Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Bakhyt Kenzjejev

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me,
who, myopic and careful since birth,
zealously sought, like that Argentine bookworm,
to find in the library of existence one truth
out of those that lie dormant in earth,
in salt quarries, in love\'s moisture. That truth
did exist: it shone while melting away.
Maybe for that reason he, a polygamous prince
of light, a lover of heavenly bodies, a miser at times,
sly as a fox at times, but also an author, all his life
wanted to write a totally different book in which
a jagged wave in prostration breaks,
a lapis lazuli evening in Russian screams,
the sand soars up from the living floor of the sea,
the blind, scared molluscs open their folds,
timidly trying to grasp what is out there, in the world
(a rook? a crook? a creek?), and to flatter God
in dumb humility strain
the moist rudiments of their brain. O man,
follow suit, insist and claim: the light blue
has ceded place to the inky tint, the breast
shelters but an empty shell that seems
to be prodding the prodigal blood of the surf.
. . . gradually he grows decrepit, with no complaints;
absent-minded, turns up the collar of his coat,
breathes the dank wind under a clock. As he stands
under the round dial, under a cross, he knows:
no one will ever read the cherished tome.
No one, for that matter, will ever write it.

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me

Hij was het, herhaal ik, hij, niet ik,
die altijd kippig was en staarde,
die nijver poogde in de bieb van het bestaan,
gelijk de Argentijnse bibliothecaris,
de waarheid te ontdekken, uit talloos
vele, die in de aarde slapen, als mijnzout
of als liefdesvocht. Ze bestond.
En ze straalde, kwijnend. Is het daarom
dat vrouwengek, of lichtvorst, sterrenfan,
soms sluwe vos is, soms een vuile krent,
ook zelf een boekenmaker is, zijn leven lang
een heel ander boek te schrijven zocht, –
waarin de ruwe golf plat op zijn bek gaat,
de azuren bries in het Russisch krijst
en het zand van de levende bodem spoelt,
waarop blinde, angstvallige weekdieren
hun schalen openen, bang om te begrijpen
dat de wereld de roos? het meer? de roede? kent –
hun kleffe hersenkiem afpijnigen
en God vol holle nederigheid behagen.
Bevestig in hun spoor, mijn beste man:
het hemelsblauw verloor van het inktzwart,
alleen de loze borstschelp lijkt
het hoerenbloed der branding op te stuwen.
… hij wordt langzaam ouder, zonder murmureren,
zet machinaal de kraag op van zijn regenjas
en ademt waterkoude wind in onder een klok.
Onder een ronde klok, onder een kruis,
wel zeker wetend: dat droomboek
zal niemand lezen. Schrijven evenmin.

Это он, повторю, это он, не я,
близорук и пристален был от века,
рьяно тщась в библиотеке бытия,
словно тот аргентинский библиотекарь,
обнаружить истину, из числа
тех, что спят в земле, и рудничной соли,
и любовной влаге. Она была.
И сияла, тая. Не оттого ли
многоженец, князь света, любитель небесных тел,
иногда хитрец, иногда сквалыга,
да и сам сочинитель книг, он всю жизнь хотел
написать совершенно другую книгу, –
где неровная падает ниц волна,
лазуритовый ветер кричит по-русски,
и песок взмывает с живого дна,
где слепые, напуганные моллюски
раскрывают створки, страшась понять,
что там, в мире, роза? озеро? розга? –
и глухой покорностью Богу льстят,
напрягая влажный зачаток мозга.
Вслед за ними, мил-человек, тверди:
уступило чернильному голубое,
лишь пустая раковина в груди
будто гонит блудную кровь прибоя.
. . . он ветшает медленно, не ропща,
машинально подняв воротник плаща,
под часами ветром промозглым дышит.
Под часами круглыми, под крестом,
достоверно зная: заветный том
не прочтет никто. Да и не напишет.
Close

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me,
who, myopic and careful since birth,
zealously sought, like that Argentine bookworm,
to find in the library of existence one truth
out of those that lie dormant in earth,
in salt quarries, in love\'s moisture. That truth
did exist: it shone while melting away.
Maybe for that reason he, a polygamous prince
of light, a lover of heavenly bodies, a miser at times,
sly as a fox at times, but also an author, all his life
wanted to write a totally different book in which
a jagged wave in prostration breaks,
a lapis lazuli evening in Russian screams,
the sand soars up from the living floor of the sea,
the blind, scared molluscs open their folds,
timidly trying to grasp what is out there, in the world
(a rook? a crook? a creek?), and to flatter God
in dumb humility strain
the moist rudiments of their brain. O man,
follow suit, insist and claim: the light blue
has ceded place to the inky tint, the breast
shelters but an empty shell that seems
to be prodding the prodigal blood of the surf.
. . . gradually he grows decrepit, with no complaints;
absent-minded, turns up the collar of his coat,
breathes the dank wind under a clock. As he stands
under the round dial, under a cross, he knows:
no one will ever read the cherished tome.
No one, for that matter, will ever write it.

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me

He was the one, I repeat, he, not me,
who, myopic and careful since birth,
zealously sought, like that Argentine bookworm,
to find in the library of existence one truth
out of those that lie dormant in earth,
in salt quarries, in love\'s moisture. That truth
did exist: it shone while melting away.
Maybe for that reason he, a polygamous prince
of light, a lover of heavenly bodies, a miser at times,
sly as a fox at times, but also an author, all his life
wanted to write a totally different book in which
a jagged wave in prostration breaks,
a lapis lazuli evening in Russian screams,
the sand soars up from the living floor of the sea,
the blind, scared molluscs open their folds,
timidly trying to grasp what is out there, in the world
(a rook? a crook? a creek?), and to flatter God
in dumb humility strain
the moist rudiments of their brain. O man,
follow suit, insist and claim: the light blue
has ceded place to the inky tint, the breast
shelters but an empty shell that seems
to be prodding the prodigal blood of the surf.
. . . gradually he grows decrepit, with no complaints;
absent-minded, turns up the collar of his coat,
breathes the dank wind under a clock. As he stands
under the round dial, under a cross, he knows:
no one will ever read the cherished tome.
No one, for that matter, will ever write it.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
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