The insemination pistol

by Linda Maria Baros


The insemination pistol

This is how I imagine the death of poetry

            like some light skinned off the retina

            in an occult basement, with a projector aimed at my eyes.

 

Because it is not the combustion of death that blackens its bones

            but, the dusty bar codes and the drills of medals,

the glasses thrown by the cheerful guests towards the ceiling

                                                                        – so phosphorescent! –

            and the wild musicians coming to catch them into their beaks.

 

This is why I've always written the best poem

                                                                        that can be ever written.

The poem which drills trepanations, breaks continuous sutures

            and leaves your arteries, like some tubes

            under pressure, floundering free close to your neck.

                        Which splits the joints of the air

                                                            freeing the stones, the gods.

 

The cruelest curettages are being made out of the sheet of paper

                                                                        and under the guns.

But the hand I am writing with separates from my body

                                                just like the prisoners' hands in Siberia

            hidden among the stocked logs in frozen trains,

                                                long trains setting out into the world.

Nothing, not even a moan resounds

                                    into the iron tunnel of the language.

 

I stretch my hand, guarded by the shutters of the hospital, the white mastiffs

            of the shutters, just the time needed to write the poem that washes

                                                your tired feet into its urine.

No breast, no cloud shiver. Maybe the onslaught weapons.

 

My hand attached to its vision on poetry, like a cuff.

The hand – separated from my body – floating over the world.

            A pistol of insemination in its own field of action.

translated by Liliana Ursu

Le pistolet d’insémination

Tout comme cette lumière qu’on exfolie de la rétine

            dans un sous-sol occulte, un projecteur dans les yeux,

            c’est ainsi que j’imagine la mort de la poésie.

 

Puisque ce n’est pas la combustion de la mort qui noircit les os,

            mais, encrassés, le code de barres et les foreuses des décorations,

les verres que les invités lancent, joyeux, jusqu’au plafond

                                                                        – phosphorescents ! –

            et les musiciens sauvages qui viennent les attraper avec leur bec.

 

C’est pour cela que j’écris le meilleur poème

                                                                        que je puisse écrire.

Le poème qui trépane, brise les sutures en surjet

            et laisse ses artères, comme des tuyaux

            sous pression, se débattre, libres, autour du cou.

                        Qui taillade les poignets de l’air

                                                            et en libère les dieux, les pierres.

 

On pratique les plus grands raclages sur la feuille de papier

et sous les armes.

Mais la main avec laquelle j’écris se sépare du corps,

                                                comme les mains des détenus sibériens

            cachées parmi les rondis empilés dans de longs trains

glacés qui partent dans le monde.

Rien, pas même un geignement ne résonne

à travers le tunnel métallique de la langue.

 

Je tends la main, gardée par les volets de la clinique, par les mâtins blancs

            des volets, juste assez pour qu’elle écrive le poème qui lave

                                                tes pieds fatigués dans son urine.

Aucun sein, aucun nuage ne tremble. Peut-être les armes d’assaut.

 

Ma main attachée comme une menotte à la vision qu’elle a de la poésie.

La main – détachée du corps – flottant par-dessus le monde.

            Un pistolet d’insémination dans son champ d’action.
The insemination pistol

This is how I imagine the death of poetry

            like some light skinned off the retina

            in an occult basement, with a projector aimed at my eyes.

 

Because it is not the combustion of death that blackens its bones

            but, the dusty bar codes and the drills of medals,

the glasses thrown by the cheerful guests towards the ceiling

                                                                        – so phosphorescent! –

            and the wild musicians coming to catch them into their beaks.

 

This is why I've always written the best poem

                                                                        that can be ever written.

The poem which drills trepanations, breaks continuous sutures

            and leaves your arteries, like some tubes

            under pressure, floundering free close to your neck.

                        Which splits the joints of the air

                                                            freeing the stones, the gods.

 

The cruelest curettages are being made out of the sheet of paper

                                                                        and under the guns.

But the hand I am writing with separates from my body

                                                just like the prisoners' hands in Siberia

            hidden among the stocked logs in frozen trains,

                                                long trains setting out into the world.

Nothing, not even a moan resounds

                                    into the iron tunnel of the language.

 

I stretch my hand, guarded by the shutters of the hospital, the white mastiffs

            of the shutters, just the time needed to write the poem that washes

                                                your tired feet into its urine.

No breast, no cloud shiver. Maybe the onslaught weapons.

 

My hand attached to its vision on poetry, like a cuff.

The hand – separated from my body – floating over the world.

            A pistol of insemination in its own field of action.

 

 

                                                translated by Liliana Ursu

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