Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Chus Pato

The voice was panic

The voice was panic
and wanted, insisted on having its way in the poem
………………

but not everything can be transported (not the voice, obviously)

yes the spirit that invades the bard, between sharp briars

and because it’s raining, the poem’s inhabitants have to open their umbrellas // grab everything they brought in and run outside to find shelter

[only because you’ve stuck your nose in the text can I proceed to solutions]

this is what Mr. Amiable does, he makes alienated beings appear in the world and, much to his regret, as free persons

but only the voice fills the three tales
the voice that writing doesn’t cover

as such, a poet is an ancient being.

Instead of letting the world into the poem,
the poet kicks writing out, like a pleasant and transparent lava, muslin

all this sky
all this springtime

you see, this is a political act: wresting the will from all those who obey

but without context.

And where to write it down!, for paper doesn’t last and all that’s imaginable is a wall and the digital projection of letters (clearly in a museum or on freeway signs) or those same phrases looping the bodies of travellers as if with luminous sashes as they dialogue on the flight of birds or the hovering of falcons that blend in with the trees when they spread their wings like a nest

theory is that ethical violence of the intangible

and is the problem of the I, how many? and of situations

I prefer my panic on entering bookstores, leaving you behind, who abandon me everywhere, without money, or in the car with no handbrake. We visit a city to recall the edifices of cities

dreams are not theory, and now we’re stuck here because you’re loathe to wake up in this palace of privatized urbanization, alongside so many others whose condition we share. Tonight our murderers are drunk or shut in the toilet

once and for all, nothing hermetic, or cryptic (which we never write anyhow) and I send it into orbit, with all our splendid manures and heathers.

And do you notice how truth is sweeter when you linger shoeless, weightless?, in the placenta of alders

**

the synapses are back, the disquieting April flowering

De stem was paniek

De stem was paniek
en wenste, drong erop aan het gedicht te bewonen
.........................
 
maar niet alles kan worden getransporteerd (de stem natuurlijk niet)
 
wel de geest die in de dichter dringt, tussen de stijve boomheide
 
en omdat het regent moeten de bewoners van het gedicht hun paraplu’s openklappen // eruit halen wat erin zit en daarvoor buiten beschutting zoeken
 
[alleen omdat jij een blik werpt op de tekst kan ik met oplossingen beginnen]
 
dit is wat meneer Vriendelijk gedaan krijgt, ervoor zorgen dat vervreemde wezens zich aan de wereld presenteren en, tot zijn grote spijt, nog wel als vrije mensen
 
maar alleen de stem kan de drie verhalen opvullen
de stem die het schrijven geen bescherming biedt
 
een dichter is dus een oud wezen.
 
In plaats van de wereld in het gedicht binnen te laten
het schrijven eruit gooien, als een lichte, doorzichtige lava, mousseline
 
zo veel hemel
zo veel lente
 
weet je, dit is een politieke daad: de wil omdraaien van allen die gehoorzamen
 
wat ontbreekt is de context.
 
En wat te zeggen van de pijlers! Want papier is geen ondersteuning meer en denkbaar is alleen nog een muur en de projectie van digitale letters (vast en zeker in een museum en op de borden langs de snelweg) of dezelfde zinnen als lichtgevende linten om de lichamen van de weggebruikers die een gesprek voeren over de vlucht van de vogels of de krullen van de gieren die door hun schutkleur één worden met de bomen wanneer ze hun vleugels spreiden als een nest
 
theorie is dat ethische geweld van het onaanraakbare
 
en dan is er nog het probleem van het Ik, hoeveel? en van de situaties
 
ik verkies mijn paniek wanneer ik boekhandels binnenga en jou buitensluit, jij die mij overal alleen laat, zonder een cent, of in de auto zonder de handrem erop. We bezoeken een stad om ons de gebouwen in andere steden te herinneren
 
dromen zijn geen theorie, en nu moeten we hier blijven omdat jij niet wakker wilt worden in dit privénieuwbouwpaleis, waar veel mannen en vrouwen in dezelfde situatie verkeren als wij. Vanavond zijn onze moordenaars dronken of zitten opgesloten op het toilet
 
voor eens en voor altijd niets hermetisch of cryptisch (zo schrijven we trouwens niet) en ik ga het nu lanceren, samen met al onze prachtige bossen en bremstruiken.
 
En moet je zien hoe zoet de waarheid wordt wanneer je op blote voeten, gewichtloos? in de placenta van de berken blijft
 
**
 
de synapsen keren terug, de onrustbarende opbloei in april.

A voz era pánico
e desexaba, insistía, ter hábito(s) no poema
.........................

pero non todo pode ser transportado (non a voz, desde logo)

si o espírito que invade ao bardo, entre as uces irtas

e porque chove, os habitantes do poema teñen que abrir os seus paraugas // sacan o que levan dentro e búscanlle acomodo fóra

[só porque ti pousas a mirada no texto podo comezar coas solucións]

isto é o que consegue Cabaleiro Amábel, facer que seres alienados se presenten ante o mundo, e moi ao seu pesar, como persoas ceibes

pero só a voz empasta as tres historias
a voz que a escritura non acubilla

así pois, un poeta é un ser ancián.

Máis que entrar o mundo dentro do poema
botar por fóra a escritura, como unha lava lene e transparente, muselina

tanto ceo
tanta primavera

ves, isto é un acto político: torcerlles a vontade aos que obedecen

pero falta o contexto.

E que dicir dos soportes!, cando xa o papel non atura e só é concibíbel unha parede e a proxección de letras dixitais (seguramente nun museo ou nos paneis da autoestrada) ou esas mesmas frases envolvendo como cintas luminosas os corpos dos viandantes que dialogan sobre o voar das aves ou os bucles dos miñatos que se mimetizan coas árbores cando estenden as ás coma un niño

a teoría é esa violencia ética do intanxíbel

e está o problema do eu, cantos? e das situacións

prefiro o meu pánico a entrar nas librerías, excluíndote a ti, que me abandonas en calquera lugar, sen cartos, ou dentro do coche sen freo de man. Visitamos unha cidade para lembrar os edificios das cidades

os soños non son teoría, e agora temos que quedar aquí porque ti non queres espertar, neste palacete de urbanización privada, con outros moitos e moitas da nosa condición. Esta noite os nosos asasinos están bébedos ou pechados no váter

dunha vez para sempre nada hermético, nin críptico (que nunca nosoutros escribimos) e pono xa en órbita, con todos os nosos espléndidos matos e carqueixas.

E fíxate como se torna doce a verdade, cando descalza te mantés, ingrávida? na placenta dos amieiros

**

as sinapses volven, a inquietante floración de abril
Close

The voice was panic

The voice was panic
and wanted, insisted on having its way in the poem
………………

but not everything can be transported (not the voice, obviously)

yes the spirit that invades the bard, between sharp briars

and because it’s raining, the poem’s inhabitants have to open their umbrellas // grab everything they brought in and run outside to find shelter

[only because you’ve stuck your nose in the text can I proceed to solutions]

this is what Mr. Amiable does, he makes alienated beings appear in the world and, much to his regret, as free persons

but only the voice fills the three tales
the voice that writing doesn’t cover

as such, a poet is an ancient being.

Instead of letting the world into the poem,
the poet kicks writing out, like a pleasant and transparent lava, muslin

all this sky
all this springtime

you see, this is a political act: wresting the will from all those who obey

but without context.

And where to write it down!, for paper doesn’t last and all that’s imaginable is a wall and the digital projection of letters (clearly in a museum or on freeway signs) or those same phrases looping the bodies of travellers as if with luminous sashes as they dialogue on the flight of birds or the hovering of falcons that blend in with the trees when they spread their wings like a nest

theory is that ethical violence of the intangible

and is the problem of the I, how many? and of situations

I prefer my panic on entering bookstores, leaving you behind, who abandon me everywhere, without money, or in the car with no handbrake. We visit a city to recall the edifices of cities

dreams are not theory, and now we’re stuck here because you’re loathe to wake up in this palace of privatized urbanization, alongside so many others whose condition we share. Tonight our murderers are drunk or shut in the toilet

once and for all, nothing hermetic, or cryptic (which we never write anyhow) and I send it into orbit, with all our splendid manures and heathers.

And do you notice how truth is sweeter when you linger shoeless, weightless?, in the placenta of alders

**

the synapses are back, the disquieting April flowering

The voice was panic

The voice was panic
and wanted, insisted on having its way in the poem
………………

but not everything can be transported (not the voice, obviously)

yes the spirit that invades the bard, between sharp briars

and because it’s raining, the poem’s inhabitants have to open their umbrellas // grab everything they brought in and run outside to find shelter

[only because you’ve stuck your nose in the text can I proceed to solutions]

this is what Mr. Amiable does, he makes alienated beings appear in the world and, much to his regret, as free persons

but only the voice fills the three tales
the voice that writing doesn’t cover

as such, a poet is an ancient being.

Instead of letting the world into the poem,
the poet kicks writing out, like a pleasant and transparent lava, muslin

all this sky
all this springtime

you see, this is a political act: wresting the will from all those who obey

but without context.

And where to write it down!, for paper doesn’t last and all that’s imaginable is a wall and the digital projection of letters (clearly in a museum or on freeway signs) or those same phrases looping the bodies of travellers as if with luminous sashes as they dialogue on the flight of birds or the hovering of falcons that blend in with the trees when they spread their wings like a nest

theory is that ethical violence of the intangible

and is the problem of the I, how many? and of situations

I prefer my panic on entering bookstores, leaving you behind, who abandon me everywhere, without money, or in the car with no handbrake. We visit a city to recall the edifices of cities

dreams are not theory, and now we’re stuck here because you’re loathe to wake up in this palace of privatized urbanization, alongside so many others whose condition we share. Tonight our murderers are drunk or shut in the toilet

once and for all, nothing hermetic, or cryptic (which we never write anyhow) and I send it into orbit, with all our splendid manures and heathers.

And do you notice how truth is sweeter when you linger shoeless, weightless?, in the placenta of alders

**

the synapses are back, the disquieting April flowering
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