POETRY FOR THE CHOSEN ONES
In the beginning was the Time,
Then the Word, then the Sin, then the Fig Leaf,
And the again – the Time; and what has not been said still
Is roaming in the cave.
When God created the world,
Created the man, created the song,
But the song is still wandering without words
As the graces set in the prayer book as the LOGOS
That has become modern twaddle
And the sages like tapeworms
Are guttling their feed in dark labyrinths.
-No one is the first; no one is the last, –
Which means, neither more, nor less,
Et verbum caro factum est, – I hear, –
The one who pilfers from the poor, lends God.
The one, who creates poetry next to the shadows,
Knows, that the real existence is free from the death,
whereas the life, the slave suffering from scurvy,
Leads into temptation with cold silence,
Though everything is an escape,
As an escape of trees at the end of the path,
As the mimesis of death in the eyes of a blind.
A poem is also ontology
Like the ontology of stray dogs,
Who seek death with life inside them:
Commemoration of a creative insect
is no heroism at all.
No one, no one, not among the angels,
Nor among people, named and saw,
As the angeles, first – the Devil,
And then Jesus himself, afterwards the Man,
Knows nothing till the end.
And if the adjusting is the last stop
Of vanity’s howl,
Why do we accustom to the circulation?
And why is the capacity of skepticism and skill
called talent?
I am watching the metaphysical triangle – my city;
Somebody is standing up sleeping,
The other two are talking in a whisper,
They are powerlessly swinging,
As it often happens to the hung,
Who are accompanied by glances full of regret,
But still left alone.
“This decrepit city”, I think, “looks like a hidden cancer
Which metempsychosis derive from the knees,
Then as limpid, rosy orchids
Long-long stretching to respiratory centers,
Destroy the past and reach the ventricle,
It affects the spasms of the myocardial
Creating black clefts, forbidding walking,
Forbidding getting to the light”.
And the city moaning
Like a woman whose placenta has not fallen yet.
I watch, the beggar snores,
And for a hundred thousandth time I recall
His bony phantom – with yellow removable dentures,
The beggar dreams of his vain hopes and unfulfilled loves,
And about whether he could have ruled the world
If he was Bonaparte,
And if the monster hidden within him would go till the end,
And that substance has long separated from soul,
and the lotus virgins ceased to hold in their arms
the small clay vessel – the man.
The sky milk and the white martini
With black olive and lemon
Are mixed with the puff and pant, sweaty bodies
Shaped from the front window
which have become the boiling pot
Of chemical reactions for three days
A new existence of smells, impulse, cognition –
Secret, far but at the same time close.
The tenderness crept in and kissed the smooth,
Wet skin of the world
Filled with smoke, sweat, dream.
I see that the last efforts
Of the suffocating leaf to cling to the vanishing shadow
Were in vain.
-When you are alone,
Your own house is more unreachable than the death,
And the rope, on the backbone of which you walk,
Is safer than the day whose face no one has seen.
But the guilt has such obsolescence
That the soul and love were born from despair
So that the fear and death are not the worst yet
Though Jesus knew even then
That he was to become a martyr.
“What we call Death, is just the last pain”, I hear.
You cannot escape from your fate
As no heretic was able to get away,
The winners always turn the defeated into devils.
Alexander of Macedon said so.
”This melody is quite different,
But my ships were burnt by those,
Who considered themselves my enemies.
Not I, but they”.
And the world, that we feel with our fingers,
Looks like the smell, that we cannot describe exactly,
Like we do with objects
(for defining smells, we always seek for approximate words)
As a blind man, who tells about someone – ap-proxi-mate-ly.
When a man dies
One more breathing pore of space closes.
Words do not help me now.
As the memory does not help the old bench,
When the red in his back is wandering
Persecuted by himself,
Especially,
When the moon’s straight, uniliniar and guileless profile
With its presence
Is still looking for you in the indefensible shelter
With still green and little leaves.
And the way by which we walk every day
is to beat ourselves,
Though we understand one day
That it is self-deception,
That it is the way to Nowhere,
That it is not at all the way to salvation,
That strange creature – Human
Likes to be cheated up to the end.
I am looking at the incandescent teats of the sun like a spellbound
by which the Earth is still fed.
We have learned to find
What leads to the depths and when we do not exist
The sheaths of our souls wander
And go away to the sky
By the gods’ way.
-Per vias reqtas, – I add, –
The space is the shelter of our dreams,
Just as we are little, we name it sky,
And the trees grow not only on the Earth
They are inside of us as well,
And the gods look like children,
They love when they are glorified.
He is silent.
I am silent.
We are the actions, the signs are within us.
And even though grey eyes say nothing,
The laughter of this little girl
Looks like the first temptation,
And two worlds like a secret vow
Turn round in the space,
I see that my city is not Universe yet,
Though its name is Home,
Where we consume our TIME,
Although sometimes crawling and dragging
We turn back to the very cave
Of ancient men.
There is everything in the center of the Universe now:
Tepidity, delirium tremens, dog,
Beggar, spinning leaves, grief,
Only man was expelled.
It is summer now in the center of the Universe.
Yellow-pupiled summer.
I hunt the falling leaf sagging like a cat
And all the shadows of the people who have remained in my mind
I connect them together with the rhythm of summer-hot Jazz
And so far, this is the only way to Freedom.
Than crazy summer becomes mor silent
The cunning summer, the yellow-eyed summer
That swirls, like a witch,
The fires of the sun on the red roofs.
And the bowels of the earth,
With pressings of muscular breathing
Reaches my palm as if one lives the instant instead of me.
Two worlds wound like a promise with secret flashings.
– Pulvis et umbra sumus …
Every time dying is the same heroism
And again the expectation to start again,
To start from Nothing, though the necessity
To start from the very beginning, equilibrates
Between the life and the death.
In this endless space, but I understand,
That our world is not yet space,
That the earth, as a spiral of the lamp with beeswax
Is hidden with sins’cobweb.
Tenderness crawled in and kissed the smooth
And humid skin of the world filled with smoke, sweat, and dream.
I understand now, the last struggles of the drowning leaf
To cease its disappearing shadow were in vain.
Cras, cras, simper cras, sicevadit aedas,
This usual bloodless hony-bread
Is the only sacrifice to the gods,
What we can do at this moment
And as we are still little,
The hell is not more for us,
Than the name of the devil
Where the guilt
As a sunflavored, late fruit of the tree
Still ad initio mundi
Is circling as a perpetual engine,
Among people,
Things,
Time
And like a NOTHING within lonliness.
Our suspicion, joy or pain, inspiration, pleasure,
creation, which are inherited,
Keep the memories about the fertilization
And the births, about the endless nights of love.
What we know about eternity, about the time,
The death crashes the shores to each other
Between the invariable metaphysical triangle
And the black-eyed bunches of night.
Per speculum in aenigmate,
The dead walk with downcast eyes
Speak in languages unknown to us,
Pronounce words,
Which live without tenderness
Like a violin song out of the window,
Which is given to us, but passes us by.
Pulvis et umbra sumus
It is possible we would never know anything;
Our uneasiness, our fears and dolefulness
What we consider fate
Around which from the ancient times
Scrolls the metamorphosis of things’ life
About which speak all the signs,
Though no sign is the border,
A dead point,
And the stopped second is closer,
Then the noisy time,
Though we always scroll,
In order not to lose the wet silence of the death.
In the center of the space is now summer.
Yellow-pupil summer.
The tenderness crept in and kissed the smooth,
Wet skin of the world
Filled with smoke, sweat, dream
The northern is still sleeping.
I look up, where the sound comes
-Our Father, are you in heaven? – I ask, –
-Father, who is ours.
-Are you ours?
In the name of the Father,
and of the Son and the Holy Spirit and the Mother…
And this carnival, which is also a convent,
Circles the chain of the deaths next to the shadows of the memories
I bow my eyes which were looking at the sky,
And the stars again escape,
And the time stretches and stretches
By the length of my unlived days,
On his birth
non segnis stat remeatque dies,
On his death
non segnis stat remeatque dies,
where always screw
as perpetuum mobile,
the childhood,
the adolescence,
the youth,
the senility…
My agony is going on
Sounds, sounds are heard.
Transleted by Ruzan Abovyan
