Poets
1
Poet - from afar starts a speech.
Poet - for long leads the speech.
With planets, with signs, with
roundabout
Tales's potholes... between yes and nay
He even having swung from the belfry
Took out the hook... For comets' way
Is poets' way. The torn links of
causation -
That's his connection! Forehead up -
despair!
You know that the eclipses of the poets
Are not foretold by the calendar.
He's he, who mixes cards together,
Who does deceive all count and weight,
He's he, who asks from the school desk,
Who towers head and shoulders over
Kant,
Who is just like a tree in its own
beauty
Within the stone coffin of Bastille.
He is a train on which late are all
comers,
Whose traces have been chilled
Always... For comets' way
Is poets' way: burning and not warming.
Tearing, not growing - to break up and
tear -
Your pathway, o the mantled curved one,
Is not foretold by a calendar!
2
There are the extras, the unneeded
That do not fit within the norm.
(Not counting in your dictionaries
To them the landfill is their home).
There are the hollow, the pushed-down,
There are the mute - like dung,
Nail - to your silken skirt hem!
Dirt from under the wheels is wrung!
There are the unseen, the imaginary:
(Sign: speck of an autumn hen!)
There are the Jobs within the world
That would have envied Job - when:
We're poets - and in rhyme with
scapegoats,
But from the shore thus having gone,
We argue over God with goddesses
And argue over girls with gods!
3
What should I do, blind and a stepson,
When all have fathers and have eyes,
When on anathema like embankments
Of passion! Where runny nose is the
Name of cry!
What should I do, with rib and thought
Singing! - like wire! Siberia!
Sunburn!
Upon your dreams - like on the bridge!
With their weightlessness
In weights' world.
What should I do, singer and firstborn,
When gray is blackest in the world!
Where inspiration's like in thermos!
With this measurelessness in
Measures' world?!
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| Ilya Shambat |
More translated poetry by Ilya Shambat can be found here.
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