| "Cardinal Points" litetrary journal: www.stosvet.net |
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Guy Jean. NO WIND Translated by Ilya Kaminsky and the author An old man licks anger... An old man licks anger in the wind, at passers-by holds up a hand, on the handout, clenches a fist In the park children laugh at puppets. Furious puppets. Morning sun. His guts aching for booze. (an old man in the wind, furious with puppets). He has left his mother buried in the day... He has left his mother buried in the day, shut in the secrets of each day. His mother, in each day. He has left. He scratches in his skin her words, her betrayals. His nail scratches in his skin her words. He is returning to his sister, to his wife, to his daughter. He flees the ramblings of the flags. Flags, a heavy virtue. Flags, of a murderous honor. He flees. Know this: he will lift his arms and legs, dancing to the rhythm of breathings of his animals. He will baptize himself with the mockery of gargoyles. He will pay cash on the nail. Cash, the price of his love. Of his days, dollars. A fence. As far as the eye can see... A fence. As far as the eye can see. A fence. The traveling gypsy, performs as she walks along it, she juggles. Her legs opened, partly. To invite the dreamer. Flags along the fence. They walk. November. Gray wind. Crevice between November and January, atonement for excesses of the fruits in harvest. For the forgetting for the labors. A generous forgetting. A generous forgetting. To invite the dreamer, as he walks. As he walks, he puts on the face of Sundays, his mask; he roams through the city streets, sets fire to his loved one's apartment. A heart there-does it beat still? It beats. He calms. His mourning ploughs the winter. He calms. The snow drops on his steps as his legs lift and fall. It beats. With his eyes he wants to touch the earth. He does not see in a wood fire, what he wants to touch. He does not see it in a woman in heat, what he wants to touch. That coolness, a loss of sight. He wants. As far as the eye can see. Dance in the street. Till you lose your North. Dance... Dance in the street. Till you lose your North. Dance. At the top of your voice. Dance. With flowers in each arm. Jump over the hole in your head. Dance. Crash the door of your garden. Blood on the astilbes. Crash the door. Slap it. " Tragedy is a crime of passion. " Three bullets in the head. A rope around the neck in a larder. " Tragedy is a crime of passion. " We have lost ourselves in a metaphor, in a winter's nucleus at the end of a finger. Between earth and us, a paper of rice. Translated from French by Ilya Kaminsky and the author |