Two Poems
Still Sea
Since the dawn of history, Still Sea has been celebrated three times: it is the rarest of holidays. People say: not a soul has been born to hear such silence twice, and if they have—they would’ve died at once. Anyway, the majority of those who have traversed the heath have never witnessed Still Sea. Knowing someone lucky who has, or even someone related to them, is considered a peculiar privilege. Deemed equally privileged are the hunchbacked, parents who conceived sleepwalkers, dogs, and all those who have never fallen asleep—though at best they might bring out a smile in their neighbors. Witnessing Still Sea warrants the medal of honor and at any moment that medal can be traded—on the black market—for a flock of fears, or an instant pyre. Poets have the most use of it, and incidental prophets have the least, as they can only be understood during Still Sea. Poets pin bows to collarbones while prophets, lined in quiet columns, whisper burning psalms deep into the night. People say: a poet who hasn’t surrendered language to a baton is yet to be born. People think: an icebreaker who only bypasses ice is yet to come.
Morestaj
Morestaj se otkad je svijeta slavio triput: to je najrjeđi praznik. Kaže se: još se nije rodio onaj tko bi dvaput slušao takvu tišinu, a i da jest, jasno – odmah bi umro. Svejedno, najveća većina svih koji su ikad hodili vrištinom nije nikad vidjela Morestaj, a poznavati nekog toliko sretnog, ili čak biti s njime u rodu, smatra se nesvakidašnjom privilegijom. Jednako se privilegiranima drže i oni koji imaju grbu, roditelji koji su začeli mjesečara, psi i svi koji nikada nisu usnuli, no takvi u susjedstvu izmame u najboljem slučaju osmijeh. Prisustvo Morestaju podrazumijeva orden najvišeg reda i može se u svakom trenutku – na crnoj burzi – zamijeniti za jato strahova, ili lomaču koja nikad ne kasni. Od njega najviše koristi imaju pjesnici, a ponajmanje usputni proroci, jer ih je samo za Morestaja uopće moguće jasno razlučiti. Pjesnici pribiju mašne na ključne kosti, a proroci do dugo u noć šapuću goruće psalme, postrojeni u tihom špaliru. Kaže se: još se nije rodio pjesnik koji jezik nije predao batini. Misli se: još se nije rodio ledolomac, koji će led jednostavno zaobići.
Tableaux Vivants
I dream of a mail carriage driven by a shitfaced Char. Two horses, a wooden shaft, reins between an angel and an animal. I coach in the passenger seat, a shade more sober, but just as old. Char himself is as old as he was when he died: you could hardly make out the old Captain Alexandre in him; a firm landmark, a father figure to the shooting flocks of parachutes, the jock-starlings of nights. The carriage hauls a used-up bread oven. Turn of the century Paris suburbs fly by. The slums had been cleared so a châtelet or a robust, classical townhall could be built for magpies. In front of such a building a series of living paintings embody one after another: the fall of Bastille, the last supper, a still life dominated by a fruit basket. The apples represent curly heads of boys whose torsos, we suppose, hide in invisible double bottoms. There are no pears in the basket. Next to the shacks a flame rises from its dream, and a more animated, indomitably lively landscape seizes the paintings; at once the whole suburb turns into a sooty nightmare. It’ll be alright, everything will be OK! Drunk Char yells at the children. Then mutters to himself: but not for us; certainly not for us.
Tableaux Vivants
Sanjam poštansku kočiju, kojom upravlja trešten pijani Char. Dva konja, rudo, uzde između anđela i životinje. Putujem na suvozačevom sjedištu, tek nešto trjezniji, ali jednako star. Sam Char star je kao pred svoju smrt: jedva se u njemu može poznati kapetan Alexandre; čvrsti orijentir, očinska figura padobrancima koji nasrću u gustim jatima, večernjim navijačima čvorcima. Kočija prevozi rashodovanu krušnu peć. Promiču predgrađa Pariza s kraja stoljeća, straćare raskrčene ne bi li se ususret svrakama uzdigao kakav châtelet ili robusna, klasicistička upravna zgrada. Pred jednom takvom postavljene su žive slike koje utjelovljuju redom: pad Bastilje, posljednju večeru, mrtvu prirodu kojom dominira košara s voćem. Jabuke predstavljaju kovrčave glave dječaka, čija su torza, pretpostavimo, skrivena u nevidljivom dvostrukom dnu. Krušaka u košari naoko nema. Posred straćara iz svojeg sna ustaje oganj, pa slike osvaja još živahniji, upravo neukrotivo živi pejzaž; čitavo predgrađe pretvara se učas u čađav košmar. Bit će u redu, sve će biti OK! pijani Char dovikuje djeci. Zatim, sebi u bradu, dodaje: ali ne za nas; za nas, naravno, ne.