Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Chus Pato

What matters isn’t what I could feel

What matters isn’t what I could feel, but the real existence of the house and that dreams resided there; most are chapters, sections of novels: some hard-to-solve murder, shots fired by the vice-consul in Lahore, Lowry’s volcanoes… unfold like atmospheric phenomena, all-encompassing, and despite belonging to literature they emit no sound but luminous epiphanies of pure pigmentation like the installations of Anish Kapoor

when I arrived I hoped to find my sister and brother comrades. No, the house isn’t abandoned, between us everything was a cyclone of blood and totem

there are other perspectives, of course

*

if in the building I’ll never meet my brothers and sisters of influence, if I can enter and leave, cope with its antarctic desolation, if I know its dreams, what’s next?

if I can access what is generated when the construction shuts its eyes, am I this house?

but when I recognized the dreams I was nearby, at the edge

I investigate and expose the map’s clandestine direction

as a young woman I went out repeatedly with a man to watch Sam Peckinpah movies. I detested those movies

the clandestine direction comes when the executioners decide

of conjugal union for example

clearly the poem isn’t going to reveal the hidden action of its cells

that burst in the skies like northern lights

or atomic fission

**

despite this, night sky still worries me

if I substitute the astral figures that I trace in imaginary lines guided by cave paintings, and with the present in turn guiding the cave animals / I project the copulation of the ancestors in incessant transformation, so that dreams would be Hades and all nocturnal initiations a shamanic voyage

what bursts is the animal, its loss is language
it breaks in the skies and in the void, in the eyes, when the eyes see inside the eyes
it erupts in greenery

from cave to sky and from sky to cave, from cave to womb

we call it spring

***

whoever sleeps returns to Eden and shadow, contemplates their dismembering, the excrement that anoints the word. (star)

just as the mother, assuming the baby understands, talks to it, so the poem addresses us

from womb to womb, in each and all the women ancestors, when only the heart’s rhythm was known and the lungs hadn’t yet been torn by air

long before your birth, it’s your sky of diamonds

I write

****

when we dream, the stopovers in trembling and abrupt transformation are always spring and winter. Persephone dissects Hades

to evoke the garden, luminosity in the plenitude of winter / not only Eurydice but the genitals tauten, the couple encircled by the species, brutally outside the logos

every night, when language shuts its eyes, it descends to the depths. There, by a placid river, in a forest, the body of Orpheus is dismembered by ecstasy

the screen on which we project ourselves is as blurry as the waters; inside the drum, animals live, ancestors that mate and dream of spring and every night the voice we learn fascinated from the mother is shattered by drunken copulation

it’s Eurydice and Orpheus who point out North, polarization, stars. They disperse the social, the mother tongue, cavort in a garden, copulate

*

yesterday, an algae green and thick in the current was cobra, drakar, a curl of animality, Medusa, Orpheus, Eurydice

Van belang is niet wat ik kon voelen

Van belang is niet wat ik kon voelen, van belang is het ware bestaan van het huis en dat de dromen daar wonen; de meeste dromen zijn hoofdstukken, intriges van romans: een moeilijk oplosbare moord, de schoten van de viceconsul in Lahore, de vulkanen van Lowry… ze ontwikkelen zich als allesomvattende atmosferische fenomenen, en hoewel ze tot de literatuur behoren, brengen ze geen geluid voort maar lichtende verschijningen van zuivere pigmentatie zoals de installaties van Anish Kapoor
 
toen ik aankwam verwachtte ik mijn broeders en zusters, mijn kameraden, aan te treffen. Nee, het huis is niet onbewoond, bij ons was het altijd een grote storm van bloed en totem
 
er zijn natuurlijk andere perspectieven
 
*
 
als ik mijn invloedrijke broeders en zusters nooit zal tegenkomen in het gebouw, als ik naar binnen en naar buiten kan gaan en zijn antarctische verlatenheid kan beleven, als ik zijn dromen ken, wat is dan de volgende stap?
 
als ik toegang heb tot hetgeen hier wordt voortgebracht wanneer het gebouw zijn ogen sluit, ben ik dan dit huis?
 
maar toen ik de dromen herkende, was ik in de buurt, in de buitenwijken
 
ik onderzoek en openbaar de clandestiene richting op de landkaart
 
toen ik een jong meisje was ging ik geregeld met een man naar de films van Sam Peckinpah. Ik walgde van die films
 
beulen zijn dol op een clandestiene richting
van de echtverbintenis bijvoorbeeld
 
uiteraard openbaart het gedicht de verborgen activiteit van zijn cellen niet
 
die ontploffen aan de hemel als het noorderlicht
 
of een atoomsplitsing
 
**
 
desondanks blijft de nachtelijke hemel me zorgen baren
 
als ik de sterrenbeelden die ik langs imaginaire lijnen trek vervang door de grotschilderingen om me te oriënteren en de dieren in de grotten door het heden, projecteer ik in onophoudelijke verandering het copuleren der voorouders, en zo zouden de dromen de Hades zijn en de nachtelijke initiatie een sjamanistische reis
 
het dier ontploft, zijn verlies is de taal
het breekt in het hemelsblauw en in het niets, in de ogen, wanneer de ogen binnen in de ogen zien
het barst uit in groen
 
van grot naar hemel, van hemel naar grot, van grot naar buik
 
we noemen het lente
 
***
 
wie slaapt keert terug naar de Hof van Eden en de schaduw, aanschouwt de afbrokkeling, het excrement dat het woord zalft. (ster)
 
zoals de moeder ervan uitgaat dat de baby haar verstaat en tegen hem praat, zo richt het gedicht zich tot ons
 
van buik tot buik, bij alle voormoeders een voor een, terwijl toen alleen het ritme van het hart bekend was en de long niet door de lucht werd verscheurd
 
lang voordat jij werd geboren, het is jouw hemel met diamanten
 
ik schrijf
 
**
 
wanneer we dromen zijn de in trillende en onverwachte verandering verkerende halteplaatsen altijd de lente en de winter. Persephone splitst de Hades
 
terugdenken aan de tuin, het licht midden in de winter / niet alleen Eurydice, maar ook de geschrokken genitaliën, het paartje omsingeld door de soort, brutaalweg buitengesloten van de logos
 
elke avond wanneer de taal haar ogen sluit daalt hij af naar de onderwereld. Daar, in een bos, vlak bij een kalm stromende rivier, wordt het lichaam van Orpheus verscheurd door extase
 
het scherm waarop we onszelf projecteren is even oneindig als het water; in de trom wonen de dieren, de voorouders die copuleren en van de lente dromen,en  de stem die we gefascineerd van de moeder leren wordt elke avond versplinterd door de dronken makende copulatie
 
Eurydice en Orpheus bepalen het noorden, de polarisatie, de sterren. Ze drijven het sociale uiteen, de moedertaal, ze spelen in een tuin, ze copuleren
 
*
 
gisteren waren groene, dikke algen in de rivier een cobra, een Vikingschip, een krul van dierlijkheid, Medusa, Orpheus, Eurydice

O que importa non é o que puiden sentir senón a existencia real da casa e que nela habitan os soños; a maioría son capítulos, tramos de novelas: algún asasinato de resolución difícil, os disparos do vicecónsul en Lahore, os volcáns de Lowry . . . desenvólvense como fenómenos atmosféricos, envolventes, e malia a súa pertenza á literatura non emiten sons, máis ben epifanías lumínicas de pigmentación pura como as instalacións de Anish Kapoor

cando cheguei esperaba atopar as miñas irmás e irmáns de saúde. Non, a casa non está deshabitada, entre nós todo foi un vendaval de sangue e tótem

hai outras perspectivas, desde logo

*

se no edificio non vou atopar nunca os irmáns e irmás de influencia, se podo entrar e saír, vivir a súa desolación antártica, se coñezo os seus soños, que paso é o seguinte?

se teño acceso ao que se xera cando a construción pecha as pálpebras, son eu esta casa?

pero cando eu recoñecía os soños estaba nas inmediacións, nos arrabaldes

indago e expoño a dirección clandestina do mapa

cando era moza acompañei repetidamente un home ás películas de Sam Peckinpah. Eu detestaba esas películas

a dirección clandestina vén sendo o gozo dos verdugos

da unión conxugal por exemplo

claro que o poema non vai manifestar a actividade oculta das súas células

que estouran nos ceos como unha aurora boreal

ou a fisión dun átomo

**

malia o dito, o ceo nocturno continúa inquietándome

se substitúo as figuras astrais que mediante liñas imaxinarias trazo para orientarme polas pinturas das cavernas e os animais das cavernas polo presente / proxecto en incesante transformación a cópula dos antepasad*s, de tal maneira que os soños serían o Hades e toda iniciación nocturna unha viaxe xamánica

o que estoura é o animal, a súa perda é a linguaxe
rompe no celeste e na nada, nos ollos, cando os ollos ven dentro do ollos
estrala no verdor

da caverna ao ceo, do ceo á caverna, da caverna ao ventre

chamámoslle primavera

***

quen dorme torna ao edén e á sombra, contempla a súa desmembración, o excremento que unxe a palabra. (astro)

o mesmo que a nai, presupóndolle á naipela comprensión, lle fala, así se nos dirixe o poema

de ventre en ventre, en todas e en cada unha das antepasadas, cando só coñecía o ritmo do corazón e o pulmón non fora esgazado polo aire

moito antes de naceres, é o teu ceo de diamantes

escribo

****

cando soñamos, as paraxes en trepidante e súbita transformación son sempre primavera e inverno. Perséfone secciona o Hades

evocar o xardín, a luminosidade na plenitude do inverno/ non só Eurídice, senón os xenitais que se axustan, a parella cercada pola especie, brutalmente allea ao logos

todas as noites, cando a linguaxe pecha os ollos, descende aos ínferos. Alí, beira dun río de corrente mansa, nun bosque, o corpo de Orfeo é desmembrado pola éxtase

o ecrán sobre o que nos proxectamos é inconcluso como as augas; dentro do tambor viven os animais, os antepasados que se aparean e soñan na primavera e todas as noites a voz que fascinados aprendemos da nai é esnaquizada pola embriaguez da cópula

son Eurídice e Orfeo que sinalan o norte, a polarización, os astros. Eles disgregan o social, a lingua materna, xogan nun xardín, copulan

*

onte, unha alga verde e mesta na corrente era cobra, drákar, un rizo de animalidade, Medusa, Orfeo, Eurídice
Close

What matters isn’t what I could feel

What matters isn’t what I could feel, but the real existence of the house and that dreams resided there; most are chapters, sections of novels: some hard-to-solve murder, shots fired by the vice-consul in Lahore, Lowry’s volcanoes… unfold like atmospheric phenomena, all-encompassing, and despite belonging to literature they emit no sound but luminous epiphanies of pure pigmentation like the installations of Anish Kapoor

when I arrived I hoped to find my sister and brother comrades. No, the house isn’t abandoned, between us everything was a cyclone of blood and totem

there are other perspectives, of course

*

if in the building I’ll never meet my brothers and sisters of influence, if I can enter and leave, cope with its antarctic desolation, if I know its dreams, what’s next?

if I can access what is generated when the construction shuts its eyes, am I this house?

but when I recognized the dreams I was nearby, at the edge

I investigate and expose the map’s clandestine direction

as a young woman I went out repeatedly with a man to watch Sam Peckinpah movies. I detested those movies

the clandestine direction comes when the executioners decide

of conjugal union for example

clearly the poem isn’t going to reveal the hidden action of its cells

that burst in the skies like northern lights

or atomic fission

**

despite this, night sky still worries me

if I substitute the astral figures that I trace in imaginary lines guided by cave paintings, and with the present in turn guiding the cave animals / I project the copulation of the ancestors in incessant transformation, so that dreams would be Hades and all nocturnal initiations a shamanic voyage

what bursts is the animal, its loss is language
it breaks in the skies and in the void, in the eyes, when the eyes see inside the eyes
it erupts in greenery

from cave to sky and from sky to cave, from cave to womb

we call it spring

***

whoever sleeps returns to Eden and shadow, contemplates their dismembering, the excrement that anoints the word. (star)

just as the mother, assuming the baby understands, talks to it, so the poem addresses us

from womb to womb, in each and all the women ancestors, when only the heart’s rhythm was known and the lungs hadn’t yet been torn by air

long before your birth, it’s your sky of diamonds

I write

****

when we dream, the stopovers in trembling and abrupt transformation are always spring and winter. Persephone dissects Hades

to evoke the garden, luminosity in the plenitude of winter / not only Eurydice but the genitals tauten, the couple encircled by the species, brutally outside the logos

every night, when language shuts its eyes, it descends to the depths. There, by a placid river, in a forest, the body of Orpheus is dismembered by ecstasy

the screen on which we project ourselves is as blurry as the waters; inside the drum, animals live, ancestors that mate and dream of spring and every night the voice we learn fascinated from the mother is shattered by drunken copulation

it’s Eurydice and Orpheus who point out North, polarization, stars. They disperse the social, the mother tongue, cavort in a garden, copulate

*

yesterday, an algae green and thick in the current was cobra, drakar, a curl of animality, Medusa, Orpheus, Eurydice

What matters isn’t what I could feel

What matters isn’t what I could feel, but the real existence of the house and that dreams resided there; most are chapters, sections of novels: some hard-to-solve murder, shots fired by the vice-consul in Lahore, Lowry’s volcanoes… unfold like atmospheric phenomena, all-encompassing, and despite belonging to literature they emit no sound but luminous epiphanies of pure pigmentation like the installations of Anish Kapoor

when I arrived I hoped to find my sister and brother comrades. No, the house isn’t abandoned, between us everything was a cyclone of blood and totem

there are other perspectives, of course

*

if in the building I’ll never meet my brothers and sisters of influence, if I can enter and leave, cope with its antarctic desolation, if I know its dreams, what’s next?

if I can access what is generated when the construction shuts its eyes, am I this house?

but when I recognized the dreams I was nearby, at the edge

I investigate and expose the map’s clandestine direction

as a young woman I went out repeatedly with a man to watch Sam Peckinpah movies. I detested those movies

the clandestine direction comes when the executioners decide

of conjugal union for example

clearly the poem isn’t going to reveal the hidden action of its cells

that burst in the skies like northern lights

or atomic fission

**

despite this, night sky still worries me

if I substitute the astral figures that I trace in imaginary lines guided by cave paintings, and with the present in turn guiding the cave animals / I project the copulation of the ancestors in incessant transformation, so that dreams would be Hades and all nocturnal initiations a shamanic voyage

what bursts is the animal, its loss is language
it breaks in the skies and in the void, in the eyes, when the eyes see inside the eyes
it erupts in greenery

from cave to sky and from sky to cave, from cave to womb

we call it spring

***

whoever sleeps returns to Eden and shadow, contemplates their dismembering, the excrement that anoints the word. (star)

just as the mother, assuming the baby understands, talks to it, so the poem addresses us

from womb to womb, in each and all the women ancestors, when only the heart’s rhythm was known and the lungs hadn’t yet been torn by air

long before your birth, it’s your sky of diamonds

I write

****

when we dream, the stopovers in trembling and abrupt transformation are always spring and winter. Persephone dissects Hades

to evoke the garden, luminosity in the plenitude of winter / not only Eurydice but the genitals tauten, the couple encircled by the species, brutally outside the logos

every night, when language shuts its eyes, it descends to the depths. There, by a placid river, in a forest, the body of Orpheus is dismembered by ecstasy

the screen on which we project ourselves is as blurry as the waters; inside the drum, animals live, ancestors that mate and dream of spring and every night the voice we learn fascinated from the mother is shattered by drunken copulation

it’s Eurydice and Orpheus who point out North, polarization, stars. They disperse the social, the mother tongue, cavort in a garden, copulate

*

yesterday, an algae green and thick in the current was cobra, drakar, a curl of animality, Medusa, Orpheus, Eurydice
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