First I will describe myself
starting from my head
or better from my foot
or from my hand
from the little finger of my left hand
my little finger
is warm
curved slightly inward
ending in a nail
it is made of three segments
grows straight from my palm
if it were on its own
it would make a sizeable worm
it is a peculiar finger
a left hand’s little finger unique in the whole world
given to me directly
other little fingers of a left hand
are a cold abstraction
with mine
we have a common date of birth
date of death
a common loneliness
only blood
busy with scansion of dark tautologies
binds together distant shores
with a thread of mutual agreement
STUDY OF THE OBJECT
1
The most beautiful is the object
which does not exist
it does not serve to carry water
or to preserve the ashes of a hero
it was not cradled by Antigone
nor was a rat drowned in it
it has no hole
and is entirely open
seen
from every side
which means
hardly anticipated
the hairs
of all its lines
join
in one stream of light
neither
blindness
nor
death
can take away the object
which does not exist
2
mark the place
where stood the object
which does not exist
with a black square
it will be
a simple dirge
for the beautiful absence
manly regret
imprisoned
in a quadrangle
3
now
all space
swells like an ocean
a hurricane beats
on the black sail
the wing of a blizzard circles
over the black square
and the island sinks
beneath the salty increase
4
now you have
empty space
more beautiful than the object
more beautiful than the place it leaves
it is the pre-world
a white paradise
of all possibilities
you may enter there
cry out
vertical-horizontal
perpendicular lightning
strikes the naked horizon
we can stop at that
anyway you have already created a world
5
obey the counsels
of the inner eye
do not yield
to murmurs mutterings smackings
it is the uncreated world
crowding before the gates of your canvas
angels are offering
the rosy wadding of clouds
trees are inserting everywhere
slovenly green hair
kings are praising purple
and commanding their trumpeters
to gild
even the whale asks for a portrait
obey the counsels of the inner eye
admit no one
6
extract
from the shadow of the object
which does not exist
from polar space
from the stern reveries of the inner eye
a chair
beautiful and useless
like a cathedral in the wilderness
place on the chair
a crumpled tablecloth
add to the idea of order
the idea of adventure
let it be a confession of faith
before the vertical struggling with the horizontal
let it be
quieter than angels
prouder than kings
more substantial than a whale
let it have the face of the last things
we ask reveal o chair
the depths of the inner eye
the iris of necessity
the pupil of death
PEBBLE
The pebble
is a perfect creature
equal to itself
mindful of its limits
filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning
with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire
its ardor and coldness
are just and full of dignity
I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth
—Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye
WATER HORSE
it is not very big
the water horse
three and a half
thumbs at most
strong armor shields
its essential being
the digestive tract
reproductive organs
the cerebral knot
its respectable look
of a cashier at tea
doesn’t fit this killer
of fresh and still water
it hunts the bullhead
with its infallible tail
strikes in a weak spot
at the base of the head
locked together in battle
they wrestle a long time
amid wavy water plants
and in luxurious silence
twice a year
they weave watery loves
after six weeks
a female’s membraneous belly
bursts from the excess of eggs
she vomits them out in spasms
rubbing up against hard objects
then the suffering shell of birth
sinks to the bottom of the river
around autumn
of the next year
river horses die
on the tower of water plants
the church bell is mute
and the lake sheds no tears
• • •
the cathedrals of river horses
their circuses and aqueducts
where have they been sunk
or when will they swim up
who will prove their necessity
who will posit their existence
TAMARISK
I was talking of battles
dungeons and ships
heroes being slain
and heroes slaying
and I forgot about that one
I was talking of the sea tempest
the crumbling of walls
wheat burning
and hills overthrown
and I forgot about the tamarisk
when he lies down
pierced by a javelin
and the lips of his wound
slowly close
he sees
neither sea
nor city
nor friend
he sees
just before his face
the tamarisk
he ascends
the highest
dry twig of the tamarisk
and by-passing
leaves brown and green
he attempts
to soar into the sky
without wings
without blood
without thought
without
REVELATION
Two perhaps three
times
I was sure
I would touch the essence
and would know
the web of my formula
made of allusions as in the Phaedo
had also the rigor
of Heisenberg’s equation
I was sitting immobile
with watery eyes
I felt my backbone
fill with quiet certitude
earth stood still
heaven stood still
my immobility
was nearly perfect
the postman rang
I had to pour out the dirty water
prepare tea
Shiva lifted his finger
the furniture of heaven and earth
started to spin again
I returned to my room
where is that perfect peace
the idea of a glass
was being spilled all over the table
I sat down immobile
with watery eyes
filled with emptiness
i.e. with desire
If it happens to me once more
I shall be moved neither by the postman’s bell
nor by the shouting of angels
I shall sit
immobile
my eyes fixed
upon the heart of things
a dead star
a black drop of infinity
INNER VOICE
My inner voice
has nothing to advise
has nothing to warn against
does not say either yes
or no
is barely audible
and almost inarticulate
even if you bend way down
you hear only syllables
stripped of all meaning
I try not to drown him out
I deal with him civilly
I pretend to treat him as an equal
and that what he says is of great consequence
sometimes I even
try to engage him in conversation
—you know yesterday I refused
I’ve never done such a thing
I wouldn’t now either
—glu—glu
—so you think
I did right
—ga—go—gi
I am glad we agree
—ma—a—
—and now take a rest
we’ll talk again tomorrow
he is no use to me
I could forget about him
I have no hope
a little regret
when he lies there
covered with pity
breathes heavily
opens his mouth
and tries to lift up
his inert head
TO MY BONES
In my sleep it rips through
my meagre skin
throws off the red bandage of the flesh
and goes strolling through the room
my monument a little incomplete
one can be prodigal
with tears and blood
what will endure here the longest
must be thoughtfully provided for
better (than with a priest’s dry finger
to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)
to give one’s monument to the academy
they will prop it up in a glass display case
and in Latin they will pray before
the little altar made from an os frontalis
they will reckon the bones and surfaces
they will not forget not overlook
happily I will give my color of eyes
pattern of nails and curve of eyelids
I the perfectly objective
made from white crystals of anatomy
can for thoughts
heart cage
bony pile
and two shins
you my little monument not quite complete
A NAIL IN THE SKY
It was the loveliest blue sky of my life: dry, hard, and so pure that it took your breath away. Tremendous angels of air were emerging from it slowly.
Until suddenly I saw a nail, rusty and crookedly hammered into the heavens. I tried to forget about it. In vain: the corner of my eye kept catching on the nail.
And what was left of my heavens? A black-eyed blue.
WOODEN DIE
A wooden die can be described only from without. We are therefore condemned to eternal ignorance of its essence. Even if it is quickly cut in two, immediately its inside becomes a wall and there occurs the lightning-swift transformation of a mystery into a skin.
For this reason it is impossible to lay foundations for the psychology of a stone ball, of an iron bar, of a wooden cube.
CHURCH MOUSE
A hungry mouse was running along the edge of a gutter. Instead of cheese a church was set before it. It went in not from meekness but by accident.
It did everything you’re supposed to: crawled up to the cross, knelt before the altars, dozed in a pew. Not a single grain of manna descended on it. At the time the Lord was busy calming the oceans.
The mouse couldn’t find its way out of the church. It became a church mouse. A fundamental distinction. More skittish than its sisters of the field, it feeds on dust and smells of myrrh, so it is easy to track down. It can fast for long stretches.
Up to a limit, of course.
At the bottom of the golden chalice they once found a black drop of thirst.
CHIMNEY
On top of the house grows another house, only without a roof—a chimney. From it drift kitchen smells and my sighs. The chimney is equitable, it doesn’t keep them apart. One big plume. Black, very black.
TONGUE
Inadvertently I passed the border of her teeth and swallowed her agile tongue. It lives inside me now, like a Japanese fish. It brushes against my heart and my diaphragm as if against the walls of an aquarium. It stirs silt from the bottom.
She whom I deprived of a voice stares at me with big eyes and waits for a word.
Yet I do not know which tongue to use when speaking to her—the stolen one or the one which melts in my mouth from an excess of heavy goodness.
CLOCK
At first glance it’s the placid face of a miller, full and shiny as an apple. Only one dark hair creeps across it. And if you look inside: a nest of worms, the bowels of an anthill. And this is what’s supposed to usher us into eternity.
HEART
All man’s internal organs are bald and smooth. The stomach, intestines, lungs, are bald. Only the heart has hair—reddish, thick, sometimes quite long. This is a problem. The heart’s hair inhibits the flow of blood like water plants. The hair is often infested with worms. You have to love very deeply to pick these quick little parasites from your beloved’s cardiac hair.
A DEVIL
He is an utter failure as a devil. Even his tail. Not long and fleshy with a black brush of hair at the end, but short, fluffy, and sticking out comically like a rabbit’s. His skin is pink, only under his left shoulder-blade a mark the size of a gold ducat. But his horns are the worst. They don’t grow outward like other devils’ but inward, into the brain. That’s why he suffers so often from headaches.
He is sad. He sleeps for days on end. Neither good nor evil attract him. When he walks down the street, you see distinctly the motion of the rosy wings of his lungs.
ANYTHING RATHER THAN AN ANGEL
If after our death they want to transform us into a tiny withered flame that walks along the paths of winds—we have to rebel. What good is an eternal leisure on the bosom of air, in the shade of a yellow halo, amid the murmur of two-dimensional choirs?
One should enter rock, wood, water, the cracks of a gate. Better to be the creaking of a floor than shrilly transparent perfection.
THE HYGIENE OF THE SOUL
We live in the narrow bed of our flesh. Only the inexperienced twist i
n it without interruption. Rotating around one’s own axis is not allowed because then sharp threads wind themselves on to the heart as on to a spool.
It is necessary to fold one’s hands behind the neck, half-shut the eyes, and float down that lazy river, from the Fount of the Hair as far as the first Cataract of the Great Toenail.
CAREFUL WITH THE TABLE
At table you should sit calmly and not daydream. Let us recall what an effort it took for the stormy ocean tides to arrange themselves in quiet rings. A moment of inattention and everything might wash away. It is also forbidden to rub the table legs, as they are very sensitive. Everything at the table must be done coolly and matter-of-factly. You can’t sit down here with things not completely thought through. For daydreaming we have been given other objects made of wood: the forest, the bed.
ARMCHAIRS
Who ever thought a warm neck would become an armrest, or legs eager for flight and joy could stiffen into four simple stilts? Armchairs were once noble flower-eating creatures. However, they allowed themselves too easily to be domesticated and today they are the most wretched species of quadrupeds. They have lost all their stubbornness and courage. They are only meek. They haven’t trampled anyone or galloped off with anyone. They are, for certain, conscious of a wasted life.
The despair of armchairs is revealed in their creaking.
WHEN THE WORLD STANDS STILL
It happens very rarely. The earth’s axis screeches and comes to a stop. Everything stands still then: storms, ships, and clouds grazing in the valleys. Everything. Even horses in a meadow become immobile as if in an unfinished game of chess.
And after a while the world moves on. The ocean swallows and regurgitates, valleys send off steam and the horses pass from the black field into the white field. There is also heard the resounding clash of air against air.
LUMBERJACK
In the morning the lumberjack goes into the forest and slams the great oak door behind him. The green hairs of trees stand on end in fear. You hear the muffled whine of a tree stump and the dry scream of a branch.
But the lumberjack doesn’t stop at trees. He chases the sun. He catches up with it at the edge of the forest. In the evening a cloven stump lights up the horizon. Over it the cooling ax.
The Collected Poems Page 12