Alien Landscape I

Wet hailstones crammed under the spiral trees,
evaporating in the stems of lurid dust,
no buds, no leaves, the juicy boughs are
like fat repulsive plumes, all brimming with
discoloured radiance. Upon the distant coast
you see the awkward silhouettes of birds
collecting shells and flower-like squids.
The mountains are so near to the ocean
they almost fall in it, the gravity of all this water
sucks out their sap and makes their breeze
dry out. Now you can let yourself remember
what you rejected so long ago. All moons
have ripened so fast, you hear them hiss
as their landscapes rub against the night.
You say, soon ripe, soon rotten. Only this
is not maturity, but rather instantaneous
denial of decay, so we sometimes achieve
a kind of equilibrium between our future
as we see it and the impossibility of it.
You may have grown bigger than your time,
your vocal chords are calling up the kites
of stray meteorites released from their strings
and flying straight into the face of centuries,
the black dot of your body on the coast line,
seen from afar, may have more meaning in it
than herds of comets raining down
into the open palms of suffering.
Remember things that you’ve rejected, for the past
is like a girl carried across the stream,
her hands around your neck, her breath like a whisper,
her wet lips almost saying something moving
at random, mindlessly, small undeveloped breasts
pointing outwards, forming a tense triangle
with your flat chest, and you want the stream to be
as wide as possible. The horses of the trees
are drinking salty water from the puddles
left by the random rain. The layers of the sky
are brown, orange, blue. What has to be embraced
will be embraced. What has to be disdained
will be embraced. Like little smudgy pictures on the glass,
laid one upon another, your memories
are trapped within each other, forming
this feast of liberated colours, like a lump
of mouldy chaff, superior in colour to all the fields
in bloom, to all the rays of dawn and its reflection
inside the crystal walls of germinating moons,
left on the threshold to seduce old birds.

Вланес, 2005

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 30698 от 04.01.2005

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