Poem
Valzhyna Mort
Jean-Paul Belmondo
It begins with your face of a stonewhere lips repose like two seals
in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke
you move through the streets –
listing them
is as useless as naming waves.
(That city is so handsome for a reason –
it was made out of your rib)
It continues with my
skidmarked-by-a-dress
body. I stand on the border
on heels like my sixth toes
and show you
where to park.
That very night
lying together
in the dog’s yard
– flowers are biting my back! –
you whisper:
the longer I look on the coins of your nipples –
the clearer I see the Queen’s profile.
For you, body and money are the same
as the chicken and the egg.
The metaphor of “a woman’s purse”
escapes you.
Stealing, you like to mumble:
a purse is a purse is a purse is a purse.
Also:
a real purse in your hand is worth
two metaphorical purses over your mouth.
They tell me
you are a body
anchored to the shore by its rusting blood.
Your wound darkens on your chest like a crow.
I tell them – as agreed – that you are my youth.
An apple that bit into me to forget its own knowledge.
Death hands you every new day like a golden coin.
As the bribe grows
it gets harder to turn it down.
Your heart of gold gets heavier to carry.
Your hands know that a car has a waist
and a gun – a lobe.
You take me where the river once lifted its skirts
and God, abashed with that view,
ordered to cover that shame with a city.
Its dance square
shrank by the darkness to the size
of a sleeping infant’s slightly open mouth.
I cannot tell between beggars’ stretched hands
and dogs’ dripping tongues.
You cannot tell between legs –
mine – tables’ – chairs’ – others’.
That dance square is a cage
where accordions grin at dismembered violin torsos.
Beggars lick thin air off their lips.
Women whirling in salsa slash you
across the chest with the blades
of their skirts soiled with peonies.
© Translation: 2008, Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
From: Factory of Tears
From: Factory of Tears
JEAN-PAUL BELMONDO
Alles begint met de steen van uw gezichtwaarop als twee zeehonden uw lippen liggen
in een zeemist van sigarettenrook
u beweegt door de straten –
waarvan een opsomming
even zinloos is als een naam geven aan de golven.
(Niet voor niets is deze stad zo wit –
ze werd uit een van uw ribben gemaakt)
Alles zet zich voort
in mijn door een jurk
gestreepte lichaam. Ik sta op de stoeprand
op hakken
die mijn zesde teen zijn geworden
en wijs
waar u moet parkeren.
Diezelfde nacht
terwijl wij samen
in het hondenpark liggen
– de bloemen prikken in mijn rug! –
fluistert u:
hoe langer ik naar de munten van je tepels kijk
hoe duidelijker ik daarin het profiel van de koningin ontwaar.
Voor u zijn een lichaam en een muntstuk
zoiets als een kip en een ei.
Door de metafoor ‘damesbeursje’
raakt u volkomen van de wijs.
U haalt de munten naar zich toe en declameert:
een beursje is een beursje is een beursje.
En verder:
beter één echt beursje in de hand
dan tien figuurlijke in de lucht.
Ze vertellen mij dat u slechts een lichaam bent
verankerd in zijn roestige bloed.
Met een zwarte wond op de borst als een kraai.
Ik zeg – zoals wij afspraken – dat u mijn jeugd bent.
Een appel die mij beet om niets meer te weten.
De dood overhandigt u een nieuwe dag als een gouden munt.
Hoe meer deze steekpenning groeit
des te moeilijker het wordt om die te weigeren
en des te dieper trekt de zwaarte van je gouden hart je omlaag.
Uw handen weten waar bij een auto de taille zit
en bij een pistool – het oorlelletje.
U brengt mij daarheen
waar ooit de rivier voor God haar onderjurk omhoog deed
en God, geschokt door wat hij zag,
beval deze schande met een stad toe te dekken.
Haar dansvloer is
door het donker gekrompen en niet groter
dan de halfopen mond van een slapend kind.
Ik verwar de uitgestrekte handen van een bedelaar
met hondentongen, druipend van de kwijl.
U kijkt naar de benen:
van mij – de tafels – de stoelen – anderen.
Haar dansvloer is een kooi
waar accordeons grijzen naar de kreupele lichamen van de violen.
Bedelaars likken van hun lippen de schaarse lucht.
De vrouwen, wervelend in een salsa, laten
over uw borst het scherp wapperen van hun
onderjurken, gevlekt met pioenen.
© Vertaling: 2009, Roel Schuyt
ЖАН-ПОЛЬ БЕЛЬМАНДО
Усё пачынаецца з камню вашага тваруна якім вусны ляжаць як два цюлені
у прыбярэжнай імгле цыгарэтнага дыму
вы рушыце праз вуліцы
пералічваць якія –
усё роўна што даваць назвы марскім хвалям.
(Гэты горад такі белы нездарма –
яго зрабілі з вашага рабра.)
Усё працягваецца маім
спаласаным сукенкай
целам. Я стаю на краю тратуара
на абцасах
што сталі мне шостым пальцам
і паказваю
дзе прыпаркавацца.
Той жа ноччу
лежачы разам
у парку для сабак
– кветкі кусаюць маю сьпіну! –
вы шапчаце:
чым дольш я гляжу на манэты тваіх саскоў
тым ясней на іх бачу профіль Каралевы.
Цела і грошы для вас –
быццам яйка і курыца.
Мэтафара “жаночага кашальку”
страшна зьбіе вас з панталыку.
Сьцягваючы грошы вы дэкламуеце:
кашалёк гэта кашалёк гэта кашалёк гэта кашалёк.
І яшчэ:
лепш трымаць сапраўдны кашалёк у руках
чым пераносны кашалёк – над галавою.
Мне кажуць што вы – толькі цела
заякаранае сваёй заржавелай крывёю.
Рана чарнее на вашых грудзях бы крумкач.
Я кажу – як дамовіліся – вы – мая маладосць.
Яблык што ўкусіў мяне каб нічога ня ведаць.
Смерць новы дзень вам уручае як залатую манэту.
Чым больш расьце гэты хабар
тым цяжэй ад яго адмаўляцца
тым ніжэй вас прагінае вага залатога сэрцу.
Вашыя рукі ведаюць дзе ў машыны талія
дзе ў пісталета – мочка.
Вы прывозіце мяне туды
дзе некалі рака задрала перад Богам спадніцу
і Бог зьбянтэжаны ад пабачанага
загадаў прыкрыць тый сорам горадам.
Яго танцавальная плошча
цемрай зьменшаная да памеру
крыху прыадкрытага роту сьпячага дзіцяці.
Я блытаю працягнутыя жабрацкія рукі
з языкамі сабакаў кроплячымі сьлінай.
Вы гладзіце ногі:
мае, сталоў, стульляў, іншых.
Яго танцавальная плошча – гэта клетка
дзе акардэоны скаляць зубы пакалечаным целам скрыпакаў.
Жабракі злізваюць з вуснаў рэдкае паветра.
Жанчыны што круцяцца ў сальса палошчуць
вас праз грудзі лязом сваіх
спадніцаў выпацканых ў півонях.
© 2008, Valzhyna Mort
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press,
From: Factory of Tears
Publisher: Copper Canyon Press,
Poems
Poems of Valzhyna Mort
Close
Jean-Paul Belmondo
It begins with your face of a stonewhere lips repose like two seals
in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke
you move through the streets –
listing them
is as useless as naming waves.
(That city is so handsome for a reason –
it was made out of your rib)
It continues with my
skidmarked-by-a-dress
body. I stand on the border
on heels like my sixth toes
and show you
where to park.
That very night
lying together
in the dog’s yard
– flowers are biting my back! –
you whisper:
the longer I look on the coins of your nipples –
the clearer I see the Queen’s profile.
For you, body and money are the same
as the chicken and the egg.
The metaphor of “a woman’s purse”
escapes you.
Stealing, you like to mumble:
a purse is a purse is a purse is a purse.
Also:
a real purse in your hand is worth
two metaphorical purses over your mouth.
They tell me
you are a body
anchored to the shore by its rusting blood.
Your wound darkens on your chest like a crow.
I tell them – as agreed – that you are my youth.
An apple that bit into me to forget its own knowledge.
Death hands you every new day like a golden coin.
As the bribe grows
it gets harder to turn it down.
Your heart of gold gets heavier to carry.
Your hands know that a car has a waist
and a gun – a lobe.
You take me where the river once lifted its skirts
and God, abashed with that view,
ordered to cover that shame with a city.
Its dance square
shrank by the darkness to the size
of a sleeping infant’s slightly open mouth.
I cannot tell between beggars’ stretched hands
and dogs’ dripping tongues.
You cannot tell between legs –
mine – tables’ – chairs’ – others’.
That dance square is a cage
where accordions grin at dismembered violin torsos.
Beggars lick thin air off their lips.
Women whirling in salsa slash you
across the chest with the blades
of their skirts soiled with peonies.
© 2008, Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
From: Factory of Tears
From: Factory of Tears
Jean-Paul Belmondo
It begins with your face of a stonewhere lips repose like two seals
in a coastal mist of cigarette smoke
you move through the streets –
listing them
is as useless as naming waves.
(That city is so handsome for a reason –
it was made out of your rib)
It continues with my
skidmarked-by-a-dress
body. I stand on the border
on heels like my sixth toes
and show you
where to park.
That very night
lying together
in the dog’s yard
– flowers are biting my back! –
you whisper:
the longer I look on the coins of your nipples –
the clearer I see the Queen’s profile.
For you, body and money are the same
as the chicken and the egg.
The metaphor of “a woman’s purse”
escapes you.
Stealing, you like to mumble:
a purse is a purse is a purse is a purse.
Also:
a real purse in your hand is worth
two metaphorical purses over your mouth.
They tell me
you are a body
anchored to the shore by its rusting blood.
Your wound darkens on your chest like a crow.
I tell them – as agreed – that you are my youth.
An apple that bit into me to forget its own knowledge.
Death hands you every new day like a golden coin.
As the bribe grows
it gets harder to turn it down.
Your heart of gold gets heavier to carry.
Your hands know that a car has a waist
and a gun – a lobe.
You take me where the river once lifted its skirts
and God, abashed with that view,
ordered to cover that shame with a city.
Its dance square
shrank by the darkness to the size
of a sleeping infant’s slightly open mouth.
I cannot tell between beggars’ stretched hands
and dogs’ dripping tongues.
You cannot tell between legs –
mine – tables’ – chairs’ – others’.
That dance square is a cage
where accordions grin at dismembered violin torsos.
Beggars lick thin air off their lips.
Women whirling in salsa slash you
across the chest with the blades
of their skirts soiled with peonies.
© 2008, Valzhyna Mort, Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright
From: Factory of Tears
From: Factory of Tears
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