My Prophecy
- I make the bed every day
and tuck my children in
People say that they are not children
rather dreams that hold me tight
- I also walk down streets
and listen carefully to
the way trams grind along the tracks
it's true I'm afraid of the noise
- I devote a great deal of time to myself
then I think as I ought to
Luckily I quickly forget
and I start to bite my nails again
- I know it will be a few more days yet
the sort that bring nothing
I know I commit minor offences
because other people do too
I know how it will all end
Marina Tsvetaeva
I suppose I just wanted to believe
the Revolution had disposed of those closest to me
had taken away from me the vestiges of beauty
as well as the pathetic interest
in women's flowing dresses
I suppose I just wanted to believe
I had escaped merely to be able to come home again
the Revolution had given enormous strength to other poets
and I could not bear the barking
of emigre journalists
I suppose I just wanted to believe
There was no place in Europe
for such as me
subtle women poets
who earned their daily bread by night
I suppose I just wanted to believe in that
as I got off the train
I saw there was no one waiting for me
Saint
ecstacy is carnage
it is only the recently dead to the world
who are god's aviary
so tell me then you fine fisherman of the stammerers
(it's not a matter of moving the lips
these words simply remain unuttered)
why is ecstacy an abyss
rather than swinging beneath the heavens
and the final blow
a cracked bell with an exhausted heart
rings out with a sparseness
and taking a step backwards out of sheer dread
the body is covered with the sweat of anxiousness
unworthy of its triumph
he is embarassed by the violence of humility
a sacrifice has been offered
the fire of a holocaust trembles
and shoots straight up
enough . . .
with his fingers he explores prayer's outspread hair-suit
with the tip of his broken fingernail he giuseppe di copertino
wrote his epistle to god
yes the one by blaise cendrars
sowed letters of sand
between the tanned side of an animal's hide
and the air slowly rising upwards with him
so you do love me, lord?
you want to raise me up into your presence
but I am still far too heavy
turn away your eyes I fear I shall cry
behold father prior is threatening me
with his fist he points to the unpeeled potatoes
the unswept courtyard oh yes, I know
I am lazy and stupid oh so stupid
that my own mother could not love me
father can you see her the one who has tucked her skirt up high
and having lifted her voluptuous behind up to god
she ties the sheaves with straw tell me please
is she praising the lord or do her generously
revealed thighs displease your eyes or perhaps just
like me you are experiencing a pleasant thrill
lord
I would so much like to be an ordinary man
to plough the fields have a home a mother and a woman
just like that one as faithful as a dog
animals in the yard and children
.................................
lord how generously you bear me in your arms
Time Pretending That it Passes
the last woman is never betrayed
the last dream remains untold
the last day is without end
and the last lover has nothing else to give
the last word is never a scream
while the last line remains unwritten
blood sinks into the ground
the picture opens and steps out of the frame
the body's slow oval announces dawn's entrance
luring from the gloom the contours of hated objects
that have collected in the corner of your room
and once more they inflame the pungent blood
of my lover
we are on the edge of an abyss
we balance on a silken thread
which we have strapped to our throat
under which there still pulsates a sliver
of my particularity never entirely shanghaied by sex
foliage is not green yet redness is rebellion
do not lose everything in bronze do not blur
the azure the murmering with colourlessness do not open my eyes
do not unfold my hands do not let me fall asleep
do not leave do not shut down do not step back into the frame
Witch
slender pine black oak
dark cave by the quicksand
I cast my spell on you
where are the countless hordes
of cursed women not yet crammed into
the whole blackness of the world's
burnt pans scrubbed floors
stench of boiling underwear and the washing
menstrual blood and screaming childbirth
men the bull-kings lords of delight
that's where you will find me
where are all those women
who want a different lover every year
and who embitter themselves hex hex
who want to rule and fight
homeless wandering women
on the fine edge of day and night
with a glint in their eyes setting fire to the gloom
that's where I am
fragile glassy but
to you unbreakable
wounding the festering sores
with more new poisonous herbs
where do you build stakes of hatred
full of fire
where you want to chain me
where you want me to blaze
in the wind that will disperse my ash
and bear away my high-pitched scream
to give you that dark ecstacy
that's where I will always be
* * *
my fear wears a red dress
and he loves me to distraction
he never ever abandons me
he cannot bear other people
anybody whose words might upset
what is (in his view) our relationship
my fear interprets my dreams
distorts words said by others
likes to stroke my back
and often looks me straight in the eyes
my fear is the most faithful of mistresses
he claims he knows my past and future
he likes to walk down dark alleys
or along the night's misty bridges
my fear swears every evening
that he will never ever leave me
Lady Macbeth of the Twentieth-Century
idiots
what did you expect
for thirty years
Jiang Qing
patiently bided her time
waited for the day when
she could include a billion photographs of herself
in a billion little red books
and the inscription Chairwoman of the Central Committee
thrown in the face of the Communist Party of China
sad grey-haired Jiang Qing
you don't know whether she's still alive do you
she is though - she's just not waiting any more
death will get her now anyway
so what if Jiang Qing
did not become a great star
of Chinese film musicals
the small girl from Shanghai waits for you every night
she did not gain ultimate power over you all
not even with her expressive gestures or supple figure
enveloped in the fragile mist of a neglige
she did not attain the heights of power through self-sacrifice
it was that ugly coarse pair of overalls
no style just identical day after day
and those terrible years at the side of
that narrow-minded Chinese with the limited imagination
how was it he managed to hold you all by the throat
how did he do it how did he succeed
perhaps we should have another try
there are still a couple of years left
one more qeng feng
another cultural revolution
eliminate those who oppose
there are still a couple of billion left anyway
water give me some water
bring me a bowl full of clean blood
Travel Poem
I'm talking to you - but it isn't
my fault if you can't hear me
J. Brodsky
there's no point in looking for life when travelling
there are only suitcases
unpacked then repacked
taken in and out again
planes trains and taxi cabs
outstretched palms
expecting a tip
there's no point in searching out new friends when travelling
there are only people
saying hello or goodbye
entering or leaving
faces backs or shoulders
words flung
backwards
there's no point in looking for a poem when travelling
there are only letters
delivered and posted
set to one side unread
a black sky unstarlit
the stomach painfully contracting
the red star of au revoirs
Iowa Iowa Iowa
it really is rather strange
but the world is full of living people
iowa avenue in iowa, iowa
is such a strange street
it starts at the old town hall
and then about half a mile along
there's a fork
on the right there are some dime stores
k-mart and sycamore mall
and vast numbers of small white houses
on the left there are just houses
at one of the intersections
a really cheap bookstore
I like to go there
and read the books
why don't I buy one
they're really cheap
the salesman is surprised
and then I have to explain
that I don't have a home here
that I'm just walking around
I'm not even really sure where I'm going
that there are no mice or ants
on the lawns beside the white houses
only cockroaches are everywhere
and I'm getting to like them more and more
because day by day
I'm targetting my shoe better
even at these most humble examples
of american living standards
I suppose I'll be wasting this particular talent
back in gdansk
Translated by Donald Pirie
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