TRIADA
Vladislav УHezayanyФ Atanasov
english version, rousse, 1997
artists:
Ivan Ivanov Ц Joanni
Alex Petkov
translation:
Ivan Simeonov Ц John
INLET
When Hope keeps hovering
within the hollow of the ribs,
one of them detaches,
getting clad in flesh and Light.
The pelvic grate allows me not
to penetrate inside,
except for River Life
that''s flowing in -
the little orb grows up
in Royal crimson warmth.
A SPROUTED SIGN
Born to insight-lacking minds,
Before you I do stand;
The memory
of my inception shudders-
that rumination
delves upon its bark.
I am devoured
in its strains
(that moisture but I need).
Within the narrow boxes
of the bodies
taut tongues and Phalli
search for me.
Those hands are much familiar to you -
They follow
white and beaten tracks,
leading to a destination terminus -
to that apocalypse
of Johna`s Mysticism -
much more reliable than feet
which have been through
that multitude of pronging paths
of our Holy Circle.
I germinate
both dauntless and romantic,
me - the sufferer;
My smile -
much more indifferent
than a guillotine might be,
which reads the justice and austere vacuity
within the wrinkles of the napes
in that down-pressing silence,
invading all the recent distances thus formed.
Those hands I know so well,
the way all people to promises accustomed do -
when stretching out a hand
to be either shaken
or be given alms
and often kissing it
in their sleep
and moisten it
with non-existing tears
of the raped
orationТs
sprouted
sign.
AN ATTEMPT TO GET
FROM POINT ''Eye'' TO ''B(e)''
(in ENTROPY FAIR)
THE DISTANCE BEING DIMINUTIVE
When there''s no questions and people with you
to show you the way
to the thrice renowned Constantinople,
you get some bits from my wisdom
to appease the maze of your feet.
Take heed of my words
which summon you to climb the beard
of the Wandering Jew,
and up there among the boughs and roots
to find УThe Three Smiling ThresholdsФ
that can imbue life to any dead man.
Follow the labyrinth
outlined within the ear.
Rabbit or hare,
you go bouncing along the meanders
that are clownishly lefting and righting.
But they''re not scales
for they recede like sand
running out down
through the fingers;
But they''re not even an hour-glass
for you move up and down
not depending on them,
and you''ll see everything simultaneously,
when,
smaller than fleas,
a nose and beak will aim at you.
While your palms
(with their 28 phalanges)
stick to the back of Mr Candy Cloud!
and the sounds do yell
riding peeled-off horses.
You look up to the paper sun,
and, if the blue moon has shaded it,
run for the door.
There''s dusk and darkness.
If you need to meet Leviathan
on your wayЕ
forget about my words.
HOLDING YOU
~Mournful sobs at one''s grave mound,
no matter whose,
filled up the cups
of your ultimate, forlorn lands,
to which you''ve got your
beaten tracks.
~And I badly need to mourn, while,
in a Machine,
the world is wearing out
that 20th century reel,
among the fading frames
of love-lacking sunrises and sunsets,
wrapped up in heroic stench
of statues of towns
with mousy streets
and old, freezing sparrows;
~Rageful, I hustle among
the throng of seers-off,
I do adorn them with the mourning bands,
~Giving a thought of HE who holds
our penes fixed and stuck
(by means of that BULGARICUS type wire)
to our bodies;
~Again I think of earthenware pots
(in the form of hearts),
of the laborious mole;
Oh, is it a time to live,
being busy bidding farewell
to all calendar dates?
~R. I. P., our debtors Ц
our dearest uncles and aunts Цare buried;
though t`was just a day agothey did make us laugh
at their being either clumsy, or,too vigorous and tough.
~And I bring them bouquets,
wrapped up in dead news, following your beaten track
(establishing for me oration
pattern)
while the MOURN itself
~Presses down and slaughters
that live sacraments, the way my granny-ma-in-law
used to slaughter chickens
on that chopping log
black and soggy with blood.
THE MAN WHO GREW BONSAI
The fire licks the tender sapless womb
of the fireplace (set Westwards)in this house,
built at the time of the last prairie Indians.
Its light and idle crackle
hugs the shoulders of the man
sitting by the window,
and, outside
in the sky''s aquarium,
the birds seem
unnaturally cold and big,
as the man''s hands are,
with disemboweled, gaping wrists,
cuffed in the curdled stream
of parched blood -
the ideal food
for bonsai,
crazy with hunger.
VERSE 25
She came to my abode;
Sat down on my sofa;
Petted my cat, and,
asked me to give her some name.
УShe''s got her nameФ I said,
УShe''s called DADФ.
УDAD?Ф she goggled up,
her eyes flapping with ease,
like butterfly''s pinions.
УFather, Dad, Daddy... Yes!Ф I shouted.
УDead he is and I''m his sonФ.
УSon?Ф, now her delectable eyelids
moved like little baby palms.
УHeТs my sonФ, says God;
УAnd whose son am I,
If I have no Dad of my own?Ф
(Her eyes waved hurriedly!)
Then she got up from my sofa
And embraced my knees:
УI do love you like sister,
like brother, fathers and death,
like eternity, and freely singing bird...
But what''s my name?
Name me!
My lovely, Give me a NAME!Ф.
ELISA
Amidst a sandy sun
two children, golden-eyed Сre playing,
secluded by a knoll of grinded perpetuity;
They slowly creep upwards
towards its very summit;
The knee-deep sea does multiply
to where it meets the sky
beneath the sea-mewТs wings Ц
commingle molten voices Ц
cool surge rollers squabble
with the summer''s wax-work figures.
...Contorted by pleasure
their faces swarm in profusion
reflected by the bits of glass,
battered by a giant,
crunching underneath the feet...
I see those kids in black and white;
The final step''s preceded by silence;
GRANDEMALISSIMO!
Their eyes have met the points of steel.
Captured in the fury''s casting-net
both are tossed from
Heavens down to Hell.
I endeavor to cry out
УElisa, Elisa...Ф
striving to untie with the help of shuddering words,
the tenderness of my own tongue
and thus to just call for defense, and,
(damned white shielded by quills)
it seems those angels,
clung to one-another
on the knoll,
have come to see my body off -
it has been shown its way -
which after /.../ years
of reproaches and hints
would lie in the all-men propitious dust
under the drum-like rumbling
elisan rain.
LITTLE MARIA
Little Maria''s nose is running -
brown phlegm of molten putrefied stars
died sometime in the timeless past.
So little Maria
is joyfully spreading
this easy-trapped prey
on her little pink nose.
While somewhere -
in the open navel
of the eternity -
where the sun is Min,
and Jonah is the Moon,
the dead children crave to play
with joyous Myra.
And if I had a sevenfold laughter,
I would indulge in the fun
with children and lions,
that ride each-other in turn
within the game''s drawn squares.
EXTIRPATION
No Mystery''s the reason
for your desire for no reason to desert
but you seek desertion that''ll sing
like a little birdie having puked
a poisonous grain.
No Mystery is secret
within the sunset''s split into black cells
amidst the womb of the vacuity
where a storm-beaten aged whale
is being gnawed away by sands
from the outside to the core.
No Mystery is secret
within the aura of the brain
condemned to getting dull
when the spirit by mortality is touched
and is turned into a salty crystal drained.
No Mystery is secret.
You''re beseeching mercy
for your endless highways
along which blood and voice
do pass each-other
when the sharpened blade
does perilously
fall.
ANGEL Ц II
The corpse is breathless,
standing on the threshold Ц
its head against a wall of eternity Ц
buried under crystals of silence,
their mewing sticks
to the bare nape and massy hands
of a hot-cake seller.
On all sides, the cold has clamped,
in a perfect screw-press,
that quantity of meat and bones,
whose soul, so much obese,
with shaky thighs
flows Northwards in the skies,
to where the blaze raging flame
of that maw is.
ST.HEZAYANY`S PRAYER
Grand! The town of the Ezekiel`s, though,
Obscurely, try to imagine;
DonТt keep the prophecies
Inside you;
Share your impressions with everyone;
To Him, who has guarded you with
Hope that angelically you will trumpet your repentance,
Eager to wake up your debtors with smile, of course you be debtor, too,
Release your brotherТs hands;
Eternal Peace and Love be with you wretched people!
EXODUS
Barefooted on the threshold
I stand stretching out freezing hand;
All I''ve been through collapses behind
in a fit of mourn - all now I find.
триада
алекс петков: триада, 1997
йоаний: триада, 1997
има ли къртицата очи
tarows of madness & children
|
