A SKETCH FOR A HEROINE

(multiple one)

there once was a woman who lowered a pendulum into
the sea hoping this would it turn upside down –

who listened through a golden funnel, until the sea
entered her ear, through the ear into the palace –

who was trying to leave fingerprints on the water

 

(flower for flower)

ah, the little florist offers her frosty violets:

she went after them into the depths of a forest, into the depths of a tree, depths of a house

she went after them to the bottom of the sea, she went and went – oh god, how much going! – always coming back, never stopping coming –

and now she prays for a little barter: something for something,

for something anything, a tiny gold coin that will fall in the pocket, even if it then disappears, even if it melts, non-resistant to all kinds of darkness –

flower for flower, please, because all is one
and no one can live without living

 

(in the empty theater)

hey you, heroine, remember: you have to turn down all roles,
one by one!

she’s standing with her hair loose, abstractedly looking into
the white distance – no, don’t do that!

she’s striding across the land of volcanoes, dancing a dance of fire – no, not that either!

she’s accepting a trial, pouring herself into molds, welcoming fingers of fate – no, of course not!

she’s smiling at the man with a camera, sweet girl, she will be a poster, she’ll be an announcement – by no means, never!

alone on the stage she still hesitates to call the sweeping girl, that summersunny one who laughs at all performances alike

 

(clear and indisputable)

maybe they gave her a sword, and she saw in it
a blade of grass

so she buried it and watered it –

(with tears, everything grows better from the extremes)

weeded it and added fertilizer conscientiously, according to the instructions –

(because her faith in conscientiousness knows no bounds)

and now? will her blade blossom, will other blossoms bloom above it, spread out causing permanent confusion?

(and again, no one sees those flowers – – )

or will this self-proclaimed gardener begin to think more logically

get her hands dirty to the roots

extracting a cold glow from the cover of earth?

 

(bocca della verita)

it is the great mouth of truth that denies her over and over again, reminding her where is her place

the moment she wakes up the mouth opens up and already
she slides through its black throat even though she hasn’t yet opened her eyes

she should do something different, figure out how to exist
every day in a new way – abruptly as a rabbit changes direction while running

she needs to do something unspeakably different, then let the mouth yawn in vain all their truths –

smuggle beyond all insight a bubble of void broad enough for a lake – that lake, that song of the world

 

(multiplying the river)

and another one who multiplied the river, turning one flow into six –

hard work, unthinkably time consuming, that digging of riverbeds and riverbeds

and since she was very, exceptionally thorough, she planted water weeds according to a strictly established plan,
but there was not enough water coming from the source, simply there wasn’t enough –

she thought she could solve it by thinking, she thought water in stone in sky in all the white things –

she made whistles to keep her fingers employed, one whistle for each river

but there wasn’t enough water, there just wasn’t –

no, not creeks! what should I care for six creeks instead of one river! she was telling her flying beasts hoping in vain they would come to her aid so disembodied –

and she will have to bury, and she’ll have to give up – but what, which one of these dry riverbeds, her children of air, placentas of earth?

 

(microprose: threads)

there was once a woman who lived among colorful threads

whenever she started something new she’d tie a new
thread to her ceiling made of fishing nets, each sequel
she’d mark with a knot, with a new thread waiting for the next knotting –

and the walls were plastered with the word tomorrow

there were only a few very long threads, but the ceiling was adorned with innumerable beginnings

why are you here? the householders asked her –
no one can hold something that cannot last, she said
and tied a new thread

and each and every one was in a different hue than all others

 

(endless story)

nothing stands
between her and the last picture in the ice mine

except for some variegated items: sweet pastilles in bright industrial colors, in some may be chocolate, in others the white paste that’s too sweet

and ribbons that claim they can be sashes and medals, and some shards that have not yet lost all sharpness from rolling through that interspace

they all demand: describe me! make a note of me!

her vision should be adjusted to an infra or supra level, to look below or above, where the flow is at least thinner because,

ah, how your eyes gain weight with those confectionery products!

 

(cities and suburbs)

she leaves – exits – the ruined city – now give me another!

spaces are scarce, you can get a hamlet of uncertain border – no, not borders! – dimensions? – nonsense, number of houses! – one to none – no, those are completely wrong negotiations, white shirts, blue skies, that is my hamlet –

she comes out of a ruined suburb – you can’t say it was some awesome architecture, awesomness is elsewhere – come on, invent one more palace, not always that same house made of leaves!

she builds a house of leaves, but that’s not exactly simple either – too much of? too little? – smoth and blank inner space cannot be made with that –

she comes out of the ruined city and puts on a black bandage over her eyes – ah, the cool silk undoes the limitations of these scenes – she opens her eyes and she looks at the black pattern that finally makes her steps stop

 

(made of what?)

she was falling apart and bringing parts together, falling and bringing together

and she could not answer simple questions
because she kept so many needles in her mouth

her fingers entangled in threads started to divide and multiply so that they could shape no sign

and of course the ringing did not stop all the time

she would still be happy to answer, make the needles fold into answers,

but the mouths that had asked were now chewing on something else

 

(new name)

in the longest night

she’s looking for a new name to protect her:

in it must be life from the stalk and water from the spring
and the sea with all its directions
the lake in which the song of the world is hidden –
stiff winter grasses and all colors of foliage,
warm animal breath

and scales, feathers, tufts, wingedness, flight-song
and fingers in clay
all fabrics from the green loom

listening: a nightingale? already a cuckoo ? did wild ducks return –
leaves – leaflets – leafing – leafage –
consonances, ears of grain –
imprints, shells and traces, mineral hard coloration
the moon’s path across the city
breathing, breathing

 

(from the book “Sketch for a Heroine”, translated by the author)