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
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
