FLIGHT TRAJECTORY

through the courtyards – above the town-hill – along the line of lightning – behind the bird flying swiftly just above the window sill –

wrapped in worn-out greenery under the cover of noon, I’m pulling closer everything that’s scattered, changed in rolling, releasing new shoots, gathering the roots – no, the flight trajectory!

 dragon princess has to invent a new language

a new word for every item in her treasury

but every time she opens it up she’s not sure
what sort of change they all went through

is this the dragon-tooth still, this cactus-like flower

swelling expanding

blindingly golden and blindingly somber

why didn’t you wrap it up, lay it between the two bottoms of the chest
why did you let it darken and brighten and grow –

and what is your new word for glass?
your glass coffin, remember?
is it its name you’re embroidering on your dress made of rare metals
smiling between stitches –

and those animals of the night, with dark red voices?
flying creating a net for themselves to get caught and shiver till morning – you should free them, why don’t you free them? always forgetting as you forgot that child in your dream?

two trees engendering wind that will crash their branches – anything else
you brought from the garden above the sea?

collection of pebbles – to engrave a part of a name of a world in each –

too soon she’s looking  for terrace wide enough to spread it all out

little farewell bell

as I went to the outskirts of town
looking for olives and lavender
noon tide overtook me with its fear-buzzing bees

but that was just a beginning – a conference
of summer flies it was – life-death issues –
with occasional drunken hornet singing its wantonness

listening to them I crossed a square carelessly
net or no net in my hand
beside the entrance of a bank with a stray yellow dog
right through the flower stands frontier

loosing small lead weights sewn in the seams of my dress

and sand came out of the sea, noon-town walls melted
to give voices better amplitude

a moonbeam  appeared offering its services of discussion area
and a random rocket dealt with time so successfully that its stars did not fade or fall
but kept bursting reflecting each other with glee

nothing can be done by force, they all chimed cheerfully –

…

on the way back just this:

was it such a short distance from here to there?
will I ever want to get back?

land of two moons

gazing at each other turning their backs parting never melting eclipsing each other’s faces at regular pace –
turning all that happened and didn’t happen into pebbles, letting the sea roll them smooth into in-difference –
underneath the sea is the black glass domain, a spiral world for downward slide – for a step in opposite direction all weight should be washed away and there is no water at hand even though there is its murmur –

she kept trying, unsuitable, kept trying –

and although silhouettes still come  with their sentences – in clusters, in bunches, around the head, around the waist, light burden under the hand – there’s no one –

in waste land the only, impermanent resident is light – subjected to rushes of ageing, suddenly dry and brittle, it’s cracking like soil in drought, crumbling to dust – you have nothing to collect it in, you’re calling birds into this dust bath – and here they are, black and white – made of blackness, of whiteness? – flapping their wings and ruffling their feathers – go now! take the dust-light where day’s even shorter, of  the rest I’ll model a fence to the face of the fear domain at the border of

melancholia

but what with the Lethe’s fountain that keeps throwing its spotlight from the northern corner, offering its salty comfort – its crown grows as a flower, closes and opens in the rhythm of inaudible music – and how could I ever wish to leave that dance of dissent on ever changing ever twilight sky

it’s a land of sand, don’t worry, what you inscribe disappears, what’s saved will vanish under layers and you may keep engraving or welcome effacement with the same aching ease –

departure 

grows as a plant not as an illness

in the beginning there was a wind rose
winds came from all parts at once
and held you in place

then all fell silent except the nefarious sirocco
and you couldn’t but fly
on its wings –

oblivion
should grow as a plant

the rose opens up again, now wider
and you may well wonder:
from underworld gales are arriving and from the stars
whirlwinds arise from  the sea

will you choose
on your own
one gust one direction

or would you at last strip naked your water being
let it open all its erratic eyes
and stand in the eye of the rose

…

departure grows –
and withers –
as a pine dissolved in red soil and fragrance
is carried away by summer insects
leaving pure now on the terrace
under the silent bell

(from the book Flight Trajectory, translated by the author)