Selected
Poems by Jan Vladislav, translation by Madelaine Hron |
Jan Vladislav (born 1923) is one of the leading figures of the Charta
77, the Czech dissident movement during the totalitarian communist period
in Czechoslovakia. Best known as a political and intellectual essayist,
Jan Vladislav is also a reputed translator (of such varied works as Shakespeare,
Michelangelo, Dante, Rilke, Michaux, Machado, Eliot) but also, as manifested
in these poems, he also proves to be a captivating poet. Selection from Sentences I 6. Nothing moved here not even a sob. Nothing was heard here not even a leaf. Nothing alighted here not even a tree. Nothing cracked here not even a bird. But the water of time, that drowns the hollows of eyes, that fills the stem of desire, and flushes the bile of love, that water has stilled. So as to draw up a handful, so as to draw up tears, so as to wash the body for burial. 13. With the fist instead of the throat you cannot speak, let alone beautifully. With the heart instead of the fist you cannot grab, you cannot grasp. And so you shuffle around, you shove around this red hot iron they gave you without asking. So many lives possible, such a crying shame that you can't live them all. So many lives, that you choke, that you can't live even this one. Regret holds you back, From glimpsing in that window where, by lamplight, an other's fate strips naked. Each of these muscles, each fold on this frame, is a mark of glory, a trace of your finger, drenched in the dark. A switch suffices to return it all there. So many lives possible, and each drawn in such detail-- what a crying shame. Each of these muscles, each fold on this frame, is a mark of glory, and for only an instant, full of wonder, full of love, of regret, you take pause, everything returns to the drizzling dark. With the fist instead of the throat you cannot scream, let alone -- (Lives) Selection from Sentences II 9. Now you know how it goes, now you know: you strip naked, but you needn't, they'll strip us all, anyhow; you lie down as if to sleep, but you needn't, they'll lay us all, anyhow; you pick up the phone, but you needn't, they'll all hear it, anyhow. Now you know how it goes, now you know what you've been doing year by year, day by day: "I thought I am learning to live, and yet, I am learning to die." You strip naked, you lie down as if to sleep, you cast your mask that, in three days, will be rot. (Little Requiem) Selection from Sicilian Fragments II 1. Instead of it all, some grains of sand, some light-years and the source at Chaos' depths-- again you return to it; always do you return to it; never did you leave it; only your eyes had emerged in the sunlight drowned; drifting in the distance on the stream arms crossed in the flow of flows-- again you return to it, never did you leave it only your eyes perceived that arm fluttering amidst the dunes-- Only the source at Chaos' depths, some grains of sand instead of it all. Nothing but a door which you name-- you. 2. Hesitating foot in search of a threshold. Hesitating hand in search of a key. Hesitating head, which knows of a rock, which, by a single step, topples into void. Already you are there already you wobble here and there here and there already you sink some grains of sand some light-years away from the source of Chaos' depths. 6. What the blind do not see, what the deaf do not hear, courses through all being, through dozens of openings, millions of pores, temples, bones - with sand which waits within you and, already, grinds lightly at the slightest touch. What the blind do not see, what the deaf do not hear, permeates everything, drifting in it, floating in it, finding shelter in it; in it, the path above and below is the same. Instead of it all some grains of sand some light-years and the source, Her, whence the path up above and below is the same. Selections from Wind In The Trees The Tree's Memory Tired of the grafts, that in his youth the growers had forced on him, the trunk of the old cherry tree suddenly remembered the scorching suns, the floods of waters, the tempests, breezes, wild beasts and birds of passage of limitless expanses, from where he came. And in his untameable desire of everything he let sleep for so long, he burst through the bark beyond all grafts by his own growth. "Sucker!" cry the growers and they hack down the new shoot at its very root, even before it could flower and bear a single fruit, bitter and crimson in the blood of love. Biology Research has proven that even a wingless aphid develops wings in the autumn and, borne by the wind, it infallibly returns to the tree of its ancestors, to its wedding games, after which, it dies. But the eggs which it has laid, endure, without blemish, even in the colds of Siberia. Research on bullfinches has likewise proven that their song has a gamut of dialects by which each brood safely recognizes its close and distant relatives. But a bullfinch brought up in absolute isolation never learns to sing. Where is, oh soul, the tree of your ancestors, that, in autumn, you do not grow wings? Who brought you up, oh heart, that you sing so poorly? The Seasons of the Year What have you done to me? Just yesterday you, in your child hand stained by the milk of the first dandelions, carried birdlings fallen out of their nest, and you did not want to believe that there is also death. What have you done to me? Just yesterday you pressed yourself for the first time with a stifled groan, with lacerating giddiness, your whole body to that other body, and you were sure that already, you know everything. What have you done to me? Today you stand like a tree in December: its beautiful head torn ruthlessly by the wind, legs grown over by the ivy of old veins and still, you do not want to believe, that it is time. What have you done to me? The Wind in the Trees A few trees still defend their colours, green, yellow, crimson, and caput mortuum, the drying blood of their wounds. Others have already given it up, and they are but brooms, impaled in their path by furious witches. All night, you heard their sabbath behind the window and their naked bodies did not cease tormenting you until the bleary morn; illusions of that which was but isn't; that which could have been, but wasn't. Selections from Six Dry Needles for Jíri John 3. Cold muzzles of beasts of which is left but bone, blackened sketches of trees against the night's unknown, the rasping call of love from smouldering woods and fields, a sky of squawking gulls, above the tractor driver, there, on the very horizon of the world, this all stands still awaiting your eye. 6. Never will you leave this sphere. Never will you sate this hunger of the scorched retina of the senses on which burns, uncertainly, the searing flame of the soul. Before you find that house, whose window once beckoned in the mist, it will have extinguished its smouldering wick. And so always blindly will you draw, with that finger by darkness burned; and all that you will give of is your victory, your song, some sounds which, by chance, will mingle your dust with the dust of stars. |
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