The Collected Poems (13 page)

Anyhow you had to perish Hamlet you were not for life
you believed in crystal notions not in human clay
always twitching as if asleep you hunted chimeras
wolfishly you crunched the air only to vomit
you knew no human thing you did not know even how to breathe

Now you have peace Hamlet you accomplished what you had to
and you have peace The rest is not silence but belongs to me
you chose the easier part an elegant thrust
but what is heroic death compared with eternal watching
with a cold apple in one's hand on a narrow chair
with a view of the ant-hill and the clock's dial

Adieu prince I have tasks a sewer project
and a decree on prostitutes and beggars
I must also elaborate a better system of prisons
since as you justly said Denmark is a prison
I go to my affairs This night is born
a star named Hamlet We shall never meet
what I shall leave will not be worth a tragedy

It is not for us to greet each other or bid farewell we live on archipelagos and that water these words what can they do what can they do prince

 

On the plain that town flat like an iron sheet
with the mutilated hand of its cathedral a pointing claw
with pavements the color of intestines houses stripped of their skin
the town beneath a yellow wave of sun
a chalky wave of moon

o town what a town tell me what's the name of that town
under what star on what road

about the people: they work at the slaughter-house in an immense building
of raw concrete blocks around them the odor of blood
and the penitential psalm of animals Are there poets there (silent poets)
there are troops a big rattle of barracks on the outskirts
on Sunday beyond the bridge in prickly bushes on cold sand
on rusty grass girls receive soldiers
there are as well some places dedicated to dreams The cinema
with a white wall on which splash the shadows of the absent
little halls where alcohol is poured into glass thin and thick
there are also dogs at last hungry dogs that howl
and in that fashion indicate the borders of the town Amen

so you still ask what's the name of that town
which deserves biting anger where is that town
on the cords of what winds beneath what column of air
and who lives there people with the same skin as ours
or people with our faces or

 

From the fact we use the same curses
and our incantations of love are alike
they draw much too bold conclusions
nor should any shared school syllabus
become a premise sufficient
for killing
and the same is the case with the land
(willows sandy road wheat field sky plus feathery clouds)

I would like to know in the end
where the indoctrination stops
and the real connection begins
whether as a result of historical experience
we have not suffered psychic damage
and now react to events with shrill righteousness
whether we are still a barbarian tribe
amid artificial lakes and electric forests

to be honest I do not know
I'm only making the claim
that this connection exists
it manifests itself in pallor
and in a sudden reddening
roaring and arms flung up
and I know it may lead to
a hasty hole in the ground

so to end in the form of a will
that it be known:
I rebelled
but I think this bloody knot
should be the very last one
a man freeing himself
should tear loose

 

So first the faithful dog will go
and after it a pig or ass
through the black grass will beat a track
along it will the first man steal
who with iron hand will smother
on his glass brow a drop of fear

so first the dog honest mongrel
which has never abandoned us
dreaming of earthly lamps and bones
will fall asleep in its whirling kennel
its warm blood boiling drying away

but we behind the dog the second
dog which guides us on a leash
we with the astronauts' white cane
awkwardly we bump into stars
we see nothing we hear nothing
we beat with our fists on the dark ether
on all the wavelengths is a whining

everything we can carry on board
through the cinders of dark worlds
name of man scent of apple
acorn of sound quarter of color
should all be saved for our return
so we can find the route in an instant
when the blind dog leading us
barks at the earth as at the moon

 

Clocks were running as usual so they waited only
for the avalanche effect and whether it would follow
the curve traced on a sheet of ether
they were calm and certain on the tower of their calculations
amid gentle volcanoes under the guard of lead
they were covered by glass and silence and a sky without secrets
docks were running as usual so the explosion came

with their hats pulled tightly over their brows they walked away
smaller than their clothes the fathers of a star
they thought about a kite from childhood the tense string trembled in their hands
and now everything was separated from them
clocks worked for them they were left only
like an heirloom from father an old silver pulse

in the evening in a house near a forest without animals or ferns
with a concrete path and an electric owl
they will read the tale of Daedalus to their children
the Greek was right he didn't want the moon or the stars
he was only a bird he remained in the order of nature
and the things he created followed him like animals
like a cloak be wore on his shoulders his wings and his fate

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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