PROPHESY THAT ENJOYS ITS FOAM
You, there, give me my voice
even if I have nothing to eat
because the back and forth of bodies is beautiful
(from singular to plural and back)
The bridging of breath is beautiful
(shaky or solid --- it is immaterial ---
doubly beautiful in its immateriality)
Flowers are a beautiful riddle
But a time will come
with astringent seconds
to ruin vision
and turn it into Siberia
this applies to those who travel towards summer
the rest of us will blow it in some other way
someone will find a loose stitch of heaven
and pull it
and all the bicycles of the angels will fall
All of them
I mean it
I turned my soul upside down
and I saw how stones grow
(with a little bit of light)
luck hardens and happens
So that birds can rise high
the sun unwinds them
Try to breathe normally
in blue --- out blue
in one breath everything happens again.
Stones I was saying ---
everything that comes to you is like a razor
and if you want it even deeper
in blue --- out blue
Keep it up
is the most compassionate form of never
Never was sweating
Reaching the fourth kilometer of silence
I dropped the nails I had for God and the sun.
Since then I've been going around with the great
zero under my arm.
To start with, it was an ordinary sleeping-bag
--- you know, you get in, which means you start dreaming.
Now it is a huge boarding school
for the psychologically inflammable.
Since all this has happened with zero
imagine what might occur with One.
-translated by Katerina Anghelaki-Rooke
MY BROTHER PAUL
THE DIGGER OF SEINE
"O you dig and I dig,
and I dig my way to you."
As he was digging
one day he reached
his mother's snowy mouth
his ancestors' long braids
one day he passed
layers of rock
the hardships he bore
from that time on there was
a burnt cloud in his gaze
difficulty with the winds
a crazed shortness of breath
"The depths," he said
and language are
And then he emerged in a land
filled with trees and rivers and birds
he felt ecstasy
until an army order was heard:
"present yourselves immediately
to the mess"
and the trees left
Only the Seine remained
gazing into his eyes
- translated by Peter Constantine
two poems from the Vagrancy of blood
I am impatient
for the Antarctic to become
an epidemic of sight.
For the underground bread to be shared at last
according to each one's faith in the miracle.
Miracle, to be able to laugh
while holding your boredom,
a black swan,
in your arms.
Miracle, simply to laugh.
I know I didn't provoke any brutality
of the sort you all adore
I just bared my teeth
at the vertigo that plagues the butterflies
I opened holes in fate
and shoved my sadness in like a piece of clothing.
Memory doesn't know how to use
but time won't bleed again
which is why I don't sculpt the dream—
I accept it like a greedy branch in my throat
dumbly drawing away my water
What fucker promised me to the moon
and I've become the gate that opens onto slaughter?
To fight your elements with poetry
—that's what devastation means!
And sight confuses its roots
I see the world as a paralyzed umbrella
and if it opens
it can go to hell
The light can't be faced anymore without gloves
how can I seal my speech
now that it's sprouting genital grass?
Slowly, slowly we resemble stones
The end is already known:
and the rose
Beauty an axe to the nape
—translated by Karen Emmerich