from Forage
Friar’s Lantern
(ignis fatuus)
for two days I was in Lyon (or some
other european city?) two
days, as if for wickedays
apported - I know not exactly what witches salve
I took, Artaud was there, told me, ¿see you the deep
meaning in that we, who so abhor
what comes out the front of a woman, so treasure
and are so allured with, charged with what
comes from the back hole of a woman or a man —I
would promenade the city, which
was mirrorine of my own mirror is probably the
surfacest of eternities having a walk, where before that
too I’d walked, more times alone, or else at
times from memory translating Robert Kelly’s alchemical poem,
which
apparently, later I’ld
renounce, this poem, or my translation thereof—or (this
I am not sure of) my memory, which
is only mirrorine of this city, in which
I walked, chewed on
my hellebore, renounced what poems I could
renounce, on paper’s edges I drew, my most
mad, most demonic, my
most human visions (it was this
very time, this afternoon, this year, this butterfly
of a thousand year, this time of year, that the imp sat around my
devil’s bridge, manipura, and so
hurt me ¿what pasiphaean punishment was, thought I, it,
which
did I betray, what woman not, what poem renounced me or which did
I, translating Baudelaire’s satanic litanies
then spreading them on my pudenda, as if I were a statue
in Vatican, as a bleeding woman under the red
moon, as though a red Bacon
tryptich hung in one Tbilisi
bar where smoking’s still allowed, thinking all
the possible women who might have put a curse on me, a permission, a debt
thinking
all these azande ¿which, thought I, told
me what ani was
fierce on eve, fierce and then
impassible, bani, naturally, was caring, nursed me
the best she could, and preserved against
my will, the Kelly poem, that she
found, I’ld figure, in my big blue bedroom’s forbidden
corner let her, rain now
if she so wills . . . . then walked on, down the gani-
ster twilit streets, drank wine in evening, chewed
the poems I could not understand a word of, as also
couldn’t understand the grass I chewed the next
morning’s soulless hour and then met
the sisters!—they, a sort of, all
sorts of deformation . film’s decomposing side,
on screen, their faces a bread
mouldy silt in eyes? I was learning to see
or yearning to, first time
in life and drained my eyes in antres
of noctambules, nyctalopes, hardly seeing
the procession, hardly
followed it is still hard, seeing
the sun only in this ice, but maybe the whole poem, the whole
dream it has sat there, already, wholly there, in this
unmelting ice, readily stands there, it
in the heart of this, and I see
as I could not always see, as never could,
neverwhere, winter’s unmindful
wind hear not, know not yet
the place where the contraries are
equally true —what ice you are, eye! eyeceberg,
what ices, you, mind, phallos, you? river’s surface as if dancing
with the water, but no
river and surface
are both water and my bridge
sickness, I recall, I thought would hinder me from peeing, shitting
fucking, writing poems and from passings of so many city
bridges, from picking mushrooms, lengthy
conversations and hangings from abolished
telephones, musings
on naked bodies and readings
of holy books, from nightwalking, counting stars and watching
the overlong films, or seeing
colours with ears, but
it did not three books of Rimbaud lay
in my blue room, one of them, I recall, I’d signed in dedication
with a little scratch for ani, I looked which startled me—was
ani still in my life?! ani – a river for any
drunken boat, for any burnt
bridge and preserved these fossils
of lives past like butterflies on the walls
of my big blue room, like
dust on the books in this room, I had, also, I recall
some little girl, and dear a by the lake ice
lit land (of course I forget her name, nor
face, though she told me as though you went
down the rabbit hole through sleep your word
or two fall beyond me, though she used
to be my sister, but the last I saw
she had changed so, I’ld hardly know her, had I not known
she was my sister—had a round face
from mine so different, so moony
was her head and on it a bob à la
Louise Brooks, she too, I think, resembled
someone from my past life, but
who, this I knew not, but remember, told me, I know all this
time what filth you lived in, but I never once
hated you, thus not for once
did I change my heart —but mind
is no light, nor is cock
lucifer, though it tries (and what fly it is!) tries to stick
to dark, to vision, to stick to those two days in Canella
in Tristia, in Tbilisidouble, in pregnant
Lascaux, in the dying pregnant animal
Lascaux (each woman, each room is another’s mirr/
or (this is what every grass has to teach us moth you are!
you, mind, phallos, I watch
you melt and thaw, lightchurned, wed to
a bulb as for horses
were only in the book, we thought, would no longer, wouldn’t be, ignis
fatii we only heard, no-
wheremore could I see, never more would it meet us, was I
in Turin? Turin, I knew, is engaged in whispers with Lyon,
spits out
tourists it chewed, and horses were
but in some other, other poet’s book, another
poet’s erring—and I thought, then, were these
two writing the same poem?! sun comes up in ice
sun comes up, ever
in ice —sun is ice’s heart —one of the two sisters
I see is terribly disfigured, a Unica lining, a Bellmer
doll, something wrong with her face something
with her eyes, nails, something with her room (as if a couple
of nightdrunk moons, a couple of
misused lenses ) the other
one is obscure, the whole
vision is obscure, bani put in a wheel
chair, so she came
to me, all my life I was happy
everywhere, she told me, brought me something she had kept for me : a poem
I had previously renounced, some
incomprehensible lament, a glossolalia—every
poem, she calmed me, is now glossolalia, she said—NOW? explain
that to me—now in our time, when we have all become
witches on the Walpurgisnacht to Venusberg: we leave our bodies in
chairs or beds, while we let go our souls’ semblances
and minds or unminds and reminds, we let, go
rain now if they will, fly, if
to that place without body, that region, that bottomless
flat inscape, where we dissolve
and churn—and did not everyone
always want just this?! I was no longer listening, had lost
the thread of her goading, ode
ing and now was searching for in grass, where’d it vanished to me,
a caterpillar now, a man limbless, we once called
a dream at times, at times a poem, what
not at times two sisters, the rest
is a hole in the photograph, “we are
the true gods of the world” they say “wish I were two dogs
I would play with me—with him I want
to play, she says, the night sun mist in pupils
crosses the moon, the mist, an eye the woman is blind, not blind, sees
the other way around from outside in from inside
out the other one I tell
my dream, she sits, automatically begins to write all down, writes
over the page on which she previously automatically wrote all that
she remembered from her dream wrote over the page on which
previously her mother had automatically written all that she
remembered from her child’s prenatal dream on the page on which
her sister had previously automatically
written down all that she
remembered from my dream, it seems
a method “die in a hare’s
rotten tooth” then closed her
book the method is no method a palimpsest a glossolalia
then I knew tears were dripping from my eyes, as if
in the wind, knew then a puddle covered
my whole blue room—I could no longer read
the city, nor
her face
(Through Mirror, Through Face)
then went silent to begin the mirrors’ hour, oologists
are searching for the world’s mal
beating faux-cœur or what do you see in this translucent passage’s
corner? you so fleetingly change hand
I cannot hold perhaps the shards
of mirror that you leave, upon the unseeable
road you comb, I scratch the end of which
you bite (all things
though you will not say—color oscura! on edges of this dark
visioning, carry you invisible, as though some enormous feline
you were taking for a walk with tendril lace, silence
you plant in laughter, as weatherlike of tonight, and you begin, nowhere
words, as of flowers as
night windows in this dark street in which
no one sees you, noon sees you see all
through mirror, through face, Paul told us, do
not open it, Baudelaire told, through the closed
window you shall better see those false
faces, these streets, hurtful
spines, you—in the corner
standing of the place that
has no corner, has no reason, has
no season, flyaway birds (that hat the closed
windows and left on them the karmic traces with dirty
wings) will not fill up the void, that you
leave with belly, the water you
leave with belly, with tongue you mean, with honey
you silence and carry lap
songtorn and who begin
each instance as any
hungarian fairy tale would
yes, color oscura, also, in Dante’s
comedy—does anybody ear the voices I emit that I emit
voices? for the reason one
was giving love and I
would not take it these dreams I see and these
poems I write what is this voice I hear, which
will I go for? mineral sings, and what is mirror? quest-
-by-question it composes, from sky downfalls in any aizenev, what mineral
is it, which stone, perchance, hades, just as the dead
moon is a stone, that a cat pockets
for pebbles, for gyges ring
ing in, and then enlivens
in memory of the forgotten . . . . “or above those, who
are born in the mirrors” (at night,
in the waterclear fear, in loss, misma
noche, misma lluvia, and I stick to
who is not here, never has, though methought
I saw, touched upon dark’s bottom and both my
mirrors wepte for those
who sleep, they rained on
and the city I could not read, nor
rehearse, dispater (yes, yes—color oscura
is the name, tonite, of Canella —do we ever really leave, I
wonder, the forest? and another thing: we do not leave
the world with our own feet, we who “can sense the heart
is in a foot, and the water stands (in heart’s
old stead —no one can leave—Canella
ever appears to, visits those who lived it in every mirror, in each
quartier hung out between my unknowing
and my memory—I buried the nose
in terra impossible we
share so, when I can, I may find you with nose
which is a map in darkness—what is
a memory of the dead? what map I chew
tonight, to remember? each one
of these hundtouched feelings, these sphinxes is
a bridge, stretch it be a bridge
to every line, made with your spinal
tenebrae, and carry on it whatover you
cannot even on the tongue, what
you only sense you do not know, though cat
hunts them / how many times you
play this scene, actor? how many a
this mirror you play—all
your mirrors are so hollowful, all your bodies
see another mirror on their bottoms only, as though
you were painted on a mirror—instead of a blackboard, use a mirror
to chalk whatever they apprentice you, pupil, you are painted on the mirror—outline you
and go—leave hand—what reaches you cut! from one to
another life . from one to another
mirror what mirror you kiss with a threefold
kiss in this crystal cabinet with-your-emptiness-
soaked-days-eclipse . . . not recognising the place where
sleep, crocus, and an obscene smell a drunk’s
sleep left to the room sandrake, malplaced
woman’s sweat in air (how I loved you! whispers
when you open the window—remains
long after the body has vanished (most among these
these flocks of ghosts, can never
be translated, know this—invisible they
stay—are and
not here there is an instant when the metaphor
of lips is not a metaphor (in this crystal
cabinet) and the moon in a mirror
gives shadow to bloods—most dreams
I’d think a room foreignly set—each room full
of a pairless mirror I have been in (the eye is the opposite
of the mirror—lookinglassy rings lunar like come
in the water shot like a world
in a Gargantua mouth nebulae, that
like cat’s eye looks like angel’s
eye stared at sleep and then you figure
is a king to some small island then the root
grown down inside his own head like 2 girls
in the corner of this wound, like
a hornlone chez Rilke that “closes, thus, a sagacast
this circle: on everyday ’s menacing
false bottoms where the hunter sensed: in veins, on skin
beast’s blood flowed, as if
merged, understood its—this circle, now
coelenterate—you taste the blood, so you
know it is not yours—but whose is it, what animal fam-
iliar’s? what inflow terre, what bloody dial
not laid
but flows between the two
imaginations? in his who gave you blood
on skin, who gives shadow
to the bloods, in his imagination now a flower
grows full of earth
or an empty pot where is a nightwalker’s
imagination placed? does it break out of the forehead? guts
or grows out of the paws and ears? or maybe somewhere
outside you once walked some where you no
longer go back to, not even in mind, not even
in memory or makeup, nor imagining, some
where you no longer think not even that you can re
member
but somewhere remember-
s you—the mind I know a polypus branched
under the bottom’s deep, all along, in each
limb and every tree mind ongrowing, ever-
on and leafy or maybe out of the navel, of member
grows, we carry in our body, treely, as our
own imagining, in our own mirror en-vi-
saged—every soul, then is partly
always meat—says, I am a tree
as for the flower, grows
in place of each nocturnal end while he hears with snow mind
who can trick the unseen branches into hearing, waterhurt
roots heard perceiving —what heart of night
does the cloud’s sans cœur clock ring?
when you tell nhh, waits
Shadows’ Bones
A Litany for the Drowning Village
It is six in the morning, summer’s end, soon the autumn will come, this place will soon cease to exist, this village will vanish, this land will be covered with water, they say and people will leave here, will have to, will be sent elsewhere, they say they’ll find a place for them to go, a better place perhaps, they’ll find them the houses they say, new houses, for those who ask, those who cannot find one for themselves, company will find them they say, company needs this soil they say, water needs this land, water shall be here they say, likewise under any water there’s land and all water was once land as well as all land was once be covered with water, they say, and this land too is dead enough for reshaping, it has run its course, they say, one glance at it is enough they say, nothing shall shoot the life from this earth, nor from these people that stretch over the roads like shadows, like ghosts, shadows’ bones that gather at birzhas in the village’s rotten heart, like shadow puddles, mirror-empty, and talk about nothing (these people cannot even utter words any longer, they have nothing to tell one another, nor to the others, children have left us they say, we have buried wives buried husbands they say, wives work they say, children work have no time for us they say, I am old nothing I can make of the soil they say may soil is ruined my soil is dead they say for sixty years I worked in the city they say as a driver first in this city then in that city for forty years I was a construction worker I was in Europe they say bizarre things they say I couldn’t not forsake the soil they say or they say once old there was nothing for me there so I came back here I was born here they say couldn’t abandon it nor can I now they say just as well die here my native soil to rot in if this land shall be covered with water graves of my dead will be covered too you cannot take the graveyard with you cannot take the shrine with you the route that leads up to the shrine the house of the ancestors those you cannot take with you today a group came to visit me they were French they say was English they say was foreigner made me fill out the survey they say they counted the fruit trees they say they measured the trees made me tell them my life story they say asked me strange things they say what work do you do in what time of year they asked how do you get by in winter they asked what do you gather in the woods they asked what holidays do you have they asked … we are poor poor they say we have nothing … we have nothing … when sun erases these final shadows this village will die (if the village means those who live in it as well as the soil upon which) no more shall anyone come here for why will my child or his child come here they say the land is barren nothing will grow here nothing will bloom they say some say better at least they’ll give us money give us houses some say strange things I buried my husband here in this garden at night the jackals come by my bedroom window and howl as if bewailing my sorrow sometimes a wolf enters a bear enters they do not harm me I planted the roses I grew my roses they eat my roses the bears do a lot of beasts in these woods they say they fled war and took shelter in these woods go to my children in the city she asks while I can I shall not forsake my husband’s bones or what on earth do my children need me for strange things they’d ask what customs do you have what holidays which family is the leader of the community they asked does that family have its own graveyard they asked which family came here first what holy places do you have they ask when do you visit them what routes do you take you see that mountain over there they say do you see a cave there they say treasure is buried in there they say no one can enter they say my family stands guard to that mountain they say healing plants grow in that field they say long time ago one hermit went up that mountain they say threw the goat-skull in that cave and over there by the road it came from the other side of the mountain down below and rolled along the road
დილის ექვსი საათია, ზაფხულის დასასრული, მალე შემოდგომა მოვა, ეს ადგილი მალე არ იარსებებს, ეს სოფელი გაქრება, ამ მიწას წყალი დაფარავს, ამბობენ და ხალხი წავა აქედან, მოუწევთ წასვლა, მათ სხვაგან გაგზავნიან, ამბობენ მათ ადგილს უპოვიან, უკეთეს ადგილს იქნებ, ეუბნებიან რომ სახლებს უპოვიან, ახალ სახლებს, იმათთვის, ვინც მოითხოვს, ვინც თავისთვის ვერ იპოვის, უპოვის კომპანია ამბობენ, ეს მიწა კომპანიას სჭირდება ამბობენ, ეს მიწა წყალს სჭირდება, აქ წყალი იქნება ამბობენ, აგრეთვე ყველა წყალქვეშ არის მიწა და ყველა წყალი ოდესღაც იყო ხმელეთი ისევე როგორც ყველა ხმელეთს ოდესღაც წყალი ფარავდა, ამბობენ, და ეს მიწაც საკმაოდ მკვდარია სახეცვლისათვის, თავი ამოწურა, ამბობენ, ერთი შეხედვაც საკმარისია, ამ მიწიდან არაფერი ამოისვრის სიცოცხლეს, არც ამ ხალხისგან, რომლებიც იწელებიან გზებზე, როგორც ჩრდილები, აჩრდილები, ჩრდილების ძვლები, რომლებიც იქუჩებენ ბირჟებზე სოფლის ჭიან გულებში, როგორც ჩრდილის გუბურები, სარკეცარიელები, და ლაპარაკობენ არაფერზე (ეს ხალხი სიტყვებსაც კი ვეღარ ამბობს, აღარაფერი აქვთ ერთმანეთისთვის სათქმელი, არც სხვებისთვის, შვილებმა მიგვატოვეს ამბობენ, ცოლები დავმარხეთ ქმრები დავმარხეთ ამბობენ, ცოლები მუშაობენ ამბობენ, შვილები მუშაობენ ჩვენთვის არ სცალიათ ამბობენ, მე მოხუცი ვარ მიწას რას მოვუხერხებ ამბობენ ამიოხრდა მიწა მიწა მომიკვდა ამბობენ სამოცი წელი ქალაქში ვიმუშავე ამბობენ მძღოლად ჯერ ამ ქალაქში მერე იმ ქალაქში სამოცი წელი მუშა ვიყავი ევროპაში ვიყავი ამბობენ უჩვეულო რამეებს ამბობენ მიწა ვერ მივატოვე ამბობენ ანდა ამბობენ რომ დავბერდი იქ რაღა მინდოდა და აქ დავბრუნდი აქ დავიბადე ამბობენ ვერ მივატოვე ვერც ახლა მივატოვებ ამბობენ ბარემ აქ მოვკვდე თუ ამ მიწას წყალი დაფარავს ჩემი მკვდრების საფლავებს წყალი დაფარავს სასაფლაოს თან ვერ წაიღებ სალოცავს თან ვერ წაიღებ სალოცავისკენ ამავალ ბილიკებს წინაპრების სახლს თან ვერ დღეს ჩემთან ჯგუფი მოვიდა ამბობენ ფრანგები იყვნენ ამბობენ ინგლისელი იყო ამბობენ უცხოელი იყო კითხვარი შემავსებინეს ამბობენ ხეხილი დათვალეს ხეები აზომეს ამბობენ ჩემს ცხოვრებაზე მომაყოლა ამბობენ უცნაურ რამეებს მეკითხებოდა ამბობენ წელიწადის რომელ დროს რას საქმიანობ მკითხა ზამთარში რით ირჩენთ თავს მკითხა ტყეში რას კრეფთ მკითხა რა დღესასწაულები გაქვთ მკითხა . . . გვიჭირს გვიჭირს ამბობენ არაფერი გვაქვს . . . არაფერი გვაქვს . . . ამ ბოლო ჩრდილებს რომ მზე გაცრეცს ეს სოფელი მოკვდება (თუ სოფელი იმათ ნიშნავს ვინც მასში ცხოვრობს იმდენად რამდენადაც მიწას რომელზეც) მეტად აქ აღარავინ მოვა აბა ჩემი შვილი და იმის შვილი აქ რისთვის მოვლენ ამბობენ მიწა ხრიოკია არაფერი მოვა არაფერი ამოვა ზოგი ამბობს ჯობს ფული მაინც მოგვცენ სახლები მოგცენ ზოგი უცნაურ რამეებს ამბობს ქმარი ამ ეზოში დავმარხე ღამით ტურები მოდიან ჩემი საძინებლის სარკმელთან და ყმუიან თითქოს ჩემ ტკივილს დასტირიან ხანდახან მგელი შემოდის დათვი შემოდის მე არ მერჩიან ვარდები დავრგი ვარდები ვახარე ვარდებს მიჭამენ ბევრი მხეცია ამ ტყეებში ამბობენ ომს გამოექცნენ და ამ ტყეებს შეაფარეს თავი შვილებთან წავიდე ქალაქში კითხულობს სანამ შემიძლია ქმრის ძვლებს ვერ დავტოვებ ან შვილებს რად ვუნდივარ უცნაურ რამეებს კითხულობდნენ რა წესჩვეულებები გაქვთ რა დღესასწაულები რა გვარია თემის უფროსი კითხულობდნენ გვარს თუ აქვს ცალკე სასაფლაო კითხულობდნენ რომელი გვარი მოვიდა პირველი რა სალოცავები გაქვთ კითხულობენ როდის მიდიხართ რა გზით აი იქ რომ მთას ხედავ ამბობენ იქ გამოქვაბულს თუ ხედავ ამბობენ მაგაში საგანძურია ამბობენ ვერავინ შედის ამბობენ ჩემი გვარი მაგ მთის მცველია ამბობენ იმ მინდორზე სამკურნალო ბალახი იზრდება ამბობენ მაგ მთაზე ძველად ერთი ბერი ავიდა ამბობენ გამოქვაბულში თხის თავის ქალა ჩააგდო და აი იგერ გზის პირას მთის კალთიდან გამოვიდა და გზაზე გაგორდა