Alexander Zapol  (Александр Заполь)

Übersetzer:in

Tuvojas negaiss, jau ievas tam vēdina aleju.
Krampjaino sakņu simtkājis saspringst gaidās.

Kāds vecs vīrs pagalmā giljotinē gaili,
izrautu no pieticīgās pils, konkubīņu spārniem.

Galva izbrīnā ieplestām acīm iekrīt zālē.
Bende ir tukšs kā bluķa seklā iedobe,

kurā ātri žūst asins; pirmais grāviens, suņa smilksti.
Skan mūzika cirvim stiegrainā rokā.

Prieks manī allaž gūst virsroku; tāpēc manas ierašanās ir patiesākas par manām aiziešanām. Dodoties prom, bieži nav pieklājīgi izrādīt prieku.
Andrē Žids, „Ja grauds nemirst”

Viņš mostas pilsētā zem drūpoša mēness — tūkstoš atspulgos izdziest mērijas apstādījumi, lampas tos ved cauri ielām, kā sirds ķermeni ved; tāpat izdziest logi uz istabām, kas piebriest no bezmiega, kroplīgi izliekdamas stiklu, un viņa seju, kas nupat gulēja tumša kā aizdurve, uzlauž pienaina gaisma — acis izburza no plakstiem. Viņš mostas pilsētā, kas nakšņo, sagāzta pret zemieni, un dzinēju dūkoņa, rītausmas lingua franca, saskaņo šīs parādības ar viņa soļiem, tiem izzūdot laukos.

Stāvēt naktī uz balkona — pa kreisi starp skursteņiem bēguļo mēness, pa labi kāds pāris nozūd Aleksandra vārtos — un vientuļas ārišķības dēļ grozīt pirkstos karafes korķi no dzidra Bohēmijas stikla. Stāvēt kā muižniekam rītasvārkos ainavas priekšā un pat nenojaust, ka šis brīdis, it kā vienīgi tavs, pieder pavisam citai dzīvei, kas negaidīti — kā brāzmā ierauta lente — te ievijusies, lai jau pēc mirkļa atgrieztos tumsā. — Kādas šķembas sevī glabā šī pilnīgā forma?

Pūš austrenis, Helderlīna mīļākais vējš, — vismaz kopš 1803. gada, kad viņš Tībingenē sacer himnu „Andenken”, un līdz pat šim brīdim zem pavisam citām papelēm. Tie var būt pumpuri lēnā sprādzienā vai septembra ēnas, piebirušas ziediem (ja reiz maldīties laikā), bet es nespēju tur pazust kopā ar tevi, kas vienmēr paliec svešumā. Līdzīgi Helderlīns dzīvoja Zuzetei, Frankfurtes baņķiera sievai, Diotīmai vēlīnajos tekstos — kurai daudz rakstīja, līdz zaudēja prātu un galdnieks Cimmers, izglītots vīrs, atvēlēja viņam istabu tornī ar skatu uz upi un pļavām. Vairs ne miņas no brūni iedegušas miesas, tikai tēlu aptumsums.

Es esmu iedvesmots no 10:23 līdz 11:47.
Ēriks Satī, „Diena mūziķa dzīvē”

1. Mainoties sezonām, mūsu brokastis kļūst arvien barokālākas.

2. Negaisa sinhronizētas lapotnes → gaisma kā pāršķeļot augli.

3. Tu jautā, vai atceros mēnesi izžautā kreklā; ūdens aptumšo vāzi.

4. Piezīme burtnīcā: „Dzeja ir vilšanās valodā.” Pierādījumi?

5. Nav atšķirības starp manām smadzenēm un plūmes kauliņu.
 
6. Pirmais pierādījums: no vārda „putns” nekrīt spārnaina ēna.

7. Mēs pagaisīsim kā trokšņi, kas pārtiek no mūsu plaukstām.

                                          Our new walls,
                                          empty in the dusk,
                                          hang like sheets
                                          before first light

There is a driven nail
by the stove that could
hold a pan if the walls
stay sturdy. And the

                                                                             old tenants left a mirror in the
                                                                             bedroom which looks back at
                                                                             staring walls with fine cracks
                                                                             like a museum's basement vase

                                                               there are brown smears
                                                               in the study – chocolate, blood
                                                               or shit, we don’t know what
                                                               will happen to us here or what

           will settle on rented walls
           or if nothing will settle
           at all. We’ve just moved

                                                                             and already we are bitter
                                                                             cranberries in each other’s
                                                                             mouths, biting about photos,
                                                                             the place of the table, lay

of the bed. The apartment is a City
Hall we cannot fight. So we turn
like lawyers, against each other,
let the walls stare. There is a mirror

                                                               to look into, a nail to hang onto.
                                                               Our unopened boxes hide in corners
                                                               and closets like beaten children.
                                                               And we will take the blood

off the walls and the dust
from the shelves. We have one
year together in a place that
is empty at dusk and feels like fog

                                                               inside and between us,
                                                               and Christ, tomorrow,
                                                               we will live here.

He walks around walks around
DJ Spinoza

He looks like a circle
from which sticks out a snorkel

He says, Hey Flipper
You’re next in line

for the French throne!
For your directions aren’t overthrown

by th’ element they swim in
You almost talk

whereas I sit under infinitesimal pieces of glass
instead of doing philosophy

If I were a rich man
all day I would tiddi-tiddi-dum

for the order of tiddi-tiddi-dum
repeats the order of things

I know
it is so

Look,
              A cow flies
              A fly cows

              A rat larks
              A lark rats

              But a dog dogs
              A bug bugs

All sorts of things are happening
in the bayou

When his father lay dying
DJ Spinoza knelt before him in goatskins
and pretended he was someone else.

Cropdusters buzzed over the cornfields,
the knocking of washing machines was heard throughout the land
and the olive trees produced olives with newfound, masculine power.

Poor father! He was becoming smaller,
growing waxier and more inaccessible.
His face bore the stamp of chemotherapy.

He made efforts to speak, but the words shattered
into letters stamped on white plastic blocks in the game of Boggle.
The family bent forward to see what he was saying.

It was, “màmochka, màmochka.”
DJ Spinoza unwittingly looked at his own mother,
who sat as close to the bed as she could, grasping his father’s hand.

Now the Lord said to DJ Spinoza,
Get out of your country!

And DJ Spinoza said to the Lord,
What country are you talking about, Lord?

And the Lord said to DJ Spinoza,
Good start, good start, for I shall make you lost among nations.

And DJ Spinoza said to the Lord,
Make me lost among nations, Lord, for I am already lost among myself.

And the Lord said to DJ Spinoza,
Why do you bring up personal problems? Hire a therapist—you who made
       the schools ring with Sic probo!

And DJ Spinoza said to the Lord,
Lord, is not the set of things in your apprehension infinite?

And the Lord said to DJ Spinoza,
All things are one thing but the irrationals are something else. Haven’t you
       heard of the diagonal proof?

And DJ Spinoza said to the Lord,
So there is another God above you?

And the Lord said to DJ Spinoza,
Read my lips: get out of your country!

And DJ Spinoza said to the Lord,
But surely just the fact that you’re talking in language means you admit of
       emotions.

And the Lord said to DJ Spinoza,
Do you want to be numbered on the tip of my boot?

And DJ Spinoza made himself scarce. He lived among the deaf and became
       as one blind. He lived among the blind and became as one deaf. He saw
       never the sea. He awoke in a room with four walls.
The room moved. He heard the voice of a child but what it said he ignored.
       He awoke from awaking. He was aged, wrinkled, hairless, toothless. He
       remembered nothing of what had happened to him.

DJ Spinoza
is a mighty wrestler

His angel is a book
He dreams he climbs

lines of print
He shall be a father

of notions
O DJ Spinoza

dandruff speckles
your gaberdine

Your wife squints
as if threading a needle

Behind your house
your children torture a cat

Nations shall cast off your yoke
after murderous convulsions

Your streets shall fill
with confusion of faces

Your synagogues shall convert
to movie theaters and swimming pools

You shall be replaced
with the silicon chip

since you are both so small
and so black

Dear Owl
you have big eyes

feathers that stick in all different directions
you wake up

your panties are funny
You hear

the sounds words make
as they plead for life

that’s all that remains
of the language of language

O Owl
among leaves

what is this forest
of “letters,” black light

of unintelligible suns
I cannot see

who I am
who you are

the difference between good and evil
the end of human desire

how to tell the truth
and why

Is this my life
Are you in it