The Collected Poems (11 page)

 

I always suspected that the city was a falsification. But it was only on a foggy afternoon in early spring, when the air smells of starch, that I discovered the nature of the fraud. We are living inside a cupboard, in the lowest depths of oblivion, among broken poles and shut boxes. Six brown walls, the trouser legs of clouds above our heads, and what until recently we took for a cathedral but which is really a swarthy bottle of evaporated perfume.

O poor nights, when we pray to the passing comet of a moth.

 

He was so theatrical. He stood in front of the mirror in a black suit with a flower in his lapel. He raised the gun to his mouth, waited for the barrel to warm up, and, smiling distractedly at his reflection, pulled the trigger.

He fell like a coat flung from the shoulders, but his soul remained standing for a while, shaking its head, getting lighter and lighter. Then it reluctantly entered the body, bloody at the top end, at the moment when its temperature was sinking to the level of an object's temperature, which—as we know—is an omen of longevity

 

It was a bird, or rather a pitiful remnant of a bird, eaten away by parasites. Stripped of its feathers, its bluish skin shuddering with pain and disgust, it still tried to defend itself by picking with its beak at the white worms covering it in a milling mass.

I wrapped it in a handkerchief and took it to a naturalist I knew. He examined it for a moment, then said:

It's all right. The worms eating it carry parasites invisible to the eye,
and in the cells of the parasites an intensified metabolic process is probably taking place. It is therefore a classic example of a closed system with an infinite particle of antagonistic interdependencies which are the condition for the equilibrium of the whole. Contrary to appearances what we see is a blushing fruit or if you like, the crimson rose of life.

We must see to it that the thick fabric of breathing and suffocation doesn't burst anywhere, because then we would witness something considerably worse than death and more terrifying than life.

 

The inquisitors are in our midst. They live in the basements of huge tenement houses and only the shop-sign WRINGER HERE betrays their presence.

Tables with flexed bronze muscles, powerful rollers, crushing slowly but with precision, a driving-wheel, which knows no mercy—are waiting for us.

The bed-sheets, which they carry out of the wringer-shop, are like empty bodies of witches and heretics.

 

In our present state of knowledge only false tears are suitable for treatment and regular production. Genuine tears are hot, for which reason it is very difficult to remove them from the face. After their reduction to a solid state, they have proved to be extremely fragile. The problem of commercially exploiting genuine tears is a real headache for technologists.

False tears before being quick-frozen are submitted to a process of distillation, since they are by nature impure, and they are reduced to a state in which, with respect to purity, they are hardly inferior to genuine tears. They are very hard, very durable and thus are suitable not only for ornamentation but also for cutting glass.

 

Princess Izanaki is fleeing a dragon with four purple and four golden claws. Prince Itanagi is sleeping under a tree. He doesn't know what danger threatens the little feet of Izanaki.

The dragon is getting closer. It is chasing Izanaki toward the sea. In each eye it has nine black lightning flashes. Prince Itanagi sleeps.

The princess throws a comb behind her. Seventeen knights rise up from it and a bloody fight begins. They spent too much time in Izanaki's black hair. They turned into complete sissies.

Prince Itanagi found the comb on the seashore. He built it a marble tomb. Who has ever seen a tomb built for a comb? I have.

This was on the day of the tree and the foal.

 

A crevice! shouts the Emperor in his sleep, and the canopy of ostrich plumes trembles. The soldiers who pace the corridors with unsheathed swords believe the Emperor dreams about a siege. Just now he saw a fissure in the wall and wants them to break into the fortress.

In fact the Emperor is now a wood-louse who scurries across the floor, seeking remnants of food. Suddenly he sees overhead an immense foot about to crush him. The Emperor hunts for a crevice in which to squeeze. The floor is smooth and slippery.

Yes. Nothing is more ordinary than the dreams of Emperors.

 

He lives in a forest of naked tree trunks. He grafts leaves and branches onto them, whole crowns of fiery greenery. He beats the wind against them. Sometimes he fans a fire called a fugue or a chorale.

A monk the size of a woodworm moves around in the little mirror
hanging over the music; the organ player rouses himself to a yet more thankful dance, more wonderful falls.

He finishes with a spasm of archangels' trumpets, descends the dark spiral stairs, coughs and spits in a checkered hankie full of thick phlegm.

 

I don't understand how you can write poems about the moon. It's fat and slovenly. It picks the noses of chimneys. Its favorite thing to do is climb under the bed and sniff at your shoes.

 

I bought it from a street vendor in Naples. It was said to have belonged to the captain of the
Maria,
which was shipwrecked right off the Gold Coast on a sunny day in mysterious circumstances.

An odd instrument. Whatever I fix it on, I just see two blue strips—one dark sapphire, the other sky blue.

 

The tsar our little father had grown old, very old. Now he could not even strangle a dove with his own hands. Sitting on his throne he was golden and frigid. Only his beard grew, down to the floor and farther.

Then someone else ruled, it was not known who. Curious folk peeped into the palace through the windows but Krivonosov screened the windows with gibbets. Thus only the hanged saw anything.

In the end the tsar our little father died for good. The bells rang and rang, yet they did not bring his body out. Our tsar had grown into the throne. The legs of the throne had become all mixed up with the legs of the tsar. His arm and the armrest were one. It was impossible to tear
him loose. And to bury the tsar along with the golden throne—what a shame.

 

A great brown barrel in which Paris blue, Arabic silver, and English green are poured from above. They add a pinch of Indian pink and stir with a big ladle. The thick mixture seeps through the cracks, and the people sticking to the barrel like flies lick it up greedily drop by drop. But sadly this doesn't last long. The tram, an ironic ocean steamer, sounds the bell for dreamers.

 

Rap a knuckle on the wall—
a cuckoo will jump
from a block
of oak

It will summon trees
one after another
until a forest
stands

whistle softly—
a river will run
a mighty thread
tying hill to dale

clear your throat—
here is a city
with one tower
a leaning wall
yellow houses
like playing dice

now
close your eyes
snow will fall
it will snuff out
trees' green flames
and the red tower

under the snow
it is night
with a bright clock on top
the landscape's owl

 

In the warm hands
of children
a wooden bird
began to live

under enamel feathers
a tiny heart gave itself

a glass eye
caught fire with sight

a painted wing
stirred

a dry body
felt craving for the forest

it marched
like a soldier in a ballad
with its sticks of legs it drummed
the right leg drummed—forest
the left leg drummed—forest
it dreamed
green light
closed eyes of nests
at the bottom

at the forest's edge
woodpeckers picked out its eyes
its tiny heart blackened
from the torture of common beaks
yet it marched on
shoved about by venomous mushrooms
jeered at by orioles
at the bottom of dead leaves
it sought a nest

it lives now
on the impossible border
between matter animate
and invented
between a fern from the forest
and a fern from Larousse
on a dry stalk
on one leg
on a hair of wind
on what tears itself away from reality
but hasn't enough heart
enough strength
does not transform itself
into an image

 

when I mount a chair
to capture the table
and raise a finger
to arrest the sun
when I take the skin off my face
and the house off my shoulders
and clutching
my metaphor
a goose quill
my teeth sunk into the air
I try to create
a new
vowel—

 

nothing special
boards paint
nails paste
paper string

mr artist
builds a world
not from atoms
but from remnants

forest of arden
from umbrella
ionian sea
from parkers quink

just as long as
his look is wise
just as long as
his hand is sure—

and presto the—world—

hooks of flowers
on needles of grass
clouds of wire
drawn out by wind

 

With a light step
he moves
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit

the good gardener
props a flower with a stick
a human being with joy
the sun with deep blue

then
nudges his glasses
puts on a tea kettle
mumbles to himself
strokes the cat

When God built the world
he wrinkled his forehead
calculated and calculated
hence the world is perfect
and impossible to live in

on the other hand
a painter's world
is good
and full of error
the eye strolls
from spot to spot
from fruit to fruit

the eye purrs
the eye smiles
the eye remembers
the eye says you'll last
if you manage to enter
right into that center
where the painter was
he who has no wings
wears floppy slippers
he who has no Virgil
with a cat in a pocket
a genial imagination
an unconscious hand
correcting the world

 

Mango blossoms in white sun in black rain
raking images and leaves in a broad sweep
on the rue des Fourneaux and on the Pacific
giant Gauguin heavy muted clogs knocking
seeks out a source then langorously drinks in
a sky slashed open and falls into sweet sleep

he didn't want rest he wanted a dream
which is work a long march at noon
carrying the shadowy pails of images

     sometimes he still hears
the hissing of Paris salons at home he left
a white woman now his curtains are shut
he must still be sleeping
let him sleep

ocean driftwood guitars O parrot
he didn't love girls not Téhoura
nor Mette Gad spit strung between her lips
Alina died too early mildew disgusted him

a great vehicle goes with mango blossoms
the last king Pomare this rotting pineapple
in an admiral's coat drives into the country
a wooden bell rings

patient Vincent a sunflower in the sun
the sun will burn out his ruddy brain
he was brave he painted with a razor
it isn't Monet he cried I won't exhibit
avec le premier barbouilleur venu

he who comprehends cobalt leaves the guild
there was no other path just a path to the sea
Gauguin moves his body on hands and knees
fruits are like boils the forest has eczema
the Maori gods pick their teeth moodily
ocean driftwood guitars a parrot

between a fiery sky fiery grass—snow
a Breton village with mango blossoms

 

it emerges
black
from eyes blinded
by lime

it touches the air
and stands
diamond
black rose
amid planetary chaos

blowing
the imagination's little pipe
lead out
colors
from a black
rose
like a memory
from a burned city

violet—for poison and cathedral
red—for a steak and an emperor
blue—for a clock
yellow—for a bone and an ocean
green—for a girl turned into a tree
white—for white

O black rose
in a black rose
what do you hide
amid the dead flies of electrons

 

The real duel of Apollo
with Marsyas
(absolute ear
versus immense range)
takes place in the evening
when as we already know
the judges
have awarded victory to the god

bound tight to a tree
meticulously stripped of his skin
Marsyas
howls
before the howl reaches his tall ears
he reposes in the shadow of that howl

shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument

only seemingly
is the voice of Marsyas
monotonous
and composed of a single vowel
A

in reality
Marsyas relates
the inexhaustible wealth
of his body

bald mountains of liver
white ravines of aliment
rustling forests of lung
sweet hillocks of muscle
joints bile blood and shudders

the wintry wind of bone
over the salt of memory
shaken by a shudder of disgust
Apollo is cleaning his instrument

now to the chorus
is joined the backbone of Marsyas
in principle the same A
only deeper with the addition of rust

this is already beyond the endurance
of the god with nerves of artificial fibre