dance across my palms held
out to you.
Shoed horse, won’t you crush my fingers . . .
you crush the bones in my fingers,
horse with iron shoes.
But who else is thrown into the air
like the water of a fountain?
You’re blushing, oh, you’re blushing . . .
You could strike from flight
an eagle . . .
and still be not full, not full,
your mouth red with feathers
with bloody feathers.
And no, you are not full.
Better to sleep on my right shoulder,
tender child, tired child.
Ah, your starving rat teeth
work through this moment’s collar bone.
Get out, wipe them off, put them out!
Or come here, then, let me
lick your tears . . .
A poison of abject, deceitful tears,
so sincere . . .
Ah, how happy were the two of us,
no, we were never happy.
Signal
Slow! Go slow!
Don’t you see? The stones are tired.
They’re sleeping, Lord, they’re sleeping.
The stones are very tired.
Keep the horses away!
And you, what are you doing over there, you . . .
I’m talking to you! Pay attention!
It’s too noisy, this sunrise.
The stones are tired.
The rising moon needs to shut up!
Take care, keep quiet. Quiet!
The stones are tired.
A Poet, Like a Soldier
A poet, like a soldier,
has no life of his own.
His own life is wrecks
and ruins.
With the forceps of his cerebrum he lifts
the emotions of ants,
brings them closer and closer to his eye
until they and his eye become one.
He puts his ear to the belly of a starving dog.
His nose smells the half-open muzzle
until his nose and the dog’s muzzle
are the same.
During waves of heat
he fans himself with flocks of birds
he startles into flight.
None of you should believe a poet when he cries.
His tear is never his own.
He has wiped tears from things
and cries things’ tears.
A poet is like time.
Faster or slower,
more deceitful or more truthful.
Be careful not to say anything to a poet.
Be especially careful not to say something true.
Really, be careful not to say something heartfelt.
Just then, he will claim he said it,
and he will make the claim such that
all of you will say, It’s true,
he said it.
I beg you, above all
never touch a poet!
Do not put your hand on a poet!
. . . except when your hand
is thin as a ray.
Only then your hand might
pass straight through him.
Otherwise, it will not pass,
your fingers will stick to him,
and he will be the one to brag
he has more fingers than you do.
And all of you will have to say, Yes,
it’s true, he has more fingers . . .
Better, if you can believe me,
it would be better if you never
touched a poet.
. . . And he’s not even worth a touch . . .
A poet, like a soldier,
has no life of his own.
While
And yet, I have seen a bird
lay eggs while it flew –
And yet, I have seen someone cry
while he laughed –
And yet, I have seen a stone
while it was –
Ritual
I cry before the number five –
the last supper, minus six.
Where are you, you who are,
and you who are no more,
where are you?
Break this word, it is my body.
Blood may flow from a syllable.
For you will I make wine from V and I
and gentleness from a barbarous body.
Whoever kisses me, kisses me.
I will stay with you eleven.
Five of us are here, six have left;
the last supper cries before the number five.
Today we have founded loss,
pain, departure.
Way of Speaking
More stone, said the stones,
we are more stone than stones,
said the stones.
With each word we speak
we are more stone than we are.
Shoe yourself, O horse,
who stands in place of heaven.
Strike us with your horseshoe
so we will spark
and sparks will stand for words.
I can only growl at my long-necked ancestors,
that is, ex-stones
chipped by horseshoes.
Maybe in the end a few sparks will come
from the stones
and be the speech of stones.
Horse, O horse,
who stands in place of heaven,
shoe yourself in iron.
Carriage for a Butterfly
We do not have axles strong enough
for the wheel of our body’s meat.
– Where are you going, butterfly carriage?
Where?
. . . The carriage passes through the town square.
I run after it, in tears.
I ask the grass: Did a carriage pass here?
The grass does not respond.
I ask the trees: Have you seen a butterfly in a carriage?
The trees go quiet and drop their yellow leaves.
– O God, is the carriage still ahead of me?
My God, how can I catch it?
– Follow the line of blood, you dolt,
says the beggar without eyes.
Little Colored Glasses
These lowly glasses
are the bodies
god gives us, god gives us,
don’t be the one to break them, in your hand
don’t be the one to break them.
Better to sip our little brains,
angel soup, poorly cooked;
better to sip the heart’s boozy blood
cut with lots of Danube.
Leave us, if you can –
a table where we can lay our corpses,
where those who know us can come,
with candles of mourning.
O, be patient and do not break
in your holy hand
the little colored glass through which
our parents looked so often.
On the Thickest
The shadow of a leafy branch
blown by the wind
did not strike, O lord, my body
it only cast a chill
over my talk of love.
Pass, O word, if you have a shadow,
and leave your incomprehensible stain
on my soul from today, yesterday, the day before;
on the thickest, the very thickest.
Sheep complain of much too much wool;
the moment is suffocated by too much time.
Leave A on me so it will stay
intimate, a living Olympus.
I am trading myself with myself, O lord, –
for a shadow, goat,
or stone.
Drawing Lots
We are drawing lots
against a heart extracted from a stranger.
The witness asks: Heads or tails?
Neither heads nor tails,
responds the antic chorus.
Hearts, pure and simple.
Hearts on every side?
Hearts on every side!
And where is the Individual with a capital D?
Where else? In death.
If you are drawing lots against his heart
where else would he be?
The Individual with a capital D is in death, d in lowercase.
Dialogue Between a Horse and the Good Lord
– One will notice right away
we have lost none of our
beautiful green.
– But you are not grass,
mangy horse.
– Ah, my lord, we are not grass,
but one will notice immediately
we have lost none of our
pyramid.
– But you are not stone, O horse!
You are not stone!
– Ah, pardon, but certainly one will notice
we have lost none of the rain.
– But you are not autumn,
mangy horse.
You are not autumn.
– Ah, pardon, but certainly one will notice,
one will notice, certainly one will notice . . .
Serbs
To hell with anyone who makes his bed
on a Serb’s heart.
He’ll never sleep a second.
He will shout at the great bird
that stands in place of air
in Serbia:
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!
Bird, why did you take away my air?
And the bird will answer:
This air is not for breathing.
This air is for singing.
Song to Encourage the God Andia
You live in me
like marrow, the bone
like rain, the cloud
like sight, the eyes
But I am dead
as a gun shot
at the memories
of a newborn
But I am no longer
like the space
a star cut through
screaming
But I am you
from the day before
from the days before
from never before.
The dogs of your father barked
with my father’s hounds, –
but we were not at hand
Autumn on autumn fell over the cadavers
of dogs and hounds,
but we were not at hand
We had not been born
yet our death had been calculated
by computers
When we are not
when we do not have hands, –
we will be at hand, we two.
Inside me screams my heart
like a passenger who knows
his plane is going down
in flames
I burn, it hates,
I went, it goes
The words I am are to blame
that I am.
Lord, make me a bed
from the body of a shark.
Let it be my pillow,
let it devour my sleep
when I lay, when I Lord,
when I Lalalala and Bam and Bong
Lord, make me a sheet from caterpillars,
nettles, monkshood.
Let me be digested by a belly
of crystal
O, body in body, my death
is a flower
in the hand of an even greater
death
What kind of freight train are you
if the flesh of my body is your track;
what kind of apple are you
if my life is your branch?
I live within the trill
of nightingale
I sleep with my neck on a high C
and shoe my foot
with a saxophone
Move, the hammer shouts at me
move,
move you iron nail idiot,
move;
can’t you see I’m driving you through a palm
for a crucifixion?
Bloodmobile
How they would sing,
and the beer, good lord, how good!
. . . when He turns about Himself
driving us.
And what a shot, right
at the cobweb, the cobweb!
. . . when He turns about His own being
driving us,
the star.
They kiss, they hug.
They love, yes, they love!
. . . when He turns about Himself
driving us.
And those children with swollen bellies
starved to death . . .
. . . when He turns about Himself
driving us.
The general pins a medal on a soldier.
The soldier kills an enemy soldier.
The enemy general pins a medal
on an enemy soldier.
The enemy soldier kills a soldier.
A woman gives birth to a boy.
The boy will carry the name of his father.
And what a goal, knocked the cobwebs!
Our team won, again.
They move into another house,
but don’t like how this one looks
either . . .
It’s snowing; don’t forget your scarf
when you leave.
If you have a headache
I can give you
a sure cure, believe me.
Why did they ban absinthe?
Who cares? Beer’s good too, it’s good!
. . . when He turns about Himself
driving us.
Slow down! Slow down!
You know it scares me.
No more smoking, friends,
I swear it’s bad for you.
Here they come again with their ideas!
In spring, I’ll go riding.
– Could you tell me if the engineer
still lives here?
– Here.
– I don’t want it.
– Take it.
– I won’t.
The general said:
– Whoever doesn’t sweat in training
doesn’t lose blood in fighting.
The doctor said:
– Your blood is Rh-negative,
but don’t let it bother you.
We know that with some people,
it passes in time.
The mayor cuts the ribbon.
The midwife cuts the cord.
Alexander the Macedonian cuts the Gordian Knot.
Hellas, Hellas,
but how many people today speak
true Greek?
. . . when He turns about Himself
driving us.
Eminescu
This much, do not forget:
he was a living person,
he lived,
you could touch him.
This much, do not forget:
he drank through his mouth, –
he had skin
he dressed in fabric.
This much, do not forget, –
he could have sat
at the table with us,
the table of the last supper.
This much, forget! Just this, –
that He lived
before our time . . .
Just this much,
I kneel and beg you, to forget.
Cold Balance of the Stars
Glorious times will come
when the cold balance of the stars
will fall apart, and
the lines of those who were
will connect with those who are.
Human, how many bodies has he had
and how many will he yet
try to enter.
Human! how many bodies does he need
to sate himself
on this unstable sphere!
In the end, we will devour
&
nbsp; all of this blue earth.
We will chew it, we will chew it up.
We will toss aside its head and bones,
and the Human, the Human unsated,
with a billion bodies
will turn its maw
to the cold balance of the stars.
Letter
for Srba
Now you drink alone
from an eye socket
whose broth
you’ve drained.
Like a mug, you raise
a dog’s head.
Cheers! I say, and clink
a cat’s head.
You knock back the broth
of the dog’s eye socket.
I knock back the broth
of the cat’s eye socket.
Then we throw our glasses against the wall.
You raise a lion’s head,
I raise a leopard’s head,
Cheers! We drink eye-broth of the beasts.
GRANDEUR OF THE COLD
(Măreţia frigului, 1972)
Transformation
Do not forget: I’m not hungry,
I’m not thirsty.
My point of view is the point of stone.
I am not tired, no, I am not tired
or thirsty
or thinking of reclining
against a crocodile eardrum.
I move like I’d rather stand still,
and though I’ve had enough of air, I breathe.
No, don’t forget, I’m not hungry and
not thirsty,
the same way that I’m not young anymore,
but I’m not old, either.
The morning’s soft breeze,
I could choke its soft throat
without working too hard,
and I could kick
the thin river, wild
and utterly fishless.
Right in the river that’s no wider than
a dog’s tail.
If I decide to do something, I do it.
I have wasted so many days
that spending another one in vain
can’t make me any poorer.
No will to survive
Can make me breathe more often
Even death doesn’t seem
so grand.
It’s good, this solar system,
but no more than that.
It’s luminous, this sun,
luminous. Not blinding, not blinding.
If no dawn broke tomorrow
it would be a great loss.
But nothing more than a great loss.
I could whip things but I don’t.
Wheel With a Single Spoke Page 10
