(1982 — 2002)
you say that being on first name terms
has no other meaning than to indicate the gap
between one who has travelled and the one
who is writing now.
I am presuming on a basis of affinity with
the one who is just now reading in the distance:
you say that where the person is with
whom you are on first name terms, time is
a river that runs only at night.
foreign words are here now and they are yours:
an arrow, it’s said, has no clearer aim than life:
what matters is the politeness shown to the bow.
a twisted bough is accepted by the tree just like
a straight one. at least at first sight. you count
the leaves, look for insects.
the empty nest is in the grass, though, and it is
pointless to blame the wind.
you rest your eyes on brown, a dog’s colour,
you remember arnold who jumped under a car
because of a doe.
you can’t lean against a bar stool, even the wall
avoids you. you recall the doe that jumped into
the flooded river because the island was sinking.
To blame the river is pointless too.
× × ×
before you dare to write, you distort the sequence
of breaths: you deny the existence of
the event: you dissolve its boundaries, because
speech will create its own: impose breaths and
firmness of the voice.
what would do is a fragile:
window, moulded glass to which you gradually
add substances with different melting points.
what would do is to line up all first syllables into
then to take over responsibility. to soothe it:
that after the first fall, its shards will become
× × ×
lines began to run out of the frames too often,
allegedly their present demarcation will not
do. colours settle on any surfaces. they dare to
interfere in words. the frames therefore move
to other areas. the only thing that remains
valid is said to be linked neither with speech
the vector: the carrier: the clear direction. a
heavy vehicle, calmly sinking into muddy soil.
× × ×
I’ll speak you. but as if the drawing hand still
to another, and the reclining body to the soil,
I say: jump, and I say: to see you still white,
I don’t know when I write and I don’t know
where — space is random, created by the
coordinates of fingers on keys, multidimensional,
dissociated by movement, being restored.
to the place with no curve sewn by a pen,
connection with no sounds bound by breath,
you still doubt the possibility of speech.
for now, you are still the interior of thinking,
and your skin is the interior here, too.
© Mária Ferenčuhová, translated by Marián Andričík