Professional Documents
Culture Documents
.("""") '-.,)
DESCRIPTION
~;:_..
'l
DESCRIPTION
ARKADII
DRAGOMOSCHENKO
Translated by Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova
Introduction by Michael Molnar
'"
c.:
1 s , c
Dragomoschenko, A. (Arkadii)
Description I Arkadii Dragomoschenko: translated by
Lyn Hejinian and Elena Balashova : Introduction by Michael
Molnar. - 1st. ed.
p. cm.- (Sun & Moon classics: #9)
Translated from the Russian.
ISBN 1-55713-075-2 ; $11.95
I. Hejihian, Lyn. II. Balashova, Elena. III. Title. IV. Series.
PG3479.6.R28047 1990
891.71'44--dc20
89-85476
CIP
FIRST EDITION
ARKADII DRAGOMOSCHENKO
Born in 1946 in Potsdam, Germany, Arkadii Dragomoschenko
spent his youth in the Ukraine of the Soviet Union. He was a
student at the Russian Philological Department in Kiev, and later
worked as a reporter for AP News in Kiev while attending the
Institute of Theatre, Music and Cinematography.
In 1970 he moved to Leningrad where he was first employed as a
night watchman, then as a street sweeper, and later as a stoker at
the Leningrad State University Psychological Department while
working on his eight book-length collections of poetry and two fulllength plays. He was a founding member of the famed Club-81.
Joining her husband, jazz saxophonist Larry Ochs, on a tour of the
Soviet Union in 1983, American poetLyn Hejinian was introduced
to Dragomoschenko, who was described by the Soviet samisdat
publishers and readers as the great contemporary poet of
Leningrad. A friendship developed between the two poets, and
over the years, through dozens of letters and, later, course work,
both struggled to learn each other's language, resulting in
Hejinian's role as translator and introducer of Americans to the new
Soviet poetry, and in Dragomoschenko's playing host to numerous
American writers, publishers, and scholars. In 1988
Dragomoschenko toured the United States, and again in 1989 he
read and performed in New York City. To date, one book of poetry
has been published in the Soviet Union, Nebo Sootvetsyvii.
With works of fellow poets and artists such as Aleksei Parschikov,
Ivan Zhdanov, Alexander Eremenko, llya Kutik, Nina Iskrenko,
Andrei Karpov, Ivan Chuikov, and others, the writing of
Dragomoschenko represents a major new development of Soviet
art at once completely original yet aware of the international art of
the present and past.
For Dragomoschenko language is not a mere expression of the poet
and his imagination, but is an "activity of society." "Poetry comes
in the act of anticipating the fact of possibility" which "begins as an
unknowing" and proceeds as a transformation of reality.
--1
{
i
I
i
i
\I
I
i'
li
i
\
\
[
INTRODUCTION ...
... though in translation Arkadii Dragomoschenko's poems
actually need less explanation than their Russian originals. If
the landscape is unfamiliar at first sight, the poet's own Preface
provides a set of intellectual map references and to a large
extent the poems themselves embody their own commentary.
It is in fact the reader with some knowledge of Russian
literature who may be most puzzled by this poetry, since it is
unlike anything else being written in the Soviet Union today.
This poetry does not fit the image that exists of a Russian
literature founded upon individual consciousness and social
responsibility. It has other commitments and the main one is
mentioned by the poet at the end of his preface"responsibility" in an absolutely literal sense as both
conscience and response. My aim in this introduction is to
reclaim these poems for a Russian literature into which they
have not yet been accepted. The humanist tradition which
excludes them has reached the end of its effective life, but
there is another, older vein which these poems bring to the
surface, and one that goes back beyond the Enlightenment to
the very beginning of the literature.
***
Where to begin?
Everything cracks and shakes.
The air quivers with similes.
No one word is better than any other,
The earth is humming with metaphor ...
(Mandelstam, "The Horseshoe Finder," 1923)
This ''beginning" occurs in the middle of the poem and at
the end of an era and the question it raises is ontological. The
world is saturated with imagery and signification: there is no
7
room left for the old poetic self which "only connects." It has
been crowded out and the poem finishes with the words " ...
and there is not enough of me left for myself." The moment of
consciousness marked by this poem recognizes thematic
exhaustion and the end of language as self-expression. It might
have founded a new poetics, but the time was wrong.
In Russian poetry of the 1930s and '40s social and personal
voices became polarized but both were founded on a virtually
unquestioned faith in their own origin. The first true response
to Mandelstam's tentative undermining of the foundations
came from outside. Paul Celan translated "The Horseshoe
Finder" and dedicated his Niemandsrose (1959) to the memory of
Osip Mandelstam. But within Russian literature that hesitant
self-orienting voice was hardly heard again until Dragomoschenko began a more systematic topography of becoming-through-language.
What Mandelstam experienced as the edge of coherence,
Dragomoschenko is using to found a new order, "Gradually
opening a mode of existence to simple landscape' language"
("Observation of a Fallen Leaf as the "Ultimate Basis" of
Landscape"). His "descriptions" precede any being, they
describe the act of describing: a movement towards
landscape/language that exists only as moments of
transformation:
"I'll stay
as long as description transforming the tree into experience
here ... "
* **
The "Observation of a Fallen Leaf" is preceded by an epigraph
from Chuang Tzu:" ... although what prompts this is
unknown." In a way that answers the question of metaphysical
grounding, but not of literary background. "Tradition" is a
suspect explanation: it reduces constellations to a narrative line.
8
* * *
Another loophole epic and folk traditions have to offer a
modern poet is not any specific technique or intonation but
simply a space to breathe and allow language and sense to
meander at will. A "classical" tradition still dominates Russian
poetry. In its focused form, as in the Acmeism of Akhmatova
or early Mandelstam, it stood for heroically distanced emotion
and a European cultural intertext: a debased form has reduced
its signs to ruthless metricality and relentless rhyming.
Russian is richer in rhymes than English and its word order
more flexible, and consequently rhyme is more compatible
with reason; the western antipathy to strict versification has
had little effect on contemporary Russian poetry. It is also
possible that the quirkiness of Pasternak and Tsvetaeva
rescued Russian rhyming from total stultification. Even so an
antiquated formal concept of "the poetic" still stifles the roots
of poetry. (In the "March Elegy" a derisive homage to "the
poetic" is produced by transposing a sequence set up by the
most notorious commonplace of 18th century Francophile
versifying, the "rose" /"snows" (rozy/morozy) rhyme, into
10
11
language. Although he and his wife Zina have spent all their
adult lives in Leningrad, they both grew up in Vinnitsa, a
town 100 miles southeast of Kiev, in the Ukraine. (He was not
actually born in the Soviet Union at all, but in Potsdam in
1946, when his father was a colonel in the occupying forces).
In some ways cultural relations between Ukrainians and
Russians parallel those of the Irish and the English, with the
difference that the Russian nation and its literature emerged in
what is now the Ukraine (the Prince Igor of the Lay was a
subject of Kievan Rus). Consequently Dragomoschenko grew
up with an off-center perspective on metropolitan Russian
culture, its language and its traditions. His work is out of place
in the inbred conservative context of present-day Leningrad.
Contemporary Leningrad poetry has modeled its dominant
poetic voice on a certain Acmeist image of Mandelstam and
Akhmatova or on Blok' s shamanism. Its language is a moral
stance and a set of cultural attitudes in the possession of the
poet, a position of reified authority. This is not in accord with
the intellectual "events of our own time." What makes Arkadii
Dragomoshchenko's work so interesting and valuable is that
he continues to withstand the pressure of that authoritative
voice and its misplaced confidence that the right language
need only be invoked to constitute an ideal subjectivity.
Those traditions that at present prevail in Russian poetry are
by and large to be dated to Pushkin's time; the accepted
concept of poetic persona and its formal devices (meters,
rhymes, themes) were established around that period. When a
Futurist manifesto called for Pushkin to be thrown overboard
from the steamship of modernity, it achieved half its purpose
in outraging the bourgeois, but failed to divert tradition. The
Futurists had even less time than Pushkin to bring about their
particular revolution, and they had lost their coherence as a
group by the early 1920s. Mayakovsky's persona was to
become canonized; Khlebnikov was moving towards rhymed
folk tales at the time of his death in 1922. The most resisted
12
** *
Other contemporary poets have recognized that need for a
new intellectual space, for example the Conceptualists who are
associated primarily with Moscow and the work of Vsevolod
Nekrasov, Dmitri Prigov, and Lev Rubinshtein. But they have
concentrated on deconstruction and parody of literary genres
or have turned to performance art. Among his contemporaries,
only Aleksei Parshchikov's poetry has certain affinities with
Dragomoschenko: imagery displaces identity in Parschikov's elaborate metaphorical constructions,but myth fills gaps
Dragomoschenko leaves open.
The landscapes of Dragomoschenko's earlier descriptions
contained rivers, lakes, sandbanks, clay sediments, and
outcrops of quartz; there were pinewoods, swallows, clouds,
oblique sunlight, and even city streets and apartments reduced
to their natural features-stone, water, light. Most importantly,
there were those gaps, spaces left by consciousness refusing
identity. Up to the early 1980s this world was refracted through
syntactic complexity-a language-prism that represented the
interferences of expression and perception. All the work in this
book dates from 1983-84 onwards and marks a new phase.
Landscape and language are sediments left by the flow of
perception and a poetic self in constant motion shuttles
between the written and the writing. A philosophical drive is
13
* **
These translations themselves form part of that subtlety and
craft, as a movement across boundaries:
"Didn't they speak in all languages in the city where he
spent his youth? And what a blessing, to begin to move
in one and to finish in another." ("Xenia")
Shifts in levels of response are hidden within tradition. In the
same way translation glosses over gaps. In the case of these
translations it is right that the process should be made visible.
The poems in this volume are not literary fetishes but the
evidence of collaboration between poet and translator-or
rather between poet and poet. For most of this century the
state of East-West relations has fatally distorted any attempts
at interaction between Russian and Western cultures; even
during the last three decades those Russian poets who have
been translated have generally been subjected to media-hype
and become victims of their sociopolitical curiosity value.
Against that background this volume is unique-for the first
time it opens up the possibility of a dialogue between the
leading edges of two living poetries.
The original meeting between Lyn Hejinian and Arkadii
Dragomoschenko was an accidental side-effect of a concert
14
***
Every translator has to be two people-one sensitive to the
poetry of the source language, the other to the target. In Elena
Balashova Lyn Hejinian has found an ideal and unusual
collabo~ator, a native Russian speaker living in Berkeley and
alive to the subtle gist of Arkadii Dragomoschenko's
landscapes. Together the translators have shifted their author's
responsibili ty(his conscientious responsiveness) into English.
The result is meticulous and inspired-and these two virtues
15
16
OPSIS
SYN
TAX
17
sound and sound, sign and sign. Between you and me?
Nonexistence is the result of coincidence. But poetry begins as
unknowing. The sea in Homer was red. Meanings are
necessitated by rising forth ... to what?
There are two types of duration; the "duration" of a change in
social consciousness and the "duration" of the change in
meanings in poetry are incommensurate in their rate of
transformation. As a result we are once again speaking of
history. Language "piled up," language as "treasure," language
not wasted by loss-by r I evolving it dies. Here begins the circle
of Pushkin's small tragedies-"The Greedy Knight," if a circle
can have a beginning. The law of the conservation of energy
permits us to imagine a certain map.
Sanctioned by the Areopagus of lawgivers, a "uniquely correct
language" (the importunate spectre of agglutination) leads to
homogeneity and fetishism, killing consciousness of an other.
There is much that did not occur in front of our eyes, but we
have repeatedlrseen how language died and became a
murderer, abandoning itself to soapy fantasies about basic
values. Imagination differs from fantasy as the word "is" from
the word"if." The "avant-garde" is one of the death-bearing
banalities.
Perception feeds the world. What existed before the digit?
Invention is selection-from the unidentifiable. Imagination is
the intransitive action of anticipation. The opposite is a yearning
for nondifferentiation, for indifference: irresponsibility. An
ornament represents a system of holes, of discontinuities.
Emptiness is the core of bamboo. The source of echo, an answer.
There is no emptiness, but we talk about it. We talk about
people, love, the line, poetry. Do all these things exist? Poetry is
that state of language which in its workings constantly exceeds
the actual order of truth. Who defines how our knowledge
should exist, or how is the one who is supposed to identify it
identified? And so forth. Here is Heisenberg's sentence, in
19
21
StJMMAEtEGIA
l
t.
. .:
. ...
A SENTIMENTAL ELEGY
(for Anna Hejinian)
25
** *
What is said is a lamp, but it announces: "spring thunder."
Light speaks its name brokenly and immediately you can hear
how the dry celery beside the indistinct map
flickers
glistening
hoarsely
like the wrist's river weeds.
26
28
What
is being written is unwritten, approaching completion.
What is written-it's incomplete, perpetually
approaching completion.
A choice of meanings.
The seductiveness of a particular meaning. Then the plural.
A cherry
and the temples
are poised for now in an equation, like the wall's
blooming clusters, studying the rain.
Not meant for the hands-neglect ...
Can you hear, has enough been said?
Are there enough meanings of myself for me to stop,
What is being written reduced to what's been written,
desiring no other:
what is not and never could have been said here
and now again: guess who sent this postcard.
A guess is an obstacle, a ferment of distinctions
But not the tangle of their transformations into metaphor ...
The magnificent rainbow of breath falls back toward the mouth,
Now and then in the cold one sees its formation
and, finally, here is its description-whether or not
its beginning is within me
is uncertain: desire. The sting of desire and so forth.
To repeat, desire expiring. Strong smell of frozen beet.
The sunflower is black,
The omnipotence of the cold is flowering like the wall
of a passerby.
The end is always sudden.
You distance yourself from the one who chooses for himself
the first person,
Several persons.
One of them is first. The end is unexpected, like completion,
29
and intimacy collapses-now everything is close to the bodyNot to name it home under any circumstances,
Not to name it ....
Better to be silent, as in the cold.
Have you finished?
Better the evening with a glass of wine and you
as your own guest
when one writes about wine as about the eyes of a frozen fish
in which one thing will never become another
by studying the walls blossoming with the unspoken
in spring.
30
32
KITCHEN ELEGY
(for Michael Molnar)
34
Parallel snow,
Animal smoke huddles in the neolithic burrows of the night.
Comprehension is confined between the brackets
of the eyes, nibbling
white,
and the mind is like a mouse in a labyrinth.
You see what you see.
The world lies low. You are only a hunted beast
creeping cautiously
across a crackling nap of sound
You will be trapped.
The trash pits have lost the secret power to stop entropy
as a poultice of chewed nettles stops the flow of blood
or singing stops the raving of the mad.
Two or three degrees ago
on the centigrade scale the sections were already coming apart
(cutting ties) longing for wholeness,
For disintegration as if it were a meeting ...
Where does the column of heat come from?
The sun falls directly on the slope of the roof.
It is resurrection and resurrection again.
Now even a corpse must be as hard as a star
And as invulnerable, too, in subterranean lakes-not horrifying
As a gun is not horrifying nor the glowing column
of tranquil fire
Where charred crow vessels
Dwindle behind the thumbnail of the visible
Living half as the eye of the Arctic and half as myself
stamping a red clump of wormwood into the snow.
So we discover the structure of the sky-measuring ourselves
35
36
MARCH ELEGY
... rose
... snows
(from the poetic)
The ridiculous shack of frost is slush, faded,
The solar hood of the rose is white as damp plaster.
Brother wolf with his ravenous belly is foraging through thickets
along the ravines and in sparse brush
Relentlessly baring his teeth at himself in the fog,
Ears laid back against his scalp, rushing about
in his mangy skin,
He grieves,
Forages,
Squinting an eye at the moon in the black gullies,
Staring straight at a plaster doll in the gold, ..
Nobody.
If only a stinking Tatar!
38
41
that growing climbs-a lens change-groping toward a goal: distance. The reflections
of drops in each other (a mountain, near the eye
the thumb of the right hand on which there's a scratch,
a mulberry tree, further away, you see, they too
found their place)-a landscape
viewed from different sides
points
of place
posited by space.
Until the drops dry, they hold out
42
Pedestrians changing.
The footstep's naive bone separates the tissue joining
one thing to another.
A photograph in which there is always only the inception
of death, i.e. comparison. Whose second part is you
turning toward the first part with desire
spread out over the eyes; to smoke, to see,
describing
the surroundings of a letter's co-position
with the one after and the one before, realized in one
that hasn't yet appeared.
Literally a tree on a knoll. A woman with a red umbrella,
snow, in a man's raincoat, wind, to the ground, and a dog:
Either a mound of sagging clay ...
But like the broken bush in the distance-They stand out like an echo.
I'll stay
as long as description transforming the tree into experience here
in the evening
in the center
And turning away: unexpectedly the landscape stands still.
Waits. Streetlights.
43
44
2.
47
1.
48
2.
Life flakes off with speech. The husk goes off, playing the fool
along a flowing path of sap,
winters pass over the hills
and a tree ages hour by hour
with rings of compassion in an endless din) like the blackwith white dew
night transforms hundreds of stars
into plasma
and wasps
are winnowed with the gods' fires.
The line of plains and mountains
whirls like a fog
whose stones envelop the moon in veins and the Siren is gold
on the bough.
But the evolution of changes is less visible than smoke
hovering like a rainbow of achievement over a steel-gray crown
not hoarfrost but ice
resembling death, flowing back to the beginning
but out also to the end
through thought( ... o billows of procrastination!)
but thought lies in the neighborhood of doubt, where
it waits eternally
to be recognized
erasing itself renewed like a written record
as
in spring the sown seeds level the furrow, turning the density
of fibers into the heart of matter-mute
a boundless knife point
(o procrastinating blades ... )
49
so
of the uninhabited
and the stale asbestos color of the roofs
covered with sodden pigeon carrion.
3.
51
1.
The idea of universal glue seeps
weeping down over wonder
The question's crystal trellisThe answer's transparent frame
shimmers in an intangible instant of displacement
and in its outgrowth the splash of a diaphragmpetals of metal and the slitting splash
backwards
a rustle creeping through the chamber of years.
That is not everything, but "that" is always behind
one's back, or behind,
behind the preposition marking space
behind a glance
resembling
an answer's shell; half-open
it waits for the hour
to flash in the downstroke
falling back like the night sky in wide open eyes
from
eyelash to eyelash
from oily "dreams" to an adjective
jumping on "no"
SS
56
57
59
61
62
A syllable of favor
on the forehead of Nut
(having tired of terrestrial discord, we lifted
the azure belly of the cow
over its congested ground!)
63
64
when
passing through the brain's two hemispheres
it subsides in ghosts as they die out, born from them
You approach the window and you see
a boy looking back at you from a neighboring house.
His forehead at night is beautiful-silent blooming
like a glass hieroglyph, the unheard flight of hours
in which mothy snow swirls,
an inchworm in a chamber of light, a murmur, rustle
in the shrinking whisper.
He looks at me and sees how I thaw toward him.
The immeasurability of speech
flowing through the body always amazed me ...
resembling a city, a swarm of flies grazing, exhausted
by mercury,
resembling a spoke.
And you won't say anything.
An evaporating cloud - one-ended rainbow.
But what stones, on which of the road's easy curves?
and how much can they add to the footstep
sinking in anxiety
in the rumble of bees and clover?
In its constancy a thought unfolds itself
-I see a stone.
We've heard that a crystal is formed when nature,
undergoing changes, moves a step toward impoverishment,
and in that very moment the theme of beauty begins to
shimmer, inquiry and obstacle. But the stone ... What am I to
it?
65
66
Squirrels
recklessly crossed the borders of longing.
The city holds endless intersections.
Again you cut off the thought that moves toward them: father,
stone, sky.
What if two darted into one
as the star in the northwest
unties the binding duties.
0 the speed of the swarm in its dizziness!
Dodging each moment, the accidentally discovered "self"
in smalt.
4.
5.
70
71
74
75
-I
FOOTNOTES
~--
.. ..
.' ,,
FOOTNOTES
1.
2.
80
ACCIPIA
ACCIDIA
(for Lyn Hejinian)
The seething day formed in its own heat. That summer swarms
of butterflies bustled above the vegetable gardens. In the
arabian skulls of poppies their rustling was confused. Everything begins as an error of vision, with the disintegration of
the thing affixed to its inevitable unity
(Learn by dreaming,
identify
subjects and things.
such is coupling.)
Poppyseed and butterflies.
Redhot ground.
Mint growing from the collarbones.
Links of errors compose themselves into zones of green-not
immortality. and next the tan ruins of the rings
stages
of the destruction of the leaf, the ladder leading from the
alternation of things.
Describing
83
the wind rose, its rays on forty pages of descent, it's possible
to seek out the scabbed-over gesture if the snow is e!].ten away by
the dream. The deposits of color on places where the light is
fused with mercury.
85
86
It's a forest
pride
88
Note to "Accidia":
"Everything begins as an error of vision ... " Just imagine, I
somehow read this in I don't remember which of your letters,
transmuting a simple phrase into a ridiculous one.
And regardless of the obvious unfoundedness of such an
"interpretation," without long consideration I included this line
in the text of the poem now known to you as "Accidia."
You may ask, does "accidia" in my case signify stillness,
silence, a dying down? Agreed. Partly because I always agree with
everything. And nevertheless, a long time before the need to
specify the word's significance arose, before I had to select
even approximately a "leading" sense, this word for a
considerable time, disappearing and reappearing, lived as a
sound, at times rolling away somewhere entirely on the periphery
of my vision, remaining there for awhile as a dumb grapheme.
I didn't question it about anything because I felt no necessity.
It was almost fleshless, light, like winged seeds floating in
its own, I suspect. However, leaving aside what was still for me
a meaningless cocoon-such was the circle-'as the figure of a
virtual metaphor, of an unsubstitutable incarnation, it began to
tum transparent, to grow tense, to tighten into definition as
something distantly reminiscent either of sandstone burned into
faded azure-purple or as stone honeycombs darkening into delicate
fretwork before the eyes.
I took to thinking again of axes revolving on the metal strings
of death, of a milky yellowness without any basis, and then there
89
90
NASTURTIUM AS REALITY
.i
. I
NASTURTIUM AS REALITY
Clad in sweat
you drink cold water from the pitchers.
-V. .Khlebnikov
1.
An attempt
to describe an isolated object
determined by the anticipation of the resulting wholeby a glance over someone else's shoulder.
A nasturtium composed
of holes in the rain-spotted window-to itself
it's "in front,"
to me, "behind." Whose property is the gleaming
tremor
of compressed disclosure
in the opening of double-edged prepositions
in
a folded plane
of transparency which strikes the window pane?
93
2.
94
approaching
that which
the eye has blurred, an unconforming form,
it bares, rushes out 100 times into angles
where the obsessive attempt to outrun silence
persistently encounters the arrogant silence.
95
3.
The vibrating nasturtium
(immersion
of a bumblebee in the still unconsumed confusion of wings)
on
the thread of intentions strengthens the edge
(something is happening to the eyesthey don't communicate with the brain)
of matter
in the nominative, near verbal fiber
of the flowerit opens its leaves
mournfully rounded
(the shrieks of guttural bushes as they fade
transform them into clusters
of autumn tarnish)
in the dusk.
( the knowledge, which belongs to me,
absorbs it cautiously, tying it
to innumerable capillary nets:
the nasturtium-it is a section of the neuron
string ... )
Some are eaten through by caterpillars, sun rays, aphids.
A sign sweats over the doorway:
"Voltaire has been killed. Call me immediately."
Damp words chalk.
96
4.
Do you remember
how the nasturtium
first separates from the plane leaf?
Where the will takes on the meaning of the desire
to rush a hairbreadth from death forward
until the vertebrae crackle in the pentatonic scale
and ants are at one's templeslike thin-fleeced
saltwith the dry enlivened ringing
of air fingering every hair
of what
is already a pitcher, water and sweat and plane leaves,
waterlily, necklace of dust
and blade, showing through
a gap
and all the rest that might continue
but only memory, opening slightly, jumps
to meet it, untangled by the eyes,
trying so ludicrously to seduce
what
henceforth is only a continuation
within the ends' immense proximity,
hurried persistent speech. The dialogue
is common enough:
You'll say, "Where were you?"
97
98
5.
99
100
6.
) without time to be born, dressed briefly
in speech)
forming rows of luminescence in aggravated
matter (
into its opposite
spattering number, genus
on the different sides like narrow glass beads from ecstatically
torn thread,
Just as, without time to evaporate,
a water drop is thrown off the scalding stove.
The tum of the head is dictated by the necessity
of comprehending the trajectory
of a feathered body whose mass is squeezed
into the corridors of vision's gravity,
cutting
its inverse perspective
into the thicknesses of prolix equilibriums. The mechanism
of the keys, extracting sound, hovering over
its description
in the ear,
protracted with reverberation into the now. When? Where?
Me? Vertigo conceives
"things."
And its outlines are unalterable, in order to cut off
the decrease, the frame, its verticals serve as examples
of how the palpable enters reasonzaum returns with the conclusion that it has absorbed
and dissolved into pure plasma each day:
101
102
7.
104
8.
105
106
9.
10.
of the flower.
Azure slightly clatters from an airplane
crawling behind the clockface.
An unidentified object is raised
to the rank of enemy.
Iconology.
We hurry with the word's identification, before rumor
can destroy it.
The poem is a late arrival on time. A change of prognosis.
Even the dullest town extends beyond the borders
of the pedestrian who crosses it
to set out the substance of memory! intend to say ... .I in ... that
what is said and emptiness, drawing in a selection
of the elements of utterance,
correlating,
discover desire' s inexhaustible sourcewhat is said cannot be said again. The mailman explains:
false sense of shame ...
Remnants of winter-a scarecrow stuffed with rags and straw
burns, enchanted in the round dance's rays. Gnosis
of weather.
The ecstasy of unthinkable closeness (death knots
the slits in the shore-a plastic operation)
leaving behind
the remnants of reason-through to the bone
from the first touch (reflection) on the skin.
Thanks to the verb, meaning more often senseless
walking
along the sand or a swimmer, peeled by the imagination
from a point, trickling down the edge of the eye,
like a pea from a peapod
or intimacy with cold, bitten through by the cotton
whiteness,
109
110
11.
111
12.
The nasturtium-it is the undiminished procession
of forms, the geological chorus of voices crawling,
shouting, disclosing each other
when
day transforms evening into a hill of drifted insomnia
and a chirp
creeps into the mouth of an old man on a bench
but also a shriek, through the birch slides of fetid air
from the neighboring house,
by which you could check your watch, for the third year
the same swifts,
paper, taking root in the table tops' rough wood
a gas tank behind the crossing, near the gas pump,
collecting heat in the lines, and a face in the intrigue
of the anti-corrosive layer,
the center's different architecture. A particle is not related
to prayer. But see. Threading the seen through the needle
whose greed
fits the impeccability of its choice-the narrowest
opening of form.
The nasturtium bearing fire.
112
'
Xenia: For a long time now I've been trying not to hear anything.
Except what we're not allowed to read. We only see what we see,
only what we're allowed to see. Even the tiniest city doesn't have
an end. Long observation of shifting birds convinces me of this.
Sometimes they converge the way words converge into a
sentence or foliage into noise. Narrative begins behind the
sentence. It's quite right to picture a hedge. The scope of my
imagination is no less than the scope of desire. Imagination
differs from fantasy as the form "is" from the form "if." To
115
116
12:01
In the last
lushest (o gods, is there a limit set between overcloud
and underground for you? but how happy
this wild stalk always is!)
but also darkest
(dark as moss in the lowlands)
curve of wind-black, and now transparent
after the flocks' flight south
fractured with flickering like the spine
broken
to fusethe crown of the deeps grows.
Fire of feathers
mute, maintained by dawn
in the last curve of the wind, in its very core
howling down turns
The city which
delivers itself from its own chest, scored
by the thorny nickel, mercury, cut by veins of voices talking,
marked by eruptions of fate.
Suffocating delta. Cranes
at the port.
Crowned by the bay.
The seagull's timid arrogance absorbs the creating of measure
in the waters' peaceful rim. Scarab vessels learn
their own outlines in the supple scale of resistance
and are completely perfect.
117
The roots
of the sea are exposed by flood. Three times
the city is like a fledgling of the gods' hostility
dispersed by a hologram (shattered)
across the last supper:
feathered with silence, lowering burning eyelids. I
118
12:49
I give
you this city, since it's time to give it away,
says Kondratii Teotokopulos, drinking from morning's cup
(in the old days the sun served it
at the edge of the roof: they drank dust ...
such thirst for rejoicing occurred, spilling dizziness)
today
morning ashes, discouraged leaves, the smell of paper,
cedar pencils, gasoline, water rotting under pilings,
voices having discovered the possibility of extending
toward things. I
look for refuge in gravity.
He adjusts his glasses
in their round frames here and there reinforced
with insulating tape:
reliability and strength.
A given: the nymph of myopia (head an emerald-green
medusa) patiently taught him in his infancy
to recognize by feel the dice of fire in the woven thaw
and also chinks of coal-fingers guided gently-night sky.
And what if the man
who at heart can't stand any more allegories,
oracles' screams, sacred oaks humming, frenzied pythons,
what if for him there isn't a single decision
that's not late.
Xenia: From more than a smoldering trace the lips learn. From a
touch the anticipation of loss. Love of the saints only brought him to
terror's edge. Pain as the place for the concentration and
disembodiment of thought. The line is included in a still not quite
119
120
3:30p.m.
A boy on a bicycle (the pumpkin planets are contemplative,
glossy with autumn's horns), momentum of icy wheels,
adhering with a preposition to the rippling fence,
dragging a scrap of flaming oakum on a wire. The flame drips.
A guffaw incinerates the membrane between death and laughter.
The sky
beats its laser
into either comer of the furtive eye, cutting the sheaves
of interim conditions-fem night again.
In stages the substance of descriptions, gelatinous mirrors,
lascivious confluence of premonition and form:
a metaphor is only a hole,
being's desire, forestalling the appearance of the object,.
interweaving a cell of meaning in the speed of reflections.
The view
from the apex: faceted crystal-instrument of research
into the coincidings of entry and exit.
Between a breath taken and its exhalation is a configuration
-time. In the end
the birds mean nothing!
A long ford, like debt,
across the great river. Happiness. Beginning
merging into the noise of the birdlike foliage in the roots of night.
Each flaw provides freedom, an angle. Then the accumulation,
permitting observations to last longer than usual. The sun stands
in the center of the sea. Sometimes it is a hill, sometimes the berry
of death. The false apple does not appear as an apple, thanks to
the forewarnings of definition-an indication, cut out from the
sum of any negation's attributes. The apple, does it contain .... The
object of falseness could be a false object, but the false apple is in
no condition to be an apple. No matter what form it takes, the sea
does not soothe one in sleep. In forty years the underside of sleep
changes, the pattern of breaks changes, of gaps, which permit one
to hypothesize inverted changes. Grief becomes melancholy. The
line is included in an expression not yet fulfilled. Where I grew up
the barbers in the marketplace, instead of greeting when they met,
gave an enigmatic exchange, ''Well, so?-we cut and we shave and
still everything grows." At the railroad station lived six brothers in
a dugout with their mother. There was no father. Three of them
walked around with razors, these razors were somehow welded to
rings-they wore the rings on their fingers. They murdered "with
relish," that is with a knife. With the razor-they "wrote." Vague
spring evenings, fires, potatoes in the coals. Petals of ash fell on
our hair, melted on our lips. The yellow cutter ferrying across to
Freedom Bridge.
122
6:19 (morning)
is difficult, no matter what praise you offer incarnation
(you are always a repetition-isn't there a blessing in that?
-even on a mother's lips, where with the blinding fog
of love for another-the seven voyages of Father Sinbadmore precise pity for a glob of slime
helpless sediment ... ) Would you want to repeat
your life?
Where are the wasps from?
Scales. Comments are the residue.
Xenia: The black oil of rains which have lost mercury's silver (is the
hint of noise beyond meaning natural, left behind at some point in a
common household expression? star's flying cobweb, fog, a
gathering of birds). The self-sufficiency of a light-seeing sphere.
Thus drops. Thus the undeviating increment of the drops or razor
blades. Undoubtedly each city has to begin from something. Now
and then archaeology, studying the birds' hollow dice patterned
with narrow burns, discontinues its research. Anaphora.
Chersonesus. The sun stands in the center of every metaphor.
There's another opinion about the point beyond which the division
of memory is impossible. The near in the distant is an isomorph of
the great in the small.
123
124
125
12 midnight
let there be ocean rather
releasing the gravel of air through the mouth's arch
with a whistle,
Kondratii Teotokopulos proclaims.
126
127
as open as chance.
He avoids the decaying of one,
of another, of a third, in the overflow of divergence
not so naive as to consider the sound of asymptomatic reality
in the implosion that's woven in the fabric
as the co-radiating of coincidence ...
The world fell like a constellation of holes: an amber chunk
of cheese.
It's as if sweat were coming through the glass
of the jealous subjective triad-hence number straightens out
and expands,
suddenly shattering the digit,
128
***
Not all the buds' cryptograms have opened.
It was spring. The willow-herb still hadn't bloomed. Night,
stammering, quadrupled speech,
A struggle penetrating earth, the oaks' homes grew into coffins.
And from the south aridity was blowing.
Cats crept toward puddles
129
130
12:01
At night my hands-the stevedore Savelii lights a cigaretteseek refuge in weight, stretch out to brother potato,
to younger brother onion, to sister cabbage,
and when at last to my youngest sister, I wake .up
and behave properly.
My head-Kondratii Teotokopulos thinks in responseis a resting stone which
the sands raise back to their source as theyflow down
to its mouth. The stone
lies on the boundary between a vigil and a dream.
How enormous the field is
at times-even every echo aims avidly straight
into the lips' drought
ready to be swallowed. Rain is its sickle. Don't wait for me,
a mute.
However
either the movement is excessively vast or your body
surpasses an avalanche in its power to displace. So
from birth you are only a trap for some soul,
word, an obscured thing, loved
and as if drawn in just where the beginning unfolds.
The essence is in the center of gravity, continues the stevedore,
and undoubtedly, in the spine ...
Children very rarely make themselves up as death on holidays.
Harvest days, pumpkins, candles. Soon the pigeons
will bring down the roof following a celestial battle.
In the evening (a phrase-inexhaustible mines of color)
idly ciontemplating the ultrasonic, having attained
maximum frequencies,
131
bitter
along the lips, and wormwood along the edge (another fern night)
freezing inaudibly into the analogy of ice
will float past the toe to the floor
speading a train of mildew-the speed
of papers' rattling on the crest
when one says what one sees.
The speed of assimilating wall, picture, kitchen sink, metal
returning like Messaien's stalagmites, missives of a drip,
burning gas, dust on the edges of a phrase
corresponding to the habitual instruction. Don't blame me. I
measure the shadow of the shadow with the shadow,
signifying: here.
Today my mind is strong, like wind in its last swirl
from the ground.
In the sirens' delta. Nightingales in a wasteland. The Fibonacci
series, like Cadmus' army descends into the region of the bay.
Here is realism: the parts of speech are alien to compassion.
Withdrawal on the snail's horns.
132
135