Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Viktor Neborak

translated by Michael Naydan

The body of the deceased was found in a ditch
in the middle of a yard hung on
a hook and they buried him beyond the garden.

Fido’s* hung himself — suicide-dog!
Fido’s soul’ll be hounded from heaven.
They’ll tell him: “You didn’t croak the way you should have!”
Then they’ll lift him up by the tail and …

Fido’s hung himself on his chain at night.
The real nightly R movie** — rat's viewers
sighing, wooing,
curling up, and love-making!

Fido’s hung himself! Do you hear? — you!
Are you reading Leaves of Grass?
Marquez? Borges? Hesse? The I Ching? Ah?
Fido’s hung himself! That’s the change!

You’re called a poet,
and he’s — a dog.
A poem gnaws at you,
a chain — at him.
Someday you’ll be a pro poetaster,
but Fido chose not meat, but the spirit!

How much can you bark at the moon?
How long can you wait for your paycheck?
How much can you scrape our backsides?
Till death!
What a schizophrenic profession —
to tend chickens and goats
and send them off to be butchered?

The Constellation of the Dog
pierces through the earth and heavens!

“Place your heads beneath the blade’s edge!”

A good man — a barber — and white doves.
Tram rails, blood coagulated, spiritists.
And foamy beer pours out onto heads!
Behind the blade — a pure blue stripe of skin,
blood thickens into a blue skull sun,
the cold fingers of the wolf, like the gray
touching of fur that cuts bristles.

You’re Buddah. You’re a criminal. You’re a clock.
Captive hair begins to revolt.
Through the holes and fissures of skin the color emerged
of future prairies, movements and judases.
Onward! To the world! — to lengthen the wind,
to grow time like hair on the winds,
like a punk mohawk, who tore away
the midnight fear from Jesus like a scalp.

These beasts with women’s bodies
go out in the evening, beaming, to the water —
to the corps de ballet, posters and advertisements
and after you — lead them into the night!
This will be a murder! suicide! revenge
for the black and red, and all the same
this will be a night of sweet acquaintance,
a night of waterfalls, of falling towers,
and of night of hair woven into a rug,
into music! into rhythm! into fear! into a scream!..

You mixed her hair with white
and left the temple like a heretic.

You love to ogle skin
that forms the body of a young lady.
You trusted this panther without knowing her,
you drove your tulip spear into her.
She was taught to speak,
though she doesn’t care a bit for flowers —
this smile craves flesh!
To blood! neophytes, to the arena!

The sexual union of Rome, the roar of the panther,
the steam of an orgy, convulsing pulses,
perfumes are interwoven in brains,
poets of the golden era! —
pour onto their heads to the brim
the luster of the moon, translucent wine
will fill your cells with the sea,
and tarry blood, and — look —

a sunburn, a streak and a cave,
is she a goddess, a beast or an abyss?
is she a rubber doll? skin?
or a Venus created by the sea?
a guitar in the fingers of lovelace,
craves elegant sounds to embrace.


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