols of fashion!

some can be classed

‘see through’

no need to open them

ICs and passes are visible

you can pass through

check – points without delay

Shouldn’t we wear

see – through clothes as well

to facilitate our passage

through check – points?

Our pockets will reveal

Tickets and tags

There won’t be any

groping or probing

patting or petting

searching or trespass

into my person!

Like see – through bags

and see – through clothes

if we are blessed

with see – through hearts

how grand would it be!

If you hearts have nothing to hide

won’t it mean the end of all falsity

deception and hypocrisy?

or

will man

shamed by his ‘nakedness’

hide himself

like Adam and Eve?

Thirunelvely fair

morning seven

on the sidewalk

two hawkers

one has apples

in boxes

neatly arranged - sponged

The other has cucumbers

in Palmyra leaves

piled on gunny bags

An apple surveys

the new environment

through her ‘sponge eyes’

‘Who are you?’ she asks

Annoyed

by the stranger’s question

the cucumber answers

“I ‘m cucumber”

“Where are you from?”

“Sanguveli”

“How did you come?”

“By bullock cart!”

Now it is cucumber’s turn

“Who are you?”

“I’m apple”

“Where are you from?”

“Australia”

“How did you come?”

“By ship”

the apple proudly answers

Looking at the cucumber’s wrapper

apple asks

“What’s the name of your dress?”

“Palmyra leaf”

Casting a derisive glance

at the Palmyra wrapper

the apple – in – sponge asks

“How do they eat you?”

“With Palmyra jaggery”

“So you don’t have natural sweetness?”

“Not exactly. We are made for each other”

“Ok. Why do you always go for Palmyra products?”

“The Palmyra saves us, sustains us”

Third day

The apple lies blistered

by the hot sun

The hawker sprinkles water

No use

The hawker cries; “apple at half price!”

No one cares

The cucumber is fresh

protected by the Palmyra leaf

A woman buys it for Rs.20

The cucumber gives a parting shot:

“Stay in your own land

You will have nothing to worry”.

странствие? голоса? (звенящие провода) ― приземляясь, ты глядел: к

                                                         небесам

   сидя в самолете ты, наверное, относился к инвентарю мира, в глазах

                                                        ребенка.

сначала панорама лежит как ящерица, потом вдруг ускользает

   плавное сокращение интенсивности, в стекле поблескивал страх

(бобэоби пели губы) бормотал ты. мы всего лишь оживляем чужие

                                                      интерьеры

   блестим среди глобальных пустых мест (чучела в пламени). но

сосать тоску или короновать королька птицей года

   – все одно. как в бесконечной петле, выведенное чрезвычайное

                                                     положение:

задурманено (и мэйл) - воспламеняется осень – дует из двери кокпита

kis hordák visznek szorgosan felfelé zászlókat a napokon keresztül, söpredék

a prédavágy dupla horgával; miközben én egyik vagy másik

útelágazásra várok………………..............………………

……………… néha ponyvák is csapódnak és

emblémák nélküli üres játékok és

a vállra hulló nap.

She dabbles her feet in the chill water

loving her water-image that looks at herself,

a seagull flies

from the rocks where she runs,

a rider suddenly is on her,

she feels the horse’s breath on her cheeks

and in one bead of sweat that falls from its cheeks

to her nipples

she traces its footprints through all the continents it crossed.

In the taut skin of its belly she hears

the boom and throb of never-ending drums.

From the chill waters where her feet are dipped

she creates a love-ring and casts it wide;

from the light that blinds men’s eyes

who are caught in those rings

a dragon takes shape

and waits for those captive souls.

In that forest of captive souls

how many trees could escape?

Hearts hang in the sun to dry

on the sharp-pointed branches,

many a sightless man looking at the past

through hollows gouged

by sharp-beaked sparrows,

now waits for the cold palace of the faithless nymph.

Playfully dabbling her feet in the water

she looks at its scatter of limpid laughter,

she builds palaces of ice over winter’s wounds,

under the ice the wound bleeds endlessly.

In the cold palace of the faithless nymph

woman finds herself

and man is turned to stone.

Itzeta: Of race, of species like Laietani Iberians Aztecs and

Itzetes

Itzetes want,

Itzetes say,

Itzetes laugh tidily through a wilderness.

Itzetes are those who close,

watch their backs. The ones of straw bullets, howls and landscapes

ghosts

through an extinction, a revelation, a war,

open struggle that hobbles into wound,

open wound,

close wound,

open do,

donate faith,

donate woman:

wench in war,

health in the other house, here it’s fag!

Itzetes close group,

Itzetes gather up,

replant and off they go.

Itzetes close group,

gather up replant and off they go.

Before house, other house, holy cows, soldier warrior cowboy:

itzeta!

So a truth is mine, rage and zest,

straw bullets, howls and landscapes of horses.

Itzeta,

the first last,

the last first,

through pleats of grey set on sun. I fire

and here fag,

war of bones that punctually awakes: for it breakfasts.

Itzetes close group, bullets of straw and ghostly ships,

walking by curve going straight,

one brushes by the secret of itzeta,

heart that’s resolved a calculus of pining, yes,

here itzetes

like Laietani Iberians and Aztecs.

Itzetes close group, replant and off they go.

Birds fly up

to the unfamiliar branches. The sun

hangs low. Time has revealed itself

and picked leaves, decay - the fruit

of itself, but each time new and

differently. No year is

like another, except in what is

missing, or concealed. Each season is

only itself, and escapes from all

that wears a name. So there is

only this autumn, and that only

for a short time. As the fire

above the burning leaves suddenly

blows out. As the streets are barely wet

after a shower.

an ant dies, and no one mourns

a bird dies, and no one mourns if it isn’t a crested ibis

a monkey dies, and monkeys mourn

a monkey dies, and people pry open its skull

a shark dies, and another shark keeps swimming

a tiger dies, and some people mourning are mourning themselves

a person dies, and some people mourn and some people don’t

a person dies, and some people mourn and some even applaud

a generation dies, and the next generation doesn’t really mourn

a country dies, most of the time just leaving apocrypha

a country that doesn’t leave apocrypha wasn’t a real country

if it wasn’t a real country, when it dies no one mourns

no one mourns, and the wind blows in vain

rivers flow in vain, washing over rocks in vain

glistening in vain, making vain ripples

the river dies, and there’s no one left to mourn

the wind dies, and there’s no one left to mourn

the river and wind make their way to the sea, the sea as vast as in Zhuangzi

the vast sea dies, and you will have to die

the dragon king dies, and you will have to die

the moon doesn’t mourn, there’s no one on the moon

the stars don’t mourn, the stars aren’t flesh and blood

November 11, 2014

every time I think of flying  my body feels heavy

every time I try a takeoff  I soar five feet, no higher

then fall to the ground  revealing my true self

one time I reached nine feet  boundlessness filling my heart

but bruising my ass when I crashed down  and my ass cursed my heart

one night I dreamt of floating  from treetop to rooftop

and from rooftop ascending upward  half moon at my left hand

bathing in the eternal shine of the stars  entering darkness meeting no one

and then back to bed in solitude  I went to the bathroom and flushed the toilet

thinking back the next day  without even the echo of a sound

walking down the street  a boy called me Grandpa

and I asked What’s your name, 孙子，  he said My name is Flight

                        Nov. 11, 2014

We are brothers

we are in the name of

we are in the place God spoke of.

You and we are brothers children of our fathers

you and we also

our heads in the clods of our earth.

And here we are binding sheaves of wheat in the field [*]

here we dance before hills

slaughter mountains in the name of God [**]

we build the wall

we sit here

you sit here

we sit there

and how will we rise?

We raided, set on fire

we are all alive here.

We conquer

here we are passing through

pointing with a finger.

And there are those of us who say our sons our daughters

and those of you who say our fields our vines and our homes.

But we are at home.

We are unsoiled people

passing the days here

each honest in his own eyes.

We gather in hopes of a line of scarlet thread in the window[***]

we cover our eyes,

roll up sleeves

we cut with a blade,

blood saves sweat

we say hurry brothers hurry

the strength of Israel does not lie [****]

we’re sincere

we’re together.

_____

[*] Genesis 37:7 – Joseph has a dream that disturbs his brothers: “For, behold, we were binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and also stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves stood round about, and made obeisance to my sheaf.” [KJV]

[**] According to the Code of Maimonides (2:14), the ritual slaughter of animals may not be made in the name of natural entities such as hills, seas, stars, etc., even if no worship of them is intended; it is also

unacceptable to slaughter animals in the name of the presumed spiritual sources of such natural phenomena. 

[***] Joshua 2:1-22 – A scarlet thread in a window is the signal to protect Rahab, a prostitute who aided Joshua’s spies in Jericho.

[****] Samuel I 15:29 [JPS]

My little boy is now pacing the earth

immersed in darkness 

training for the

worst.

My tender son, the mild one –little prince

sheltered from the vulgar world

in the precious ark

forever floating

                        on a perpetual flood

The child I didn’t read Red Riding Hood to

so as not to alarm him

 with slashed bellies

 and blood --

is now cutting his way through the thicket

crawling on all four

learning  to be

a wolf.

See, the ‘2000 years boat’ 

  that may have been   the boat of Jesus

Is ready to take us for an 'experience'  

                                not a crossing of the sea.

See, the sea of today

is a trife:

     water shortage ,

         national conduit,

          environmental pollution,

                                        restaurants

that do not restore the heart  

on a short promenade.

the sea of those days

was love, miracles, first testament,

                             second testament,

                  and climbing the mount of beatitude

                             with those who will inherit the earth

then waves of pioneers: first wave, second wave

and all the rest, in a row,

shaking the chains of the past

                        starting the farms,       

      dancing the Hora…

-   -  -

it must be that Turism

is the new Tora,

the very last

          Strow.

uma aldeia ao meio-dia não é ainda um poema  

         mas eis que o temos  aqui

 visto da janela e também          

         de dentro

 há  nele um velho sofá castanho

         agui já está a referência ao sofá

 nunca conseguira criar raizes a série

 do mesmo modo que o abeto da floresta negra nunca cria raizes.

         o terreno é mau

 que faremos com ele quando nas cidades

         iniciarmos a   n o v a   v i d a

quando fizermos estoirar e ir pelos ares as cidades

         em favor ruma história de amor?

agora sou eu quem tem de ter cuidado para não criar raizes

a toda a volta da casa corre uma goteira cinzenta tal como tu

andas à minha volta como se eu tivesse criado raizes:

         "achas que lav hoje as cortinas

ou amanhã, ou ainda estão boas?"

         "deixa lá, mãe, eu amanhã vou-me embora outra vez."

surpreendida, ela levanta os olhos: "amanhã já, tão cedo?"

deito-lhe um olhar fugidio e melancólico           

e outro a armação para bater tapetes, no quintal, onde

         agora três pequenos pássaros criaram raizes,

neste momento dispara na cave o automático

         do aquecimento.

"daqui a pouco já fica mais quente" diz ela

e ao dizê-lo irradia um calor imenso.

Everywhere the erhu all about the street  oh the whole street singing.

Everywhere the peddlers all about the street  the great big sky.

Everywhere the daughters all about the street  each one named Jade Orchid.

Everywhere the aunties all about the street  all with eager faces.

Everywhere good people all about the street  but this isn’t heaven.

Each and every bad man  always ends up lonely.

On each head of each believer  a little white cap.

The nonbelievers sneak off too  with their bowls in hand.

Everywhere little birds all about the city  hungering for mutton.

Thirty thousand lambs and lambs  stampeding to the city.

When the donkeys see it  they break out in cold sweat.

Streams of donkey piss  trickling down the street.

So if you pee in public  you descend from donkeys,

Just like if you are insolent  you were raised by horses.

But the deceitful and the harmful  what about them?

I say they must have grown up  in a pack of mules.

Boys and girls hold hands  they’re wearing faded colors.

The drinking and the swearing  are ancestral tradition.

Each and every Audi A6  is driving to the Han Dynasty.

Newly produced old tricycles  come with electric motors.

All the dazzling sunlight  all the driving rain,

Chives and sandy scallion  all a vigorous green.

The pigheaded Yellow River  never looks back.

If you’re feeling happy kid  then open your mouth and howl.

Open your mouth and howl kid  if you aren’t happy.

You won’t be depressed kid  living without a heart.

Mahjong games throughout the city  suddenly break out.

The next generation on the street  can never get enough.

                                                                                 August 19, 2014

Ce soir, quand le ciel chantera comme le sang

et que le drap se déchirera, elle sera assise chauve sur l’horizon.

Nous pouvons voir droit dans son cœur.

Le vent est faible et changeant.

Elle coiffe les chevaux et les dames.

Ce soir, quand les pierres se fendront

et qu’elle s’enveloppera de ses cheveux comme de cordes

nous vous verrons.

Vous pouvez changer en un mur d’eau.

Ce sont les dernières heures

qui l’aspirent vers la destruction,

mais vous semblez léger au centre.

Elle cherche des poux à ses hommes,

largue des amarres, traverse,

vogue sur une vie meilleure.

Elle ne chantera plus,

lit votre ombre

sur le mur qui la ceint.

Elle peut jouer au ballon.

Ça lui tient chaud.

Donc ce soir,

quand elle traversera à la nage dans le noir

comme un poussin qui ne trouve pas son œuf,

pas un homme ne sauvera sa douce.

Pourquoi chercherait-on?

Elle s’enveloppera de vous

comme d’une corde douce.

Elle vous embrassera comme du fil.

Et ainsi,

le petit,

le nidet

tout le gravier qui s’y mêle

est en elle comme une petite plume

qui pousse parfois et forme des ailes.

Je n’ai pas d’aiguillon pour votre parler

et j’ignore où échouera le bateau,

si le fleuve se retire vers l’intérieur,

mais ce qui plane le mieux, chute lourdement.

Rien de tout cela n’est nécessaire.

Nous avons une trouée à combler l’un dans l’autre.

Cette nuit, parmi des poings où pousse de la calotte

et des applaudissements blancs sur nos murs,

je veux chuter comme du verre.

Dénuée de moi je serai vôtre

et dans ma tête un muscle ouvert

qui saisit son bonheur.

Je suis une sauvage qui ignore le chemin

sur cette paroi doucement remmaillée.

Mon monde est un aveu de faiblesse.

Dans ces forêts je défriche mon cœur.

Donc cette nuit,

quand des arbres pousseront dans mes yeux

et que chaque branche me fermera,

je planterai mon crayon dans le sable

et dans le monde.

Il y a des formes de progressivité plus douces.

Il paraît qu’après une éternité ça se fane.

Ainsi je suis un nichoir plein de gens

sous de vieilles arches en pierre.

Trois hommes se tiennent sur la rive.

Parfois, les hommes grimpent sur le toit.

Cette nuit je m’enferre

dans l’alphabet de mon souveniret

j’ai beau vouloir tomber doucement,

il n’y a pas de filets.

Les lignes sont un adieu à ce qui était ouvert

et enferrée dans le centre

je peux bien cacher quelque chose,

mais pas ces dernières terres arables.

Je veux être libre à l’intérieur,

cette nuit encore.

Et respirer, recommencer.

Ce matin, en refaisant surface après des années,

mes cheveux étaient mouillés,

des écailles poussaient sous mes aisselles.

La chaleur reposait sur la peau

comme un faux accord.

Les pupes étaient à découvert.

Des asticots rongeaient mes doigts

et la croissance prenait du temps.

Lorsque mes yeux s’ouvrirent aussi,

le soleil se leva. Des crapauds se turent soudain.

Je faillis regretter.

Il y avait un rideau qui me coupait la vue

et mes nageoires aspiraient.

Je n‘avais rien appris, mais ce printemps

me donna des branches mortes et un doux marécage.

Cela me suffit.

Je me disais que même les plus gros poissons

aspirent la douleur, que la terre la plus douce est navigable.

Je me disais que là où les fins se touchent

plus rien ne veut dire quoi que ce soit.

Il y a de drôles de courants en nous,

qui nous tirent vers les hauteurs et les profondeurs,

mais après des années de lenteur nous débordons vite.

Nous voguons vers la fin.

La faim tiraille.

Je suis un mât qui capte des mots,

les cordes dures, mais tendues.

Je dessine un homme esseulé comme moi, sur le mur,

puis j’aurai peur de sentir la solitude comme lui..

c’est pourquoi je dessinerai un papillon à côté de lui..

puis j’aurai peur qu’il s’envole..

je dessinerai alors, quatre murs..

puis j’aurai peur pour nous du chagrin..

c’est pourquoi je dessinerai un nuage dans la mémoire..

puis j’aurai peur des corbeaux des questions..

je dessinerai donc un complot

et j’aurai peur que ça réussisse..

je dessinerai alors, un arbre, indifférent de ce qui se passe..

puis j’aurai peur qu’il croit ce qui arrive.

Alors je dessinerai une lune croqué par le regret ..

puis j’aurai peur qu’elle serai préoccupée par le poème,

alors je ne dessinerai rien..

puis j’aurai peur que le doute sera découvert..

je dessinerai donc une porte fermée avec soin..

puis j’aurai peur qu’il s’habitue à l’échec,

je dessinerai pour lui une valise, contenant une autre, qui contient une clé.. puis j’aurai peur que le secret sera connu..

alors je dessinerai un abime derrière la porte..

puis j’aurai peur pour ma fierté de sa folie..

je dessinerai alors un hibou qui habite son épaule droit..

puis j’aurai peur qu’il exagère la sagesse..

je dessinerai alors un loup dans son poumon gauche..

puis j’aurai peur qu’il se venge de son corps..

c’est pourquoi je dessinerai une cigarette qui s’exhibera entre ces lèvres,

puis j’aurai peur que le rêve s’asphyxie..

je dessinerai alors, une fenêtre..

puis j’aurai peur des voleurs..

Je dessinerai alors, une carabine,

puis le froid me tue, puis j’aurai peur de l’oubli.

1

je veux dire : je t’aime,

mais les sièges en bois t’aiment, les jardins t’aiment, les pavés t’aime, tu le sais et les fous, les parapluies

et les voitures de maïs,

la mer aussi,

quelle anarchie !

comme ça pour attirer ton attention ;

je répète le contraire de ce je veux,

marchant vers l’abime,

en me dodelinant derrière une vieille chanson

qui émane mes pertes et la senteur des sièges en bois qui t’aime.

2

je t’aime comme l’éternité,

l’éternité qui s’est achevée,

car d’autres mains, d’autres yeux,et lèvres

rêves et rendez-vous vont venir

et parce que ce n’est pas de mes habitudes

de laisser l’amour

seul.

3

Ton sourire lointain

a rapporté le silence aux guerres du monde.

tu n’es pas plus que l’obscurité

et malgré ça je t’ai trouvé,

tu ne seras pas, plus triste que les mots, mais je te veux

et tu n’es pas plus intelligente que la route ; 

c’est pourquoi je te recherche dans les poèmes

et j’ai même eu l’idée de partir au passé et t’attendre.

4 

je te veux.. 

je veux ta main même si elle me fait mal,

car c’est elle la verite.

Ta voix,

avec tes mensonges, sont les seuls a faire bouger les voiles de mon sort. L’excès d’exactitude m’a égaré.

Je veux les cadeaux,

les parapluies

et ta cruauté, 

car tout ce chagrin

a besoin d’être justifié.

Die schönste junge Frau auf der Welt wischte mit ihrer Fingerspitze den                                 

    Staub

vom Etikett einer Flasche in einem der Weinläden von Bordeaux.

Diese fächerartige Geste wird in Archäologiestunden erlernt,

während Augen leuchten, den Jahrgang  zu erkennen.

Mit dem Wein aus den Flaschen geht der Gedanke an die Hand verloren,  

die Trauben kelterte,

wie den Weinbeeren der Geruch der Schattendächer ihrer Blätter. In dem

    Laub

erstickt die Sehnsucht am Windgebläse der Sandkörner und nichts

bedeckte mehr die Wurzeln, die in Erde krochen wie Schlangen,

sich häutend in jeder Saison.

Und die junge Frau? Neun Monate so vermute ich anhand der                

                        Pinselspuren auf ihrem Körper,

neun Monate saß Leonardo Da Vinci zwischen den Beinen

ihrer Mutter und malte

sie.

Ich bin ein Pyjama-Iraker, meine Frau ist Rumänin

und unsere Tochter ist der Dieb aus Bagdad.

Meine Mutter bringt weiter Euphrat und Tigris zum kochen

und meine Schwester weiß, von der russischen Mutter

ihres Mannes Piroschki zu bereiten.

Unser Freund, Marrokko-Messer, rammt die Gabel

aus englischem Stahl in einen Fisch

von den Ufern Norwegens.

Wir sind alle entlassene Arbeiter, herunter geholt vom Baugerüst des Turms,

den wir in Babylon hochziehen wollten.

Wir sind alle rostige Lanzen,

die Don Quijote auf Windmühlen warf.

Wir schießen alle noch immer auf  die lichtschweißenden Sterne

den Augenblick, bevor sie verschluckt werden

in der Milchstraße.

hochhackige Schuhe erdachte sich eine junge Frau,

der man immer die Stirn küßte.

Seither glänzt die Stirn wie Lederfett

und die Bürste der Augenbrauen entstaubt dauernd

die Augen unter Strom nach dem geplatzten Knall

der mehrlippigen Kontaktmine.

Ich erinnere mich an den ersten Kuß neben einem kahlen

Zitronenbaum. Einer hat uns gesagt, die Zähne an einem Blatt zu reiben,

denn das löscht den Geruch der Zigaretten aus.

Der Nebel hatte damals dünne Finger. Der verdickte Hals der Stadt war

nicht zu erdrosseln und die junge Frau, die ich wollte, wußte nicht, dass der                                                                                           

                                                                   Zitronengeruch zwischen den Zähnen

und der Zunge sich im Traum schon auf den Rand ihres Gesichts verteilt.

Auf dem Etikett von Nun's Leib ist der Jahrgang verzeichnet:

Vor 17 Jahren wurde sie in die Welt gesetzt wie eine Traube nach dem

       Pressen

und über Nacht weigert sich ihre Mama zu verzeihen

und sagt "Es hat sich ihr das Loch geöffnet und das Gehirn verschlossen".

Nun's Glasaugen glitzern vor Tränen,

auf Barhockern schlägt sie in den Nächten

vom Tanzen zerbrochen die Beine übereinander und sieht,

wie der französische Korken aus dem Mund des Schaumweins fliegt

und der Mexikaner als Sombrero zum Kopf der Schnapsflasche wird

und der scharfzahnige Deutsche in den Hals des Bieres beißt.

Mama, komm, siehe, will sie schreien und hört schon

ihre Worte:

" Das ist nicht einfach so ein Korken, diese Haut,

das ist die Mitgift".

Nun' geht zurück nach Hause und wirft die Tanzschuhe

neben das Bett wie zwei Küsse auf die Wange der Fliesen.

Esa nostalgia, las violetas,

una rúbrica tan ajena a nuestras lenguas,

estar de viaje, Armenia, signos extranjeros,

la capa carnosa que cubre mi sensación.

Un país que no existe, la tierra rara septuagésima,

en vastas extensiones el mínimo elemento para la cópula.

Todo el varón que hay en mí,

a veces tú, y yo otras,

no tengo ninguna palabra de nueve letras.

Víctima y verdugo abrazados en una sola lengua,

horizontes a los que lanzarnos: al mar, a Portugal, a España.

El sendero impracticable del tao, jaulas aladas en los 70,

el rojo de las pantallas, algunos metales plateados.

El punto de tu vida en el que no sabes qué decisión tomar,

tres líneas iguales, soñando un pacto,

la memoria escura de la nación terrible.

La violación de mi nombre, lo último que te escribo.

La juventud, corriéndonos entre los dedos en distintas direcciones.

Cuando abrimos la puerta del cuarto de baño de la poesía

encontramos al padre convertido en una roca.

La mera ocurrencia de que pueda ser un yugo ese sur,

yo-lan-da-cas-ta-ño repetido hasta que no significa nada.

Según algunos códigos, mi número inevitable,

la simultánea prole de una isla que implora,

el tormento del modisto, los escombros del Medievo.

El respetado capricho de los nacionales patriarcas,

los desvelos del aislamiento en una aldea de Suecia,

el bendito sabor de las uvas de Corinto,

merced de tus labios en una hora futura

y, entre las piernas, mi sexo

que también empieza

por Y.

Todo el cielo está en cuclillas. Una sed intransitiva.

Hablar en una lengua ajena

se parece a vestir ropa prestada.

Helga confunde los significados de país y paisaje.

(¿Qué clase de persona serías en otro idioma?)

Tú, me haces notar que, a veces,

este instrumento mío de cuerda

vocal

desafina.

En el patio de luces del lenguaje,

se me engancha la prosodia

en el vestido.

Te contaré algo sobre mis problemas con la lengua:

hay cosas que no puedo pronunciar.

Como cuando te veo sentado y sólo veo

una silla –

ceci n’est pas une chaise.

Una cámara oscura proyecta en el hemisferio.

Pronunciar: si el poema es

un exorcismo, un cambio de agregación; algún humor

solidifica para abandonarnos.

Así es la fonación, la entalpía.

Pero tienes toda la razón:

mi vocalismo deja

mucho que desear.

(Si dejo de mirar tus dientes

no voy a entender nada de lo que hables).

El cielo se hace pequeño. Helga sonríe en cursiva.

Y yo aprendo a diferenciar entre una barba y un pájaro

más allá de que levante el vuelo

si trato de cogerla

entre las manos.

Estamos elaborando un inventario minucioso,

como el herbario de una constelación impredecible.

Están primero los lirios, aderezo de estrellas precipitadas,

las dalias y los crisantemos,

hay que contar a las amapolas porque también lo merecen las

flores tímidas y menudas.

La de la higuera es una flor subliminal.

Las más librescas de todas, las inflorescencias en capítulo.

La orquídea es claramente una flor sicalíptica,

se imita demasiado, no sigo por ahí.

El hibisco llena de antojos y proverbios la tarde.

Hortensias: contadme cuánto de feliz fui aquí.

Están los iris, la lavanda, la llamada rosa de té.

Y luego está la magnolia que, como su nombre indica,

en tiempos debió de dar emblema a algún tipo de soberanía mongol.

Calas, anémonas, el aguerrido síntoma del rododendro.

Después están otros prodigios registrables en latitudes apartadas,

como la indecible flor del chilamate,

que se siente pero no se ve, como

ese profundo amor que sube como un bramido desde las rodillas.

Hay

adargas de río, rosas chinas, dientes de león.

Tenemos también cosmos y azar y pensamientos pero esas son ya

flores más conceptuales.

La pasiflora es como el trono de una respuesta, el

baldaquino de una consideración.

Hay flores que llevan para siempre el nombre del primer ojo que las vio.

Lilas, caléndulas, clavellinas.

No puedo olvidar las mimosas, enjambre de diminutas advertencias,

ni a mis absolutas consentidas: fragor indecente de las buganvillas.

Pero, ya os decía, no sé, es curioso,

pasé tantas veces por aquí y…

no,

no os había visto

nunca.

Wir hatten 30 Sekunden, die Brust zu stürmen,

es war ein Hügel,

der am Ende des Hindernislaufs auf dem Stützpunkt der Einberufenen

                                         herausstach.

Der Himmelskragen wurde mit der Stärke der Wolken ausgebügelt,

und die Farbe des Sandes wäre, in anderer Landschaft, Zeile eines

                                 Naturgedichts.

Aber wozu Gedicht und wozu Natur,

wenn zwei Feldflaschen an der Hüfte schaukelten,

das Gewehr in der Hand

und dem Spaten im Rückgrat.

Nichts blieb,

als in Wachträumen Brüste zu stopfen

mit der Schreibkraft der Truppe, die es sich unaufhörlich bequem machte

im Geländewagen des Befehlshabers,

und an den Maler Gauguin zu denken, der damit rang, das Huhn

zu essen oder zu malen.

Dort, vor dem Hügel, ausgehungert waren wir.

                                  Čia to nebuvo, tai buvo Kinijoj…

                                                        Rainis

Istorija trumpa.

Pianistui

Sulaužė rankas.

Sulaužė

Pasaulinės Revoliucijos

ir Šviesios Ateities vardan.

Sakoma,

jei dievai įsinori valgyt,

reikią aukos.

Ir pianistui

sulaužytos rankos

tėra vienintelis lojalumas,

jei apskritai žmogus gali būt bent kiek lojalus

dygiam stabui.

Nors ir nesu

nei kinas,

nei pianistas,

Lu Ši-kani,

šį tą išmanau

apie stabus

ir stabų dievybę.

y todos los cigarrillos que hasta el mordido

filtro fumábamos la dorada mantequilla que en el

supermercado robábamos untada sin descongelar en el

fino pan blanco el artista del que estábamos enamoradas

venía a menudo y traía cava y grandes palabras la tarta de nata

que decorábamos con nueces y con mazapán

y acto seguido con tremenda gana comíamos

los cigarrillos nos hacían las piernas pesadas

al despertar por la mañana y contar los pitillos

del cenicero y cogíamos las frías

colillas de la noche anterior y bebíamos entonces

los restos del té negro con leche y azúcar y

comíamos el pan moro que costaba entonces casi nada con

mantequilla y mermelada de naranja mirábamos afuera

por la ventana colonia a veces achispadas

y a menudo también hambrientas así era la divertida vida de estudiante

reíamos como locas y andábamos por las calles con los

pulmones llenos de humo en el estómago el pan moro con

mantequilla y mermelada

pues el propio yo, como lo teníamos

-bajo celos e hipócritas parpadeos divinos-,

el oro puro

de nuestras garra en Klondike, en Siberia, en los Carpatos ...

raspado del cuarzo rugoso

extraordinariamente blando

y maleable, dúctil

mecánicamente procesable, de

lenta reacción,

custodia de oro, que te inclinas po tu tallo,

ni oye ni habla,

una esencia

del cerebro más intimo –

oh blástula, oh gástrula, oh huésped

de mares alejados, y que viaja

como por estanques crecientes,

ameba, oh

en el oido del estanque hay rumores del mar.

Wie ein Verwandter, mit niemand teile ich die Hoffnung

Mit niemand die Wahl meiner Liebe

Mit der ich einsam lebe, mit der ich schwanke

Mich bewegend aber bezwungen von der maßlosen Landschaft

In dem der Tod die Ähren liest

Uns bleibt nur die Zeit und nicht das Fliehen

Und alles was sich auf Erden bewegt,

Uns bleibt die letzte Reise von zwei ermüdeten Menschen

Das Abschiednehmen vom ausgetragenen Schoss.

Für immer.

Wie jeder es sah, wie jeder es hörte

Und wie es auch jedem ergehen wird

Je nach der Distanz zur Ferne, zur Glut

Durch die Schattenspiele meines Schattens hindurch.

Wie ein Verwandter versteinere ich mit der Duft der Frau

Und dem Verschrumpfen der Käfer auf dem tödlichen Moos.

Während die Wahrheit Entsetzen erregt,

Zu einer wilden Wolke wird, und Würmer willkürlich

Den ersten Balken unseres Hauses durchbohren,

Komme ich zu dir und befühle deine Kleider

Ich küsse dich, nach vorne gebeugt, zusammen gekauert und zerrissen.

Und wieder werden wir älter und kleiner

Und dreister in dem ständigen Regen,

In dem wir die Trauer tragen für die vielen verblichenen Bande

Fort durch die Niederungen der Lustlosigkeit.

1

direction place complétement

évacuée ou déserte

                        salle de bal Audubon, déjà quasi

        quatre-mille-à-Brodway, façade couleur

                  terre cuite, des faux de renards( pendent

pour le propriétaire Fox) Argo de la mort sur tout,

                  leur bois  

         prétendu prédisant a parlé du présent

                  qui appartient aux martyrs.

    Malcolm Little, Détroit Red, X, El Hajj Malik Shabbaz

                              -- bleu

  se coloraient les yeux de l'ancien prédicateur du temple 7,

                       leur couleur s'altérait sans cesse.

Qui prenait des bains de soleil                      (profession oblige)

    des africains l'appelaient Albino,     des diables blancs l'interviewaient,

     des coreligionnaires noirs le criblaient de questions,        ici même.

    chaque doigt,chaque orteil, chaque oeil,chaque douleur

             prend parfois sa propre direction,

   si bien qu'il ne reste rien sur la place                  personnalité.

  Ses histoires-----------des torpilles dirigées contre l'histoire,

                 mais beaucoup plus bizarres qu'elle.

                                              Son écriture manuscrite

et sans fantaisie, école de la taule,                           a pendant des années

     pris en note tout ce que l'apôtre débitait: Jakub

la grosse tête qui a élevé à la dure  des blancs, les avions

   côtés mère et bébé des inflexibles dans

           l'attaque décisive ----------Harmagedôn.

                           Devoir s´ínventer

plus courageux, avec des poses d'opprimé; combattant,qui évita l'action. 39,

    charisme

                d'acteur (est remplacé dans l'autobiographie

                      par l'acteur Denzel Washington),

                                       toujours amical,

                  les micros étaient coupés;

                                     à part cela: nous espérons que chaque jour

        un avion tombe du ciel( télégramme d'allah) - -

Descendre vers Harlem,

jusqu'au Sylvia, Malcolm Boulevard,

à l'hôtel Teresa, Fidel Castro et lui

sont assis sur un lit usé, les jours de Kroutchev,

de tout jeunes types devant lesquels l'Amérique blanche tremble - -

- - Malcolm X Boulevard, Harlem, New York:

làs-bas près de la place de jeu Martin Luther King Jr

demandé volontiers son chemin à un homme fier,

2

direction

domicile de cette journée

direction

domicile de l'eau

3

direction place

du rouge merveilleux

O Sol está no céu e isso chamamos dia.

Mas ele também lá está quando a coisa se chama noite.

Ontem vi um riacho que andava à procura de um coelhinho,

pequenino, trémulo, gelado,

de patinhas cinzentas todo a tremer,

mas como era Verão não conseguiu encontrá-lo.

Mais uma vez não deram um com o outro.

O que acontecerá no Inverno?

Nem pau, nem cenoura, nem catástrofe, nem idílio.

Talvez se fique a saber, no Outono, quando terminarem o relatório final.

A Lua também está lá, na mesma, nem ela sabe por onde é que anda,

perto da Terra e perto do céu, e longe de tudo

como se não tivesse nada a fazer nem outra razão de ser;

nem atrapalha a si própria, nem ajuda a outrem.

Nem se vê bem, coitada, parece esquecida

mal se esconde atrás de uma nuvem ou um canto de uma casa.

Não tem uma vida burguesa, parece que está de passagem,

Como eternidade efémera e brilho apagado de fratricídio.

Tudo isso fala de qualquer coisa, mas não tem solução,

Ou está completamente vazio como uma cabine telefónica abandonada.

Amanhã, em vez das estrelas, lá estarão os santos.

O firmamento será armado em brilho,

cheio de calar ameno, um pouco lixado,

já que os santos nada dizem antes de serem perguntados.

Mas quem lhes vai perguntar algo naquele deserto vazio

de onde tudo que está por fora, parece um ecrã,

como um documentário estúpido dentro do olho gélido da TV.

Toda a paz deste universo está transparente como vidro

através do qual corre um coelhinho sujando-o com as patas.

Talvez venha o outro, para o lavar com a patinha,

ou talvez ainda não. O fim não tem equilíbrio.

The computer. The chat, all the lonely people.

What is this I feel? I dreamt I stained the sheets while we were fucking.

An old couple was staring at us. I know where my wound is.

But you were exhausted. You had long hair like a wild animal.

You, I don't know who you are.

But you were there, with your Indian torso,

your Californian surfer hip. I was looking at you,

sitting by that pair of old ourselves,

we were lost in the body of Buda

dreaming of us.

I looked at you and saw the little red ruby alive as sex

laid down at your white feet, on white sheets laid out.

Me, who was I?

A lysergic fairy with a geisha education and the attitude of a rolling stone.

The tip of my tongue on your body's tip. A room full of toys,

Even the furry handcuffs, oil lamps.

No hay banda

No hay banda

This is also an illusion but it feels so real.

There's no more angel night and the future has been told:

You will not bite the hand that caresses.

the war never ended. i remember the dawn when

i was leaving my home. it was everywhere. it held an hatchet

behind the doorpost. on the bed it had piled a body draped

with a wolf's skin.

it looked like a peacock that was eying me dubiously

and getting ready to peck my hands. it lowered the blinds

on the windows. it was hiding so i couldn't see it.

i knew it was breathing down my neck

it tied up my breath and made things transparent

to which i had dedicated my vision.

it addressed me scornfully:

you who chew quartz you'll expect to vomit it

you'll learn to remember what you've forgotten

i am your knowledge that you waking predicted

that which you'll turn back to see will be darkness

the father who will never return

the sea off which flame will arrive

from which you'll go deaf.

who is stronger than war

i whom nobody asks about anything

an island from which only the name will remain

a usurer who'll loan to me

a weapon that kills before it's forged

or a snake that crawls in where it's no place for her.

along the street that was flooded with twilight

between the yards where willful knowledge sang

and the dulled fields through which the raven cawed

a tiny dog is pulled on a tight chain.

the boy who pulled him looked like the blind future

with sharp eyes like judgment in his heart he was making a decision

while his head was unwrapped like the horizon

absent like what would fool him

light like the light that is only acknowledged once

he was leading the dog down the slopes of darkness

of the one who in the dark growls and can't bear it.

but the reason was above both of them

he who had carried out petty crimes

and he who held the leash

to neither of them

is a measure given

not one controlled with barking at the unfamiliar

not one didn't breathe from the motives he recalled

and no one knew what was in their embryo.

the dark reason was evening out scores

what's going to happen will happen in faith

that he perished outside of knowledge

that the path of death is the path of a devilish birth

and that the path of love opens through staggering.

everything finally could have been

different and everything didn’t have

to happen this way. but every

outcome is an occurrence

while acceptance and rejection

are two gloves before which

we wriggle. maybe if i were nimbler,

if i’d risen quicker from the table

if i’d done that before the tropical

rains or if i’d lit the fire

could i have burnt the scattered questions.

but the outcome’s not pronounced

the dark is not described.

i’ll come out into bad weather

to trample a path

and i’ll carry the knowledge

on my shoes.

à Anne Beresford

Le chat sur le poirier

derrière la fenêtre

colorée du reflet

des abat-jour écarlates

sur fond d'un sombre crépuscule,

animal allongé dans sa blancheur

qui d'un saut aimerait

venir me rejoindre

mais prend conscience de la vitre

qui, invisible, me sépare

de son regard.

Sur la table Hölderlin -

quatre gros volumes supplémentaires -

le verre de vin d'orange,

création personnelle de Jane,

il n'en prend pas conscience, mais de

la contradiction du

transparent et du dur

qu'il surmonte quelques minutes

avant le saut dans le noir

qui lui dérobe la vision intérieure.

Baum.

Gras.

Baum.

Baum.

Hautschuppe.

Unrat.

Baum.

Kies.

Nullpunkt.

Decken.

Hohlraum.

Kies.

Nullpunkt.

Sinnlosigkeit.

Hautschuppe.

Dunkel.

Ablagerungen.

Gras.

Eiche.

Bach.

Erfahrung.

Asbest.

Zerbrochene Ziegel.

Stein.

Sperrmüll.

Baum.

Umverteilung.

Verwüstung.

Nullpunkt.

Vermüllung.

Rollsplitt.

Brand.

Kinderkopf.

Sinnlosigkeit.

Tanne.

Hungersnot.

Erde.

Unrat.

Gras.

Weg.

Steigerung.

Gras.

Gras.

Verwesung.

Tanne.

Hungersnot.

Dunkel.

Erbrochenes.

Sperrmüll.

Baum.

Gras.

Schrott.

Sinnlosigkeit.

Licht.

Stein.

Stahl.

Tanne.

Sinnlosigkeit.

Ulme.

Gras.

Zerbrochene Ziegel.

Stein.

Tanne.

Zerbrochene Ziegel.

Asbest.

Tanne.

Gras.

Asbest.

Stein.

Erde.

Material.

Blendung.

Menschenmenge.

Sterbliche Überreste.

Baum.

Unhörbarer Laut.

Umverteilung.

Rost.

Zerbrochene Ziegel.

Pfad.

Anspannung.

Unhörbarer Laut.

Baum.

Tanne.

Tanne.

Erde.

Rote Augen.

Brief.

Material.

Baum.

Fehler.

Gras.

Zerbrochene Ziegel.

Tanne.

Tanne.

Verlust.

Wacholder.

Masse.

Erdrutsch.

Raserei.

Unhörbarer Laut.

Grab.

Verwüstung.

Piep.

Brandverletzung.

Resignation.

See.

Baum.

Planken.

Beläge.

Stein.

Sterbliche Überreste.

Baum.

Umverteilung.

Geigerzähler.

Gras.

Stein.

Stein.

Tanne.

Körper.

Klebeband.

Beläge.

Beläge.

Wacholder.

Sortierung.

Massengrab.

Ausbruch.

See.

Gras.

Ablagerungen.

Erde.

Sterbliche Überreste.

Rippe.

Körper.

Lebensproduktion.

See.

Gras.

Erde.

Ablagerungen.

Asbest.

Erde.

Klebeband.

Menschenmenge.

Erde.

Klebeband.

Vogel.

Wacholder.

Ke

Souvenir de la neige en ville :

parfois mes doigts recherchaient

un réconfort d'enfance menacée.

Du coton dans les poches déchirées,

des restes de tendresse jamais donnée :

de moi, le cœur s'est toujours éloigné.

Et la consolation parfaite, sans âge,

des choses qui surnagent au cœur du souvenir ;

souvenir de neige dans la ville :

ce fut avant la terreur et l'espoir.

Que cette distance soit toujours en moi,

celle qui change en moi les choses réussies

dans des doigts qui recherchent dans l'enfance

du coton, de la tendresse, des traces d'autres vies.

Das zarte verlangen, das dich vergoldet

und in unserer Haut bleibt, wenn es Nacht wird,

webt sich gegen unser Leben

und lebt und verweilt in Vers.

Liebe, die wir nicht hatten und die uns nicht hatte,

rief uns jetzt. Plötzlich

wird Nebel das Wort der Gegenwart

und Licht dein Körper, den ich flüchtig berührte.

Wenn aber im Gedächtnis des Liedes

der Körper brennt, den du mir gabst und nahmst,

ist der Vers eine andere Art von Verrat,

weil ich belüge, wen du niemals belogst.

Und so hintergehen wir das Herz,

indem wir mit Mythen bemänteln, was existiert.

Le délicat désir qui te dore

et nous dure dans la peau à la nuit tombante,

c'est contre notre vie qu'il se tisse

et c'est dans le poème qu'il vit et qu'il s'attarde.

L'amour que nous n'avons ni possédé ni ressenti

est venu maintenant nous chercher. Soudain,

la parole du présent est devenue brume

et lumière sur ton corps que j'ai à peine frôlé.

Mais si dans la mémoire de la chanson brûle

le corps que tu m'as offert et dérobé,

le vers est une autre façon de trahir,

je mens à tout ce qui en toi ne m'a jamais menti.

Et ainsi nous trompons le cœur,

déguisant en mythes tout ce qui existe.

Jamais, parmi tant de sérénité,

un refus ou un soudain frémissement d'un cœur démesuré

ne pourrait subsister. Le privilège des morts

est de ne pas connaître

la passion. Entre la main

et la barque,

entre le silence et l'aridité,

entre la clarté

et le frisson

les ombres tombent sur l'eau comme

le linge se détache et glisse du corps désiré,

entrevu,

Mort tissée de tant d'amour !

To Amiri Baraka

First bring me back my history

And then my textbooks

And don't tell me my poem is a political manifesto

When you haven't got a clue ‘bout your wrongs. So here is a lead:

I want compensation from the National Bank of Israel

For the Palestinians, the Mizrachim, the Women, the Gays and the Lesbians

For every comment, transit-camp, closed military zone

Disappearance, disfigurement.

I want you to open the poetry safe

And give back the land to those you took from

And compensate for a horrible occupation

I will wait by the national bank of Israel,

Outside the window of the National Insurance Institute,

Under the cars of the treasury Department

Until you aptly compensate for all the distilled racism

And only then, when the children of children of the compensated ones

Will study in university, in an equal society

Only then will I be willing to write Israeli love songs.

Faire plus de silence dans la chambre que dans son sang :

en tapant, faire sortir le scarabée pulsant des murs blancs,

en poussant, faire se rendormir les rideaux qui s’esquivent,

le café finit lentement en eau de boudin. La taciturnité

se dessine en ombres noires sur le mur, d’abord

des chameaux, des belettes, une baleine balourde, puis

nous devenons des lièvres dans les hautes herbes. Nous jouons

aux sales bêtes. Et là, dans la chambre, son cerveau prend

une voix parlant comme son sang : depuis la souche

son amour se dissémine. Faisant du surplace,

car le poisson-noir mort, c’est moi, haussant les épaules

et tremblant je suis allongé sur le lit. Une contrainte me joint

les mains. Car ce qui connaît aveuglément le chemin

en moi, son propre amour rigoureux comme parade, m’effraie.

To make it go more quiet in the room than in her blood:

hammer the beating beetle from the whitened walls,

nudge the receding curtains back to sleep,

the coffee slowly runs to a dead end. Quietude

outlines itself across the wall in darkened shapes,

first camels, weasels, a sluggish whale, then

we become the hares in tall grass. We play dirty

beasts. And there in the room her brain assumes

a voice the way her blood speaks: from the stem

her love disseminates itself. Trampling on the spot,

because I am a dead blackfish, shoulders shaking

and trembling I lie on the bed. My hands are folded

in straits. Because what blindly knows its way through me;

one’s own rigorous love as retort, scares me the most.

            For Nguyen Van Kham (1954-2010)

The Mekong river was a seam between

your former town and another no-man’s-land,

but still you were assigned a destination

bordering on even greater unknowns.

Judging by the bank statements

we suspect you lived here

among us, four up, in an expired

calendar year, a squeaky clean chap.

While generations of Egyptians worried

about their procedures for years, you became

a mummy on your own, having had a fit and

lying beside your bed, averted from life.

A seven-minute broadcast on TV,

your departure was reported in the news,

a column on page two of the paper,

more attention than you ever knew.

Your disappearance made us feel uneasy,

indignation brought us closer together

as neighbours – Jenny next door would have

liked a coffee had she spoken your language.

We failed, I readily admit, first noticing you

when your money did not show up.

Considering your years of silence beyond

death, we should have known who you are.

De vrouwen noemden je 'Modesta',

Een voornaam die klinkt als van een slavin;

een bevel om op je plek te blijven, niet uit de pas te lopen

Een allereerste les, die al zoveel pijn deed:

'huisnegers' hebben geen geslacht, geen ras,

al eeuwenlang, en vrouwen ... onderdrukken ook vrouwen

Modesta, alsof men een betekenisloze pagina uitscheurt;

Meisje, dit is de kooi die je hebt geërfd:

wees breekbaar, naïef en elegant

Modesta, alsof men weigert een vakje zwart te maken

omdat de regels onwrikbaar lijken,

Een eindpunt aan het begin van een zin.

Ze noemden je Modesta,

Leerden je vanaf je geboorte je ogen neer te slaan 

en vooral geen sporen achter te laten 

De vrouwen noemden je Modesta, Modesta ...

De mannen noemden je Modesta 

ze keken toe hoe je de race verloor, nog voor die goed en wel was begonnen 

vluchtig als vervagende sporen 

De mannen noemden je Modesta, Modesta ...

Ze vertelden je dat een vrouw geen grote dromen heeft:

In de salons van machtige en belangrijke heren

brengt zoiets drankjes en sluit het de deur achter zich

Ze vertelden je dat een vrouw niet voor verandering kan zorgen:

zoiets buigt zich naar de regels en wetten die je het oplegt,

het vecht slechts met de wapens die de man het geeft

Ze vertelden je dat een vrouw alles doet voor haar familie:

zoiets offert zichzelf op, het raakt uitgeput

... en het troost zichzelf door op zaterdag te gaan shoppen

Ze vertelden je dat een vrouw glimlacht en bloost

en dankjewel zegt als je het een schunnig compliment geeft,

en dat het genoegen neemt met seks waarvan alleen de man geniet

Ze noemden je Modesta, 

Leerden je vanaf je geboorte je ogen neer te slaan 

en vooral geen sporen achter te laten 

De vrouwen noemden je Modesta, Modesta ... 

De mannen noemden je Modesta 

ze keken toe hoe je de race verloor, nog voor die goed en wel was begonnen 

vluchtig als vervagende sporen 

De mannen noemden je Modesta, Modesta ...

Zonder hulp van orakels heb je elk obstakel overwonnen,

geweigerd redelijk te blijven, hun moraal aan je laars gelapt;

een nonnenhabijt ingeruild voor een zigeunerjurk

Je diende geen god, maar vertrok toch op jihad

om je vrijheid te winnen: blaas hun barricades op!

Je moest vechten, leren hoe je poeder gebruikt,

soms moest je zij die zich verscholen achter hun taboes, opofferen

Ver weg van alle dogma's, kerken, politiek, goeroes;

ver weg van de mannen die je dwongen 'altijd' te zeggen,

ver weg van de jaloerse vrouwen die je met argusogen bekeken,

ben je oppermachtig geworden: vrij om te kiezen en lief te hebben

De vrouwen noemden je 'Modesta', maar dat ben je niet meer 

Je bent voorgoed immoreel, onsterfelijk, 

Je bent een onzedige, obscene femme fatale 

Je bent sensueel, gewaagd, rebels, bevrijd 

De vrouwen noemden je 'Modesta', maar dat ben je niet meer 

Je bent niet langer 'Modesta', je houdt van drukte, 

Je bent niet langer 'Modesta', je bent marginaal, 

Je bent een beginletter, allesbehalve een eindpunt

LE SOIR venu, les grenouilles ébruitent leur vert. Qui nierait

que le vert est vert? Dans la caravane près de la

rive, nous. Papillons de nuit aux lèvres, un bourdonnement

dans la lumière, bientôt la caravane vascille à l'essai

te transmission des couleurs. On connaît ça, on digresse

vers cils et duvet, l’éloignement si près,

si haletant. Le silence des grenouilles nous réveille

d'un sommeil touffu de grincements de dents. La caravane

au milieu du lac, sans cils, le point de congélation l'œil.

L'ESQUISSE AU FUSAIN des étourneaux sur ciel

crayeux. Ton empreinte à toi, c'est cet instant,

penser un ordre dans l'éther. Un

paysage inattendu de l'envol

de points au dessus d'une étendue de terre.

Là - dedans, ta peau. Ce qu'on peut reconnaître, c'est :

Chaque point aspire ton regard

et en fin de ligne le blanc.

Only three times I turned around it, only three times I smiled at.

Only three times I closed my eyelids and only three drops fell on the ground.

The face of sand appeared three times,

I drunk three my blood and my face three times from your punch. 

Asked me; how can blood and face be drunk? 

I said: just keep silent and look,

and see how can blood and face be drunk from the foam of your hand.

The one whose punch is bigger than the universe is angry at me. 

I said; don’t get mad, keep silent and watch,

the universe is dark, your punch is red.

I am a small spot in the deep Babylon.

I do not know which side of your chest I am.

This mountain, this plain, they belong to which of your geography,

this river, this hill, are the wounds of which birth.

Tigris and Euphrates are two chests, from which one I inclined,

blood dropped on my tongue, in which one I got thirsty, water has broken in the throat.

Only three times I turned around it,

only three times I screamed at it,

my voice fell on the ground three by three, sand drunk my laments three times. 

Asked me; how can water break in the throat? 

I said; don’t get offended, just keep silent and watch,

immortaliy is only blood, and your punch is a hurricane,

I am a small spot in Lalesh, I am your last heir in the “roj-kes” (Sun-Pull) 

Build many palayin-houses, marbles,

voice of children, stories, puzzles, crickets, night tales, and stories of the stories. 

This door, this wall, this broken wing are which side of yours,

I don’t know. Everyday I burn with this fire, I burn and I rise.

Which side of is angel, which one “Basilisk”?

I swore three times, only three time i drank its seven fiery lines, the face burned three times.

Three times i became ash, and three times I was created by the creator.

Three times your name echoed at the limen of the ear,

i became mother three time, three times became girl.

The blessed snakes were cloned three by three,

cricle and circle became bead.

As a neckless on the neck of history, for us a fate. I turned around it three times, and three times I kissed the spell with burned lips. The tip of the needle stayed in my bosom, the bosom is in pieces, soul is scattered, the voice broke, voice echoed on your grounds and skies three by three. 

I said; which voice is yours? 

He said; your womb is a plain without floor and roof, between one dream “there is one, there is none”. Please, once again bring me to the life. Spread some seeds, jiff and the face of water. He got angry and said to me: how is it possible? Whatever exists will vanish. The law of the destiny is nothing for mortals. 

I said: times are lost, hours are lie. In which ship they traveled? And who was it, left the hamper to the river? Who separated the sea into two sides, step by step, where did they go? Which tribe was that, created your face in me. The one who is greater than the universe, forgive my shapelessness and meaninglessness from those big eyes of the villages of Babylon and the soul that I lost in stone suburbs of Ninova who is searching itself under the broken lights. Only three times fall on my forehead and on my moments. Only three times, three by three, endow me the greetings that I sent you, and to my moments. At this mountain, on a white lap of a mother, the tie of a lovelock that has been imprinted with black stones, a head of a snake has been shown at a door, three times the tips of my eyelashes, my pain of stone, of sand, bigger than the sky, catch it, blow it, pass it out, in this endless plain and tamarisk…

I said; just keep silent and watch. Fire is immortal, world is a magical secret. Which child knows this language. Which bird is by the water! And from where brings this sand. Tell me, who deserves such death. 

He told me; world is nothing just like mortals, a child knows that sorrow is an epigram, not here, and not here does the language turn, the song of the bird will always rebound.

I said; they say the child is mute, a defaulter from a pointed door, the wedding of April is not anywhere, the lovelocks of women are short, their mirrors are not friendly anymore. The one whose punch is greater than the universe, I know, I am mute, I am a voice of a scream swallowed with blood. The wedding of the spring is prohibited, who is the owner of the vail of blood? 

Who got mad at the doors, who unlocked the darkness behind seven floors.Darkness like an unsharp knife, cutting the lovelock to the death. The mirage is growing grave by grave, children’s head are getting taller than the stones of the savages. Water is a deep destiny, engram is a sleeping dream at the ends. I just gave voice three times! 

I said; this is not the well of “Yusuf”, the birth of the death is a traveler but not on the road. There is going, but not returning! Tell me, do you have any other door without lock? 

And

Told me, a pair of scale does not exist, the door is a dream with a lock, I am not chassis neither I am here.

I cannot suit you, neither can with myself

I am offended by the mirrors, by Amed and by you 

The grass of the garden is not sour anymore and neither grows.

I am a six years old child under the sand of March 

A bullet moving under my rib

Does not leave whatever I do

I am offended, mocking myself with a cold laughter

Come at once to Bebavsuburb

Come and see how my heart is.

Neither my mother nor you, I cannot reach the skies

Anytime I lay hand on a star, 

A bullet falls under the roof of your eyes

Right here, beside you in the lake of blood

A clown gets jealous and chants “Dido”

How much death suits you!

I neither suit you, nor your houses 

I am mad at your trees, 

At your fruits and at your roots which hanged the pieces of my body 

Neither the body suits me nor does my mother’s heart in the sky. 

I am a six years old child under a dirty shoe 

Fearful glances are moving over me

Bullet is jumping in my body 

Tell me, who is my murderer? 

A poet was talking about you and chanting “Dido”

-both your eyes were full shells.

One hit the dove’s heart and the other…

my right eye.

Tell me, which one am I? 

You were a burned village, 

And I am the servant of mother and father. 

I was a bad sister on the ground and the sky of your life

I could not reach the stipes of your mountains, 

Tell me, what was my crime? 

You were saying don’t come. I was saying I will. 

How interesting it was, our names were diagonal.

Neither you were saying come, nor I…

I came. I came. And going without saying good-bye.

Don’t say anything. It wasn’t me. 

The one who was playing at your father’s garden, it wasn’t me. 

The red ball was not mine, and that groan…

I cannot suit you, neither can with timeless cemeteries. 

I am offended, mocking your children. 

Enough! 

Don’t scream anymore. 

I cannot suit you, neither can my cradle. 

My mother, in this cradle, 

Three years five months and seven days 

made me sleep with heart breaking songs. 

Hanged seven blue beads over my head, for evil eyes.

Each word and each laughter

was becoming a yellow bubble 

 on my mother’s lap.

Now! 

Say it.

I cannot suit you neither can

the cries that line on my mother’s cheeks. 

I am offended, mocking the yellow bubble 

which now rusted on my mother’s lap.

Now seven blue beads

become seven evil eyes and shooting at me. 

How warm were my mother’s hands, 

Why are yours cold?

It wasn’t me

Who was crying and laughing 

in my mother’s womb. 

I am mad at the sand of my mother’s nails

whenshe bore me.

I am mocking the arrant milk in her breasts.

Who will carry my crimes.

Who will be prosecuted in the hell? 

Tell me. 

Who will douse the fire that grows in my mother’s heart.

I am offended,

by your eyes and the death.

I am six years old now, and in hands of a stranger 

moving from one side to another side.

Why all the roads of BircaBelek are closing at me.

Tell me, do I deserve it?

Okay! 

I will not mock anymore 

And will not stand for my dreams either. 

Like six years before

Bring a bunch of sand and hit to my mother’s chest. 

Okay, 

Fireflies and corals of love are moving from here.

And my childhood is growing like a moor. 

Okay!

Now it is to me to say good-bye. 

I am riding a wooden carousel. 

My mother’s scream

is hitting the wind of my halter and the road in front of me.

Not a worry, now a bloody spring

And manfulness is wounded at the suburb of Bebav. 

until a star awakes from asleep…

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – niebo i piekło

które nosimy przy sobie jak scyzoryk

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – nikczemność

którą przebieramy za czułość za pomocą przysłów i efektów specjalnych

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – bezczynność

która spowija piękne idee zanurzając w wodzie z detergentem

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – naszą dobrą wolę

stalowymi kleszczami

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – niepokój

samotnych nocy jak tych gdy nie jesteśmy sami

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – katastrofy

wywołane zakochaniem w ramy logiki

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – zburzone mury pogańskich świątyń

które znaleźliśmy gdyśmy się kochali

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – nasze dzieciństwo

jak tani prezent z obtłuczonym brzeżkiem

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – zniszczenie

które wywołaliśmy pocieszając się gdybaniem na konkretnych przykładach

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – wszystkie życia

w tym samym momencie

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – wszystkie problemy

nie czekając na rewolucję

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – wszystkich śmierci

osobiście i każdej z osobna

Gdybyśmy tylko mogli – sam bezsens

brzytwą

Gdybyśmy tylko

Јас сум Бескрајно Исплашената

Кој ќе ми купи сигурност?

Каде да ја најдам смиреноста на тишината?

Кој ќе ми изгради кралства од спокој?

Како да го победам лавиринтот?

Јас сум Бескрајно Исплашената

секое утро се будам самата

од дремката на континентите

од крајните брегови

на пулсот на океанот.

Мојот пулс е пулс на стравот

Како да си го накалапам незвукот

на сонот на капаците?

Во мене е стравот од вечноста

Како да се пренесам себеси

до полињата со јасмин и лалиња?

Јас сум бескрајно исплашената

Кој ќе ми позајми еликсир на стрпливост?

Како да стигнам до главното пристаниште?

Ќе успеам ли да се искачам

Во длабочините на насмеаната милост?

Јас сум Вечно Исплашената

Кога ќе ја изгонам

темнината на битието?

Кога ќе си ја однесам душата

во рајот на душата?

Кога вечноста ќе ми ја засвири

најубавата мелодија

до вечноста на сите вечности.

If you could, I would ask for a homeland

When the sound of rain reaches to the snowy slopes

When loneliness becomes a node and grows in the chest

When your steps move in emptiness and make you regret, life!

And when you want to return for a couple of word, some jokes, a cup of tea, a cup of coffee

With green-red clothes, under the flag of independence, right here, by the river of Tigris 

And when you want to say “children will not die anymore on their mothers’ lap, 

And when you want to say “all the doors of the city are open from four parts of the heart”

And when you want to say “I’ve laid a seed to the ground”

The fire of Nawrouz is alive in twelve month on the castle 

Yes, I would ask you for a homeland

When the sound of rain reaches the snowy slopes,

When the pain becomes a hidden enemy, and grows in the chest, and grows

When your eyes are looking for someone in the streets of Amed, and when life makes you regret it!

And when you want to return, a return for a kiss, few sentences from a point, some deserts, a walk and a heart 

Yes, fromPeyas till DereCiye, you’ve come with rough steps, you walked, and walked 

Like a raindrop, like softness of the willow, like before the hurricane 

Before Amed

Acorn, 

Missing in distance, 

Someone, someone alone, 

Maybe, 

Far from you in two steps, and deep to you in three 

If you could, I would ask for a homeland

From a foreigner, in front of iron flowers, a wave of pain and a handful salt

Not shedding, not raining, not moaning,

do not moan alone and do not moan by Cizrawi’s voice, it is night, homesickness, and it is rain!

I knowpoem is anunsharp hatchet, on my life’s core!

I want a rupture, a scream, a sieve, 

That much wishing for a homeland, 

Not shedding, not raining, it is moaning,

do not moan alone and do not moan by the sound of an antique, pain, you and I!

If you could, I would ask you for a homeland,

When the sound of rain reaches the snowy slopes

When loneliness becomes a node and grows in the chest, grows itself

When a poet sits before “dawudi”

And design barren words, one by one

At one noon, quiet, quiet, with the possibility of you to come back to Amed

When you do not hear the voice of creatures and the creators, 

When the sound of bowl of Suse’s water 

does not ring out again in Mergehmet, 

When the water does not flush by your foot, 

Right here, at this foothold, behind the tree

When you sit and do not stare at me, 

That much begging for a breath 

All the wedding dresses of burned town too…

If you could, I would ask for a homeland, 

I do not know how long you have been here, 

At this morning, an anger carried its tent, 

Arm to arm, embers fall down from the heart!

A circle from sand, a people from water, a circle from heart,

Now you dig my finger…

I do not know how my finger is more determined than my heart.

Search it for me, where I lost my heart.

I do not know if you have ever listened to the night, or the song of snow bird

Have you ever hosted your own life in your bossom, with your bloody body, bare feet? 

Have you ever knitted the difference of walnut and fig? 

Have you ever walked under the rain that reaches the snowy slopes, without fear…

Pings, sharpening the blades

And how the witnessing of walls is simple to you!

Tell me, someone!

Poor! 

When he says “I am dying, dying by a door”!

My need is a homeland, without border, without border, some soil, some tulips

Red, yellow, green from the white of eyes, 

Why your funny words hit the mountains! Why sorrow becomes peace at nights

Why the night slowly falls upon me, wistful, why it names the lyrics

And one by one bows the heads before the feet. 

Oh missing, missing that arises from the pockets of hearts, from days, from notebooks, from homesickness… 

Skein was growing, rain was turning into black, missing was surprising 

The pain was becoming ordinary, a simple word. 

And if you could, I would ask you only for one thing, 

Can your hand’s foam be my gift? 

I will take my left eye for the unity 

How simple the streets words to you, the suburbs of basil, fabricated poppies, 

Empty goblets, full ashtrays, burned dreams, sand, soil

Do you know that no warmer nest than the soil? 

And no colder nest than the soil! 

If you could, I would ask you for a homeland,

Besides the name, surname and a crown…

This is where we laid him to rest

Right here on this rocky, bare ground

Right here in the middle of thorny bushes

Just here, as if he was an animal of the jungle

A wild beast, a brute no one cares about

This is where he lies buried

After he had darted ahead of us all

Swearing intensely, his gun chattering

Paving with fire an escape route,

A passage for his besieged comrades

This is where we laid him to rest

After the enemy had cut him down

His breast riddled with hot bullets

The soil below soaked with his blood

We, dripping gun powder laden tears

This is where he lies buried

After spending three days and nights

Writhing like an alive worm on fire

Quenching his thirst with tears of pain

Licking his own blood to cheat hunger

This is where we laid him to rest

A man we knew nothing about

Not even name, family or totem

All we knew was one solid thing:

He was a true son of the soil

This is where he lies

A fighter who was married to his gun

A hero whose grave we dug with bayonets

A warrior who has dust as his tombstone

A son of the soil, mourned by wild beasts

This year we will not sleep

    before we sort this matter

This year we will not sleep

    before we finish this issue

We can’t let you mess up while we watch

We can’t let you upset things while we keep quiet

We can’t let you destroy while we look with starry eyes

We can’t let you muddle up while we crouch in fear

That day you insulted grandmother

    but we kept quiet

The other day you sold the family property

    and we kept quiet

Yesterday you burnt down the granary

    and we kept quiet

But today you shit in the well?

                       shit in the well?

                       shit in the well?

Ilgai sėdėjau nuobodžiaudamas ir žioplinėjau

Kaip įprasta daryti tiems, kurie pavargo

Nuo to, ką jie tikisi išgyvenę

Tūnojau jaukioje negalvojimo tuštumoje

Stebėjau vorą kybantį ore.

Jis kažką galvoja, pamaniau,

Nes nenustygsta savo nelemtam tinkle

Trumpam apmirė sugniaužęs čiuptuvus, po to staiga

Ryžtingai puolė tuštumą.

Musė, joks mašalas nepraskrido, nemačiau.

Bet ir be grobio tęsiasi medžioklė

Su išmintim, kad tuštumai sugauti

Reikia itin išpuoselėto meno.

Graži liliputinio pabaisos išmintis--

Kybant ant seilės siūlo laukti

Kol nesugaunamą sugausi.

Galų gale prarijo jis didele burna

Mano laiką, nuobodulį, tuštumą.

The Autumn Sky,

droops like an apple.

The perpetual burden of the skies

has hunchbacked the hills,

The eagle soars high above

as it's shadow seeks hapless chicks pecking.

The teenaged trees are mesmerised

by their own reflections in the Teesta.

The clouds wander from hill to hill

slandering the sultry sky.

The lush ricefields sway

In the yellow fragrance of the soil.

Miles below, the plains look jumbled.

The Khangchendzonga strolls out to bask,

it's sibling peaks in tow.

An incomplete folk tune

drifts along on Teesta's froth,

"Chhati bhari bokera pirai pir

Jadaichau hai Tista ko tirai tir.."

A northern breeze flirts

across the nose.

Setting aside his plough,

Hariprasad settles down to read

the travelogue on his soles.

Opening wide his chest he glances

at a sepia album of his past.

The walls washed bone-white

and blood-red, - he has lost count.

The numbed skin

forgets to scream.

But the heart remembers

its map of dreams, lovingly preserved

where children gambol

through fields,

through forests,

through teagardens,

seeking to pluck their own sun.

*****

fills the ears with windborne deafness

dries up the eyes, pulls at

the clothes  the hair  flaps

I have no other flag.

by tasteless fruit scentless flowers

arranged – one and the same – colored

the eyes are fooled but not

our noses – still wild

harmless metaphors, soft dreams

would-be answers to would-be questions

erudition gets duped, but

not it’s still wild soul.

I watched

I was seven

I had no need to be paid attention to

With a mouth half-open

which on the other hand drove mother to despair

it’s unbecoming to look that way at people

The seen remains.

The observer in my soul

was already making his choices

creating my life.

in the morning,

in the bed,

for about ten minutes

gets up,

copes with

whatever there is to cope with, goes out

and bears better the remaining hours.

One who is a child and

goes alone to the shore, looking at the water

One who is walking with a backpack and

with the silence and its sounds

and with the silence in one’s self and one’s own sound

One who is alone with books

and then with the silences therein,

making them good alone;

joining in alone; non-content alone

The lone ones, no common noise

can delude them any more

રાહ જાઉં હૂં મારા પ્રીય ની.

પ્રીય ઉકળે મારામાં

જેમ પાણી ઉકળે.

અપેક્ષા વીના પ્રીય

ઉકળે – હૂં

બનવું ચાં.

અને જોવું - હૂં પરપોટો-

પરપોટાઓ એકબીજાને પ્રેમ કરે

પહેલાં ચાર , પછી સવ્વા

પછી સાત. પહેલ્લો ઉભરો,

પછી હૂં ઉકળુ.

અને રાખ.

"La création monétaire a été transférée à un groupe de personnes immortelles."*

(Readymade du magazine boursier „Nebenwerte, 23.10.2009)

*Grâce à quelle structure cette phrase éveille-t-elle l'esprit rebelle, à quelle convenance fait-elle appel? Comment révèle-t-elle – au niveau de la langue – l’état des mœurs sociales contemporaines? Peut-être y a-t-il ici une forme spécifique de non-utilisation, une sorte d'atrophie syntaxique de l'inactivité. Comme si les articulations éternelles de cette phrase s'étaient dégénérées. Et comment pourrait-il en être autrement avec les personnes immortelles, qui mènent leur misérable existence dans un groupe de phrases? L'immortalité manque de mouvement agile tout autant que cette phrase, malgré son prétendu pouvoir de transmission. C'est précisément cela - l'absence de transmission, mais la promesse de celle-ci - qui l'a peut-être plongé dans une sorte de stupeur. Effrayé, rigide et sans expression, avec une tension intérieure extrême. 

„La création monétaire a été transférée à un groupe de personnes immortelles.“**

**… cette syntaxe sans sujet, le culte masqué d'une omnimétrie. Le groupe immortel de personnes de cette phrase apparaît comme la communauté des seuls croyants numériquement constitués dans l'église des nombres et des données.

"Les investisseurs doivent intégrer dans leurs modèles les quasi-obligations découlant des coûts de restructuration.“*

*L’omnipotence du quasi, qui peut relier tout à tout : Les investisseurs parlent des investisseurs quasiment comme s'ils avaient du capital. Les structures n'existent que sous la forme de quasi-coûts restructurés ; il ne semble pas y avoir de véritable valeur sous-jacente. Les valeurs dans lesquelles les investissements sont réalisés n'existent que sous forme de quasi-modèles. Et de ce principe d'assumer des propositions ascriptives, inconditionnelles, naît un quasi-pouvoir qui - dans sa puissance effective comme un mythe absolu - détruit la réalité, qui n'est pas un quasi. Le pouvoir du quasi : de l'argent virtuel qui ne dure que sur les écrans. A partir de là, la vie s’annule:

"Les investisseurs doivent intégrer dans leurs modèles les quasi-obligations découlant des coûts de restructuration."

Las traducciones son de Frances Simán

Nunca creí que tendría que aprender a morir

no estuve cerca cuando la muerte era un regalo

pero si estuve cuando mi abuelo pagó el precio del sudor de los trabajadores de algodón que elaboraron su traje otomano.

el precio de las millas desnudas para las mujeres de Bosnia

el precio de las lágrimas en el pecho de sus hombres antes de la guerra

el precio del estandarte de Dios

el precio de la frivolidad del emperador y la enfermedad a largo plazo

sangre balcánica goteaba en mi uniforme

los profesores encontraron votos de venganza en mi mochila y fabricaron capítulos de historia

no estuve cuando la muerte sucedió por casualidad en el camino

pero si estuve ahí cuando mi abuelo pagó el precio de la firma al final de la página, el precio de renunciar a su pueblo al fondo de la montaña, de quitar de él las manos de su invasor, del rebelde que le quitó las manos de encima. Con el movimiento de un bolígrafo, la tinta de mi abuelo anestesió la pendiente. Con el doblez de un papel, la montaña giró la historia; con un apretón de manos tomó la mano del valle de la boca del tanque.

Los almendros murieron del corazón, los caballos de boda se cubrieron los ojos de alheña y se suicidaron.

Nadie limpió mi etnicidad. Pero la médula espinal de la montaña se rompió. Y así se arruinó mi oportunidad de subirla juntos algún día, para ver los pasos de Cristo en el lago y repetirlos.

No soy el milagro

no caminé en agua y no me curé con dolencias de amor

pero fue el agua de mi corazón la que aprendí a convertir en asfalto cada vez que te recordaba

aprendí a huir de la lava que goteaba de las montañas de tu miedo

y no aprendí la muerte

no estuve ahí cuando la muerte fue para siempre una lección

donde el recuerdo del cohete lo traicionó y olvidó el camino

la bala que nunca quiso dejar de ser bolígrafo

la masacre que sucedió en la carretera principal y disparó la paz

cuando yo estaba caminando por la ruta alterna

recogiendo margaritas y viendo la guerra en caricaturas

nunca creí que aprendería a morir

hasta que la guerra de Beirut ahogó el canto de mi madre en el pozo

el aroma de las invasiones emana desde el horno

la voz del comando irrumpe en el casette de Umm Kulthum

los cráneos que cubrían el camino de la ciudad, dejaron el cartel sostenido al lado de la cama y arrullan, golpeando mi cabeza como una larga latmiya. Así dejo de llorar o ellos dejan de llorar.

Mi corazón crece en el pozo como un árbol de granada, cada vez que una rama se quiebra, trepo otra de camino a ti. Destrozada me convierto en nido. Los pájaros observan el agua y ven la risa en el rostro de un bosnio, yo lo veo y veo tu rostro.

Soy la hija de un híbrido de laboratorio médico

olí el aroma de caballos muertos en el esperma de mi padre

y me retiré

nací en el séptimo mes

después de ser golpeada por bosnios en el vientre de mi madre

y me retiré

nunca creí tener que aprender a morir

hasta que en el pastel de mi noveno cumpleaños, sucedió la masacre del Hebrón. Encendí las velas en las alfombras de la casa de Abraham. Se derritieron y nadie cantó con ellas. Los regalos de cumpleaños cayeron al pozo; los regalos caen, son votos de venganza en mi mochila

los votos pudieron haber cavado mi tumba si hubieran tenido mis manos

los almendros se hubieran parado en ella si hubieran tenido médula espinal

las montañas la hubieran alabado si hubieran tenido poemas

las lágrimas de los bosnios hubieran hecho fisuras en sus piedras si hubieran tenido picos o ganchos

y yo hubiera salido

para aprender la primera lección:

que el cráneo aplastado en el cartel es mi cráneo

y que la sangre en mi camisa

es mi sangre.

 I didn’t believe I would ever learn to die

I wasn’t around when death was for free

But I was there when my maternal grandfather paid the price of cotton labourers’ sweat that made his Ottoman suit

The price of bare miles to the women of Bosnia

The price of their tears on the chests of their men before the war

The price of God’s banners

The price of the emperor’s frivolousness and long-term sickness

Balkan blood dripped on my school shirt

The teachers found vows of vengeance in my backpack, and so fabricated chapters of history

I wasn’t around when death happened by chance, on the road

But I was there when my paternal grandfather paid the price of a signature at the bottom of a page, the price of surrendering his village at the bottom of the mountain, of taking the occupier’s hands off of it, the rebel’s taking his hands off of his waist. With the move of a pen, my grandfather’s ink numbed the slope. With the folding of a paper, the mountain folded history, with a handshake, he took the valley’s hand from the tank’s muzzle.

The almond trees died in the cardiac operation rooms, the wedding horses shrouded their eyes with henna and killed themselves.

No one cleansed my ethnicity. But the mountain’s spinal cord broke. And so broke my chance to ever ascend it together, to look at Christ’s footsteps on the lake and copy them.

I’m not the miracle

I didn’t walk on water and I didn’t heal myself of your love’s ailments

But it was my heart’s water which I learned to turn into asphalt whenever I remembered you

I learned to flee the lava that dripped from the mountains of your fear

And I didn’t learn death

I wasn’t there when death was a once and for all lesson

Where the memory of the rocket betrayed it and so forgot the way

The bullet that never meant to cease being a pen

The massacre that passed by the main road and fired peace

When I was walking in the back road

Picking yellow daisies and watching wars drawn in cartoons

I didn’t believe I would ever learn to die

Until Beirut’s war drowned my mother’s lullaby in the well

The scent of invasions emanates from the cooking oven

The commando’s voice enters Um Kulthoum’s cassette

The skulls that paved the city road, they leave the poster hanging beside the bed and lull me, tapping my soft head like a long latmiya. So I stop crying, or they stop crying in it.

My heart grows in the well like a pomegranate tree, each time a branch is broken I climb another on my way to you. All of me breaks, so I become a nest. The birds look in the water and see the laughing face of a Bosnian, I look in it and see your face.

I am the child of tubes crossbred in a medical lab

I smelled the scent of dead horses in my father’s sperm

And I retreated

I was born in the seventh month

After I was beaten by Bosnians in my mother’s womb

And I retreated

I didn’t believe I would ever learn to die

Until the Hebron massacre was committed on the cake of my ninth birthday. I lit the candles on the carpets of Abraham’s house. They melted there alone and no one sang upon them. The birthday gifts fall into the well, the gifts fall, vows of vengeance, in my backpack

The vows would’ve dug my grave had they any hands

The almond trees would’ve stepped on it had they a spinal cord

The mountains would’ve praised it had they any poems

The Bosnian’s tears would’ve creviced its stones had they any beaks or claws

And I would’ve come out

To learn the first lesson

That the smashed skull in the poster is my skull

And that the blood on my shirt

Is my blood

Las traducciones son de Frances Simán

La guerra me preocupa. Pero me da pena escribir de ella. Azoto las metáforas que me pertenecen. El dolor me hace describir una bala, después retrocedo y describo un golpe emocional. Destripo las palabras y las víctimas de Harakiri despiertan todas, y me destripan.

No me creas si te hablo de guerra, porque cuando hablé de sangre, estaba tomando café, cuando hablé de tumbas, estaba recogiendo margaritas en Marj Ibn Amer, cuando describí los asesinatos, estaba escuchando las risas de mis amigos y cuando escribí acerca de un teatro incendiado en Aleppo, estaba parada frente a tí en un teatro climatizado.

No me creas si te hablo de guerra. Porque cada vez que ardieron las calles de la ciudad en un poema, el concreto se reclinaba, las lámparas se balanceaban hacia él y los profetas pasaban en paz.

Cada vez que imaginaba la piel desollada de mi padre, aún podía tocarlo después, sano y salvo, con un abrazo. Y cada vez que escuchaba el lamento de mi madre, ella me susurraba una vieja canción, y yo dormía como bebé.

Pero los sueños son cheques al portador

firmados por una mujer Hourani de facciones indescifrables. Excepto cuando mi cuchillo no alcanza la hoja de lechuga, puedo oler el aroma de sangre de la tribu que mi abuelo ha dejado en mi cuerpo y en el suyo.

Los sueños son cheques al portador, firmados por los hijos de Qasioun, susurrados durante un sueño; así supe de dónde había salido el nombre de la montaña sin buscarlo en Google.

El primer cheque:

En una multitud oscura, un resplandor cae sobre mí.

En medio de una exquisita ingeniería y del tumulto de la geografía, una bala silente me atraviesa en la espalda baja,

el misterio de la multitud crece y mis oídos se cierran desde dentro. El agujero es tan fresco como la primavera, la sangre es tan cálida como la voz de mi madre cantando y tan suave como la piel de mi padre.

El segundo cheque:

Fui asediada en el lugar más sagrado del mundo. Llovían balas sobre mí así como la palabra de Dios sobre los profetas.

Tomé una piedra que se disolvió en mis manos. Me adelanté a los soldados y el tiempo me alcanzó a mí.

Y como un gatito asustado, tuve miedo cuando un joven Cristo dormía antes de llevarnos en su espalda.

El tercer cheque:

Miedo en el Levante.

No me creas si te hablo de guerra,

porque nunca he escuchado un disparo de bala, únicamente el que mi padre disparó de su pistola de doble cañón a las palomas en Marj Ibn Amer. Y nunca he olido la sangre en una herida, excepto la que olí con mi madre en mi primera menstruación.

No tengo una cuenta en el banco de las guerras, pero una mujer Hourani me aseguró que mis cheques son válidos.

Tal der tausend Hügel, grün wie das Nachbild von Blut!

Hast du nicht des Dichters izithakazelo oder des Professors Heulen gehört,

bereit zur Antwort wie die Erde unter unseren Füßen, wie die Felsenhügel unter einem Echo?

Tal der tausend Hügel, grün wie das Nachbild von Blut!

Sprachst du nicht, als ich dem Ruf antwortete, trotzig wie ein schwarzer Kakadu,

und mein Mund sich dem öffnete, was den Schall entführt: dem Abwesenden, dem Entwurzelten?

Tal der tausend Hügel, grün wie das Nachbild von Blut!

Ich werde dich beschwören als das Heimat- und Herzensland, das nicht mein ist, das Chiasma

meines afrikanischen Seins, das, wie die Vorfahren in Kunenes Gedicht, hochgewachsen wandelt am Horizont.

Ние, кои сме расфрлани наоколу во делчиња, чие тело лета низ воздухот како капки дожд, најдлабоко им се извинуваме на сите во овој цивилизиран свет, мажи, жени и деца, зашто ненамерно им се појавивме во нивните мирни домови без да побараме дозвола. Се извинуваме што им ги жигосавме отсечените делови од нашето тело во снежнобелото сеќавање, зашто ја испоганивме сликата за нормалното, целосно човечко битие во нивните очи, зашто бевме безобразни ненадејно да им скокнеме на вестите и на страниците на интернет и во печатот, голи со исклучок на нашата крв и гламносани остатоци. Им се извинуваме на сите оние кои немаа храброст директно да ни ги погледнат повредите од страв да не се згрозат, и на оние на кои им преседнала вечерата откако неочекувано виделе свежи слики од нас на телевизија. Се извинуваме за сето страдање кое сме им го предизвикале на сите кои нѐ виделе такви, недотерани, без најмал обид да нѐ состават или да ни ги скрпат остатоците пред да им се појавиме пред екраните. Исто така им се извинуваме на израелските војници кои се намачија да ги притиснат копчињата во авионите и тенковите за да нѐ разнесат на парчиња и жалиме што изгледавме толку одвратно откако ги вперија гранатите и бомбите право во нашите меки глави и за саатите што сега ќе ги поминуваат во психијатриски клиники, обидувајќи се повторно да се очовечат, ко што биле луѓе пред нашата преобразба во гадни делови од тело што ги прогонува кога и да пробаат да заспијат. Ние сме нештата што ги гледате на екраните и во печатот, а ако се потрудите да ги составите делчињата, како сложувалка, би добиле јасна слика за нас, до толку јасна што ништо не би можеле да направите.

2008

desfigurare striaţie tremur

cu ochii ciuguliţi închis cu bucurie fluent

cascadă din materie dulce cădere

strapachioasă de scursori legitimă apărare digitală

prin din de la până la

in sus încoace încolo

(avea deja acces în curând şi descânteia ambalajul sub presiune permanentă: ponstanul meu!

panadonul meu! ţipă obraznucul şi zbură)

continuare vrajă rea există

există şi desprumează tot ce se

spumează decojeşte destramă

streşini putrezinde scânteiază pătrund

există există vorbire da vă rog

acum cu mreje căderi impuse

negi de stâncă peşti albi albaştri ce

licăresc pătrund răsună tot ce

spumează zbârnâie bate

articolare conjugare în mici bucăţele

există

Cherche en toi la voix que tu n’entends pas

mange l’univers si tu ne la comprends pas

Maisons basses au toit en pente

pleurant la pluie venant des sous-toits désormais pourris

Parfum de terre, de feuilles, d’étangs

et paysages sinistres de marbre candide

Cherche en toi la voix que tu n’entends pas

mange l’univers si tu ne la comprends pas

Vers qui gisent sous le fond boueux

rats qui nagent dans des ruisseaux d’acier

Embruns de brouillard, voitures véloces

qui broutent de rapides tagliatelle d’asphalte

Cherche en toi la voix que tu n’entends pas

mange l’univers si tu ne la comprends pas

Des ombres de glaise se trainent les pieds

en secouant leur tête conique basse

D’obliques fantômes imprimés sur le mur

rappellent fuites et chevaux de frise

La noirceur commence à refléter ton esprit

tandis que tout devient effervescent et vert…

Je partirai-z-à Pâques

                                         Mironton, mironton, mirontaine.

Un canard à l’aille lâche dans le parc

comme il aurait aimé voler, mendie comme

une mouette boiteuse sur une péniche

de ce même poids pèse la vie autour du cou de ma mère

Renard déteint je suis, qui stocke les scintillations de

ma femme et de ma fille, elles s’éclipsent

à l’école et au bureau – run, Charlie, HOMME ATTEINT

AU VENTRE, qui donc berce sa guigne cruelle

Voilà comment la vie se vide, on crève de rire

à cause de gouttes de pluie ivres dans la gouttière

ne vas pas croire que t’as tout vu

Du gaz moutarde aux bulles du jacuzzi

car la camarde apporte le cancer, ronge le lit de maman

ricane in the midst of life we are in death

Comme la biche

désire vers l’eau

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide.

Warm inside here, deathly night

Panting, 1 eye hard and 1 eye soft

tear-gas, air compressed and oxygen: 3 dumdums

serve as trochees of the vacuum

Bed that’s been taken from the freezer, p.m.

trilby doffed, a flashback, second voice

It is the little things, folk say –

it is the little things: his way

of waving, gnawing like a den-penned animal

at left-overs, obsessions in his run

The loitering at contours of

a German ‘krimi’ series, a little messing

on the side, cursing his cell, he who

fraught with fear can hardly leave his chair

At long last cancer in his guts

calls out for mercy: ‘Candy floss.

Piaf. Your stubbornness full-felled. Forgive...’

With hearts as trumps he disappears into the safe

burlesque humour-generous grief

his love pants after, leaky as a colander

For half a century years of smouldering

as if, vixen and badger, they were mortal foes

and doubly lonely in the self-same wood.

لباسم در سه طبقه سكوت ميكند

تو تمسخر را راه ميبري و زمان را ميبلعي

من سِفر خروج ميخوانم. كوهباد سردمان ميكند

شمدهاي آواره، سخت و خيره اند   چون سنگ آذرين

در خانهي ناخوش  خاموش رها ميكند دهان

زبان را و چوب ميز ميسايد و  زخم برميدارد

وُدُو[احضار ارواح] حاكم است يا هذيان   جايي كه پيش از اين

ما و همه چيز براي همديگر بوديم: گوش

سرزمين   و گلو

با دوزبان

زبان كودكان براي نوازش

و آشپزخانه   سيب زميني

براي لك ها   توتك ها

و فاجعه ي  اتاق ها

كه ديگري مي نويسد

تا فرياد نزند

پرچين ها  در ميانه

درياها و سكوت.

صندلي راحتي، قرمز بود آيا؟

چمدان هم ، چمدان سفر دريا

آنچه سرجايش مثل قايقي بود

آماده ي سفر  به آمريكا

پرچم   چمدان   كتاب ها

همه رو به راه. دل كندن و رفتن

چنين ناگهان   اما در تنگنا

و  از قرار معلوم   براي هميشه.

ديگر تو مرده اي حالا .

در لنينگراد برف مي آمد.

شب و پمپ بنزين متروك  

چون زمين آيش. خيابان ها

نماها   پرت و متروك،

بي شكوه . تو با لبان خاموش

در بي زباني، به شعر گريختي.

ما گذشتيم آرام و بي وزن

از دل شهرت.

و هيچ سخني نگفتيم.

كفش   قدم