Wheel With a Single Spoke

by Nichita Stanescu

  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.