The lighting is weak. Poems 1979-2012
Jovan Zivlak: The lighting is weak. Poems (1979-2012) translated from the Serbian by Sibelan Elizabeth Stuart Forrester Zivlak, Jovan; Зивлак, Јован (2021): The Lighting is weak: poems. 1st ed. Novi Sad: Adresa (The Library Hour = [Biblioteka] Čas, 44).
Contents
Joyfully Bound To The Event 14
Jovan Zivlak – A Short Biography. 38
Nocturne
evening rolled the green heads
of setting light
fire flamed over the ridges
shadows floated on the windward hills
the soft horizon was weighed down
at the inexpert squeak of a young rat
who hunted black-winged hens
while on the steps sat
muteness with a child’s mouth
that inhaled air and exhaled numbness
a child of nothing that did not speak
but with its eyes compressed heavenly knowledge
its woeful upbeats
and flinched from the horny tail that withdrew
in the cracks of the house wherein
the ruinous hearth will blaze
and angels sing
blessed muteness
blessed flying
blessed ether
blessed whelp
that devourest our foundations.
Revelation
the concentration camps did not exist.
no executioner existed. nor torturer.
our wounds are fake.
the screams unreal. no one ever called on heaven
no one ever left on a path of no return.
sisters
mothers
are false relations.
our suffering’s a semblance. memory’s superfluous.
along the scaffolds are characters from stories
the questions are primordial superstitions
everywhere there are but phantoms of changes
that did not take place
and events that will not begin.
there’s no murderer. nor prosecutor
nor exchange between life and death
nor angel nor his dark brother
nor father nor son
nor sisterly shroud beneath the fortress walls
nor prayers under an oak nor weeping on the water
nor death rattle on stone.
nor darkness in the mud.
there are neither hostages nor witnesses
nor child crucified in nightmarish desolation
water doesn’t flow nor does the sun shine
no word exists that will loose us from death
nor convert who recalls revelation
nor exile who curses at exile.
o angel of silence
o heir of measures
if nothing existed if nothing happened
why does your heart engrave the blade of nothing
why do you turn to tail the phantoms of eternity
and whom will you thank that you are still alive.
Ode
why i mention joy
why i summon hope
why the letter
why the clarity
the black angel
the homeland. is there a cause for it
is it initiated from somewhere
that consequence that accumulates
one after another and rolls this way that way.
or did the devil teach
this head to start singing
and keep on until
it falls mute.
The Gander King
i was sitting on a green mound
above a pond. motionlessness of noon
and frozen outlines of geese. i threw a stone
into the water. it chose
its path by way of my hand. rings wavered
on the water
like the rings from other stories
different from themselves
fed in vanishing
by their spines.
and as if someone had flayed
the skin from their backs
so they turned
into a visage i’d already seen
the visage of the gander king
who preaches eternity.
O
o morning
scene of the action
you whirlpool that raises the firstborn and the mortal
from its lair.
o blade of dawning
that falls among the hens
among the holy calves that twist their tongues
and chew the feed of muteness and sniff at indistinct
turnarounds.
o nothing that licks the flaming of hay
in which the egg of promise burned
o view that pecks at its shell
o dark that was wall and protection
take a look at your morning
that devours your meat
the way a boar lifts
our thresholds.
* * *
can i remember anything
and does a memory exist that shall
illuminate unbornness.
if i already make a turn
as if i drag my foot over fine shavings
i see a boy
striding through absent-minded squinting.
am i indeed to remember
the one who foolishly wondered
and whom anyone could silence.
’Twas Known
how should i understand the oration
about departures. announcements of disappearance.
sorrowful words about mislaid traces
a man picked up a handbag. packed his toilette.
folded the newspaper. lifted from the table
a tobacco pouch. scratched behind his ear
and went away.
just yesterday he was so
young: fascinating like a pelican
similar to a storm. he rustled like bushes.
twittered sparrowlike. flashed lightning eyes.
scampered
here and there.
o untransparency where has he
fluttered off to.
i cried like a little boy.
canoe on the water empty sea.
dim-eyed i looked at everything
when once ’twas known that death is irreproachable.
Trowel
it took a long time for memory’s soul
to collect itself
we waited a long time for it to be realized
what material made the saint’s trowel
(what a storm doesn’t blow away
a puff of air blows away). one whole clan
persisted in that
primarily for small change (so it usually goes).
faith erected fragile limbs
hope fell through the ravines
short-sightedness reached for the distance
while the consecrated hand also reached into the zone between the legs.
everything rose to realize which way the wind was blowing
and from which mountain the beasts were coming down.
now when muteness has spoken up
when wisdom has shown its wretched face
when the distance is a quarter shorter
the merry brotherhood will pull the skin off a corpse
to sniff around the bloody transparency
and to start playing bagpipes
at the somber burial.
Winter Report
everything finally could have been
different and everything didn’t have
to happen this way. but every
outcome is an occurrence
while acceptance and rejection
are two gloves before which
we wriggle. maybe if i were nimbler,
if i’d risen quicker from the table
if i’d done that before the tropical
rains or if i’d lit the fire
could i have burnt the scattered questions.
but the outcome’s not pronounced
the dark is not described.
i’ll come out into bad weather
to trample a path
and i’ll carry the knowledge
on my shoes.
The Wicked Guest
here’s how i was born
it’s a long story. in a manger. in a drying barn
between the pigs’ tails. in a cornfield
where the idle magpie rummaged and the field mouse
peered fearfully in case an owl appeared. about wisdom
everything had been written already and as if i had come into a known
life. mother hid me: a little monster that screeched
and toothlessly sought the whole kingdom. father renounced me.
from there the tales of sinlessness. legends of flight
were spun while i in truth don’t know whether it happened. later
i pushed my way through schools. among the knowers who
would wave the switch and tap their feet while they sang
songs of the only god. i fixed in memory how they shared out
and how the dishes were filled: from greater to lesser, never otherwise.
how it is gathered
and decanted and i sensed how the worm attacking an apple opens
secret schools and seduces its pupils. the wine and all the rest arrived
later. and the wanderings. and the sea. and water. and feasts at which
it was as if my mouth was gagged. why some would look at me strangely.
did they want me to be a foreman or a destroyer. a singer of songs
or a wicked guest who makes an uproar.
i stumbled while i waited for remission
to whine in one life
or to forgive in two.
Small Town
if i save myself i’ll be saved. if i get lost
i’ll be lost. if it turns out possible
to speak of it i’ll submit a report. but
at the table
at the counter
before the supervisor’s strict question
the guard at the bank door
the official of a philanthropic society
the usher in the tremorous movie theater
what to do to save what splits off
from the soul’s possessions. how to lose what is already
lost. how to complete the transfer but so that
the attentive accountant won’t catch the inconsistency
in the clear collectedness.
is this your hand.
oh inappropriate soul, along which general babble pours
small town where a sow
leads her offspring out into the parks
abandon the scene of the action
to see from a corner
how what has been lost
is shared out.
Oh Sad Sack Sonny
i’d like to sing.
to sing out at full voice.
but when i think
how much gloom is in the previous
songs
how much pain in the refrains
unhappiness in the calls
my brethren are inexpert in that art
clarity will disperse our power
and then sad sack sonny
what use will that be to
a homeland.
Oh Creatress
twilight has fallen. the sparrows
give up to dreams. guards
stand up on their feet.
a heavy hammering is heard. something’s
being built in the gloom. something big’s
being dreamed.
the ground shifts. hope grows.
oh protectress of the act.
oh creatress darkness.
before what spectacle shall we
in the pallid sunrise
open our eyes.
My Darling
the star of evening twinkles.
sly little night
rubs its muzzle on the doorframe.
my darling
many a thing has passed us by:
world poetry
divine music
a happy land
human history.
we didn’t blink
we went down the street
counted the steps
sifted the meat we were given.
while the hunter held up the world’s opacity
waiting for us to start to see.
The Scribe
first i caught sight of a bird
’twas a skipping common chaffinch
that flew above the dusky evergreens.
and that lasted exactly as long
as it took not to forget it. but how
did the sight settle into my soul. how with a crack
the door opened. how
the leaves were falling. how the chaff
floated under the violet sun.
i blinked with my eyes and hastened with my stylus
to clothe the cold. to fill it with guttural
voices. to tip my body into ancestry
while rocking and to chew it up with a green
beak. whereas then i am granted
to collect the clouds.
to count up the sacks filled with wind.
to stare at the sundial and to multiply
the divisions. the scribe laid split logs
in a single fireplace
a fire was burning in the other and it wasn’t known
which occurrence was false
and which demon had summoned the hand
to unravel all of that.
The Well
tales of ancestry
and that whole burden
those bundles of uncertainties
those vessels in which you heartily preserved
a message on life and a teaching on shadows
you can cast off now. you can begin
from nothing
from the surface without legible traces and graphemes
you can start sobbing. knowledge states your end is
your beginning
but the world’s like a shell
in which one hears just about one whoosh
similar to many previous ones
that calls forth the rustling
of a deceptive well. and here begins the betrayal
similarity pours over into memory
and that arranges you here
where you could have been only and collectedly nothing
almost nonexistent
in order for you to seek for the whole
for the gestures of one hand
for the tiny creature
multiplier of images that states:
what you take is given
what you give is taken
what is written
is read already
and what you hear is knowledge
which you will not shake
to link your visibility
with the whole
and for it to dump you right here into grieving sleepiness
where you pick up cigarettes and the newspaper
and wonder:
the rough and weepy voice that falls from the clouds
and flutters from the torn heavens above
isn’t it the insatiable and endless nothing
which i begged
to address me.
The Eave
i stand beneath the eave and remember
everything that i can remember.
lightning and darkness
a sigh and crying
and the vanished paths that i lost
in the growth
and a blade and dreaming
and words that resounded like wind
i was remembering everything.
empty soul, you that are not for memory
that stand in the shade without scratches
without scars and wounds
and without a depth from which someone could call you
someone similar
connected by leashes
from the depth therefore
that does not exist
no one calls you out of nothing
a miniscule dictionary and empty loquacity
the light eave that covers you
smooth face
collected and meek
all that you cognize
is a clear glance back.
As I Am Informed
i let you go, little letter,
to wander all over without me.
it couldn’t have been otherwise:
acceptability testifies to
acceptability
that is your land and let
a chirp spread over it or
screeching
as it prefers. and someone who will
shove their nose between the lines
will see all kinds of things. here most likely there’ll
be salt
but not the kind i used to throw
before the sparrow or somewhere else.
they don’t listen to tales of that kind any more
as i am informed.
Ha
birds sing
no one summons them
neither saint nor singer.
the water is tormented
the mirror shattered
while tininess weaves short crumbly sentences
all the livelong day.
plaster falls
grass grows
closeness grows firm
how am i to listen to those letters
to call out ha
to chase them away
to sing elsewhere
as they used to sing
to one soul that was
perfect.
Skunk
in the pale dawn we chased a skunk
bloodied muzzle that cast sparks
like an unfanned flame between
necks cricked from muteness.
and its fiery tail sped up
a pulse of sown traps and lifted
curls of leashes that had knotted
around the firm missive
that a moment in an angel’s
mouth was a moment between carrion canines.
only the daughters of cold collectedness
were equally ready to go down
from warm garden strips
from the paths that framed the taproots
into the unutterable cold.
while we with trembling wings surrounded
one already quartered corpse
whose soul sneered at us from a high beam
looking to see which one of us it would reward.
God Is Miniscule
For Danijel Dragojević
god is miniscule. he manages equally
well in water and in air.
when he’s on earth he scratches me and flutters off.
he’s endlessly merry by necessity.
numberless times he recurs in one place
i don’t know either when he goes or when he comes.
he’s very occupied. reads the classics and every
day he learns a little something.
he knows all the great artists in person
cites most of them without any trouble. he doesn’t know
my works by heart but remembers my face.
knows my height
my chest volume
my capacity.
sometimes he’ll chat with me a bit in a certain place
isn’t all that enthusiastic. it seems to me that
he suffers a bit that i make such slow progress.
he wishes me all the best in my life and in work.
when i meet him in a multitude i address him respectfully
ask what’s new and go away in a hurry.
i know him well. he told me to tell you hi.
Amen
what sort of death should the mindless
well bathed body
choose.
the primeval forest where a sort
a beast called by this and that name dwells
alas
it’s immortal, an irrefutable spirit
above the heights and depths
immeasurable and lives forever
amen
is immortal.
i get in the tub and my death starts up.
my unique mother and of my near and dear
a cosseted and worthy travelling companion
whispers sweet words to me.
i rub my ears do i exist. have i heard anything
new about death.
my mother and father spake unto me: take a bath son
may the good spirit remind you
get out in time or stay.
I Examine Myself
is my hope in vain.
the motherly lap. a downpour
of flame above the table.
here where i picked up bread and
wine. under the crown of a walnut
compressing my tongue. is my
hope in vain. merry
words. a flock of gnats. clarity.
a hand moves the press. the sermonizer
speaks floating above the multitude.
have i memorized what i learned.
human language. the laws of nature.
i sit at the dinner table and examine myself.
Joyfully Bound To The Event
on the foundations of this and that
the building should be continued.
let’s say a wall raised vertically
over the ground line.
not at all wastefully
gradually with dependability
brick upon brick
the mixture of cement of mortar
of language. stringing sweep
upon sweep
lifting the view to a higher height
under the line drawn by graphite
pencil. that’s a home.
i lie wrapped in a sheet: warmth
knowledge. as far as i’m concerned i can
go down. take a stroll. look over
life etc.
but the cube of sugar dissolves
and the water’s boiling.
joyfully bound to the event
i don’t move a muscle.
Taking A Book
by now i could speak
of everything that’s going to be.
by now i could say
what fate will befall us.
but what good is that speech of hope.
what good is a reminder.
everything that’s ahead is unique
but known. the future is ancient
and lived through countless times.
he who wanders gathers clenched fists.
he firmly conquers his fate while he arranges
his scattered luggage in the compartment. warm air
or cold winter. it’s all the same.
mediterranean. crack of dawn.
islands where he hasn’t been. in a museum
he’ll take a book and forget everything.
the world of elements. shadows
on the pages of travelogues. on the edge of language
the sea sparkles. he was here and there.
thus everywhere. what he adopted he’ll return without
grumbling. he’ll say what he knows to his protector
about love. sciences. when he sees that he’s returning
sipping tea on the terrace
he’ll utter his name completely clearly.
eol. limestone: deceptive similarity.
collar sticking out. cuffs.
buttons of a dressing gown. in haste. impatience.
he’d like to speak clearly.
but who still understands the one who moves
the lips and rustles like a walnut when it falls through the leaves
from high above.
That’s Enough
that’s enough happy and
unhappy things. happenings from
which nothing can be singled out.
that’s enough.
for the whole god-given day i stand
on my feet: could a better fate
have befallen me.
for the whole god-given day
i ponder: climate changes.
dog days. is there anything worse than
that
i go up in the elevator.
i come down by the stairs.
everywhere i bear an unchanged face.
i tell my father: father. father!
turning out the light i put my hands on my thighs.
that’s enough happy and
unhappy things.
someone will surely understand
what i wanted.
Ah Where Are You
ah where are you.
omnipresent sharp anxiety over
life. ah where are you etc.
divine detail in the attic
grass
unseemly shortage.
in the multitude resides the spirit and the hope
peoples and prophets under the monument.
no one knows whom the hard stone will
strike in the head. whose bloodied
face will the crowd carry past in order to get to know
its fate before the mirror. ah where are you.
essentially
beautifully
spirit and flesh let’s become blood brothers. tree and
tree. on high curves
may grass grow.
ah where are you sweet joy and
a bit more of everything.
stone. silk. mahogany over the head of the sleeper’s bed.
miniscule is the one who saves
among many
who are better able. ah where are you.
closeness. what’s seen. divided.
ah where are you.
that’s what i’d like to talk about.
Little Tongue
what blooms at the crack of dawn
what will fade at twilight
that will be found out in cheery primers.
o voiceless teachers of life
abecedaries from which we spell out all that will come to pass.
scents of earth. grammar lessons. human joy
that you count yourself out with obituary notices. from what kind of bowl
to pick up a language that strikes disturbance. who shall open
the frozen purse behind whose barriers the face of the undead
creator sneers amusedly. population with uncounted adjectives
you who swoosh through nontransparent names. shaking up. periods of calm.
sunstroke that like timidity creeps through dark
corners. storm winds from the north. growths in front
of residences: our hope disappears with nature. agreements.
fatal gestures. faith that overcomes the elements. here
thus flickers a little tongue that obeys the wisdoms
of the general god. here where everything should be subject
to great change. shall it be hard for the seeker to grasp
those crafty transformations. shall he know
though the wind scatters the impressions left by a slippery being
that the one who speaks
no matter how he strains his neck tendons
learns to speak most truly
only when the blade with which
they cropped his tongue disappears.
The Lighting Is Weak
if you exist oh creator
verb of turning.
but it has already been repeated countless times
that your yeast isn’t thrown into anything.
if you exist
therefore
uninvolved
considered
hard-skinned like a saint on an elevation
while he follows what will never and never
touch him
can any kind of creature start to tremble
remembering your heroisms.
for what is done to increase love
and who raised a pulley into the heights. but you where are you
whom descendents would address
at whom father and young would look
where is the rose from which eloquence flows
the mouth where is it that will once and for all
spit me out. therefore if you exist brick
from a firm door
say how the whole thing ran. he who is
truly a witness will know from which height
to testify.
or say: ladies and gentlemen. comrades
i can’t sing out that piece just like that
the lighting is weak
the music miserable
the pay barely enough to get by.
Oh My Soul
evening comes down: nature of twilight
grandeur of darkness. foliage rustles
over the archipelago.
what is provable
what is known
let it firm up
to resist before the wave of night.
what is unknown let it dissipate
in blabbing
before the eye of the curiositer
to move off into thick fog
through the dark let it pass.
the builder of the known lifts the burden
his unclouded intention into a warm feather comforter
he lays: the porridge smokes. the water gurgles.
the earth is the soft bedding place
of hope. combinable with combinable combines.
cinnamon with cinnamon. hand with hand.
oh my inexpert soul
why do you fidget.
The Stick
let’s finally agree
about everything we’ve kept quiet so wisely
that tucked behind our ears like lichen
in shadowy corners. let’s agree
to explain to each other where rightness
resides
where hope is concealed
who restrains our barking under turbid clouds
and who will be the one so wise who from the pomace will
dig out the word that penetrates all doors.
let’s agree
that we’ll start squawking
a flock of ravens that
knows what bad weather will befall it tomorrow
from our mouths let the shot fly to tear apart
essence
to quiet the hope of the favorite from the public loudspeaker
let’s listen to the dark soul that sounds out of oblivion
that fidgets under the young stick of the unending father.
let’s agree about the love you chew on
with singed lips
about the heavenly death that i assert
turns over with its fingers mute descendents
let’s agree.
but don’t forget while in the drugstore you take a look at the dark-blue
muscles of a young mother
why you’re here
and who sent you.
The Blind Singer
can you resist against what
you hear. the air lets light through
vocal cords vibrate.
the pledge for everything is unity
however and wherever it might be. the one who has no
eyes will go far led by someone else’s
sight. to the north. into the mountains. into the urban
bustle amid a multitude of sounds. but is
that what is longed for and can
the soul itself riddle out what is the nature
of the rustling behind the head: a stranger or a friend
an evil woman
poisonous masculinity that wants like a blade
to wound the ill-fated one’s tendons. the one who does not see
can he defend himself:
can he turn a lack
into holiness.
to start fluttering. to start bleeding.
to open the other’s triune eyes and to
look though them.
but the soul worn thin from rejoicing will start to sing
that eternally arises
in the gloom of language. from there you’ll hear only the breathing
of the one who dreams.
Impermissible
it was not permitted to say:
poetry is dead. it was not
recommended to uncover
the outcome of metamorphosis. for being does not
tolerate an intercessor. the viewer does not
put up with a know-it-all. still the thing has
happened and judging by everything it is
necessary
just as revelation is necessary
just as a certain descent
just as the blow of a blade is undeniable
into the heartwood. it was truly not thought through
to say: this and that object is dead. or: the spirit belongs to the father
love to the son. for if all goes on being the way it must be
then why naming. to show water in a mirror
so that the future will be brought into memory. change is drastic
but fury is irreducible. that which is too loudly
spoken (here and now and at whatever time)
into a deaf man’s ear
into a blind man’s moustache
alas no one shall understand.
Saint Andrea
for Stojan Vujičić
it isn’t a city in which you’ll look for birds
or gather herbs by the herbarium entrance
watch a mole in the meadows
look as the locks of clouds disappear over
the elevations. from the north comes cold and flocks of sparrows
flutter in the air like dead letters
while simple-minded clio stands at the doors of the museum and smiling
eavesdrops on the clink of coins, water falls from the towers
the scent of chamomile
of rosemary. some face through the window passes like a reflected flash
an amphora that no one will ever reassemble. oh mouth that is
frozen over books from which one hears a blind man’s muttering
you wasteland that complete yourself under the hands
all that has thrown you into the disorder of names
now let it start dancing in the noisy street with apparitions.
Dubrovnik
dark is the dark sea. in the depths
still darker. like a litmus solution
in litmus in whose connections
an angel trembles. from the shore comes
sand. voices travel from far away. and everything
comes down onto the stony jetty
where the swifts tumble. the language in which
it was once called and that assembled
a fleet now flutters like down
beneath the walls. while a multitude arrives and
arrives and the water itself bends beneath
the soles and all the barefooted would like to be welcome guests
hunting their own faces. but nobody
sees the cloud that suddenly lowers
to erase those letters composing anew
mouths for those who shall soon gurgle
darkenedly
aside the walls
listening to the shallow vessels where
meat is burning.
The Parrot
it repeats history
takes food: grains
from a gleaming bowl
dark meat from which plague rises
water that drains from the unhooped
little body. poor creature that would scream
unintelligibly
whatever did it want to express
whoever did it want to warn.
it opened its mouth
raised its little wings
a language i couldn’t understand.
but while it panted flopped on its side
chipping the dry air
tremulous under the blows of the traitor soul
i knew we were singing the same song
he and i.
Once
the lucky man they say went away and he won’t
return (really never again). ah so the earth
presses back. grass waters. so
the firmed is firmed. and what then is
going away if not infidelity. if not
a making silent of the mouth that had once
pressed a cigar holder (e.g.) prepared
to scatter suddenly before you one
entirely personal eternity
on let’s say
a winter afternoon. and now the one who
until recently was someone
entirely inconstant
doesn’t inhale and doesn’t exhale and judging by everything
for a long time won’t any longer test that blurry
absence of collectedness. and it seems that i can
be sure that one of the two of us
is not quite clear about the untouchability
of that despair. once. once. as if we
are equally unstruck.
The Wanderer
will we unriddle the secret of spelling out
words. a lesson that wraps itself in whatever
and wants to strike right in the face (there are still
those who will shed tears for that).
will we one day see you oh firm verb
who duck out of sight through the horror of time.
the people is amused with its business
and who will still have faith in the great promise
who to hope in the impossible
to dream with open eyes: a thief. a robber.
a cheat.
a homeless wanderer who steals ahead.
a hunter of people: confirmer of faith with a long-range
stinger that will plunge into the heated heart.
material that burns on your very own coals
from the depth does not either the adulteress surface
or the evil-doer
or the usurer
or the miniscule gloom. and what point to questions when the one who
has come down won’t start singing with anyone
nor will ever throw small change into anyone’s face.
The Thaler
you are thirty. let’s say a bit more.
so much of that. you’ve passed through this. that. and now you’re
finally for who knows which time here. and so it will be
said: overly neck-breaking. insufficiently
arousing etc. is that all after so much
time. indeed: it ought to be incomparably
better. in what have i failed
if it’s permitted to know. and who’s responsible in general.
but the question that drills your heart (e.g.)
doesn’t drill a locked door. and what now.
must the day be spent with lamentation.
and if someone is going to wonder it won’t be you.
for one can go still lower.
the thaler moves from purse to purse and what can
be done with that. therefore
can one know all that you need. you know so much
stuff that you’ll quite freely go to hell.
The Cat
countless times i’ve seen that
creature: how it disappears round a corner.
how it stretches opening
its jaws on a soft rug
how it silently retreats
swaying
into the mouth of darkness. and each comparison
stood on glass legs whenever i
sensed the mystery of her reducibility.
she is someone. she is something. and the more i
circled in the gloom of conceptions she all the more firmly
was only she. for although it seemed to be
something else
her god rapidly
leaped over me towards the house’s threshold
winking with a sly wink
returned me all at once to the place i came from.
she is she herself. she is herself she. is there a more sacred
word that simultaneously strikes and betrays. is there a clearer
thought about the world. he is he himself. he is himself he.
whereas who am i dear beast. who am i holiness
that sets afire every language that wants to take on
immeasurable intensity if i am not the asker
whose face fades in your eyes.
Bend
before i understood what it was about
before i had advanced my own reasons
before i knew where i was headed
before i could know where i had left from
and where to start what i had started
before i had scented the diamond
tasted of deafness
sung in the desert
they advised me:
bend your head. hunch over.
but isn’t it bent enough
haven’t i done it so it’s visible.
bend it so it really shows
hunch so you cast a shadow on uprightness
hunch so that we rejoice in hunchedness
take it into your heart
pierce your soul with it
be master of your limbs
be inspired by hunchbackedness
shine like a disk that doesn’t fly
glow like bentness that can’t be repeated
that will lower unbentness
that will put a brake on its tongue
to sweep with its words
to shorten its height
muddy its visibility
to limit its width
hunch yourself for your own sake
for the sake of worldly fame
of salvation that’s within arm’s reach
continue so that we grasp hunchedness
so we understand the mercy with which we’re rewarded
so we are exalted by the strength that we’ve taken
so we are confirmed in the mind with which we’re mindful
so we depend on the bentness
that we gave to you.
What
what to say of the one whose face is ruined by pain
of the one who thinks about money
about debts
about brethren or traitorous friends
about rituals
and handshakes
of dog food
and dog races
of framers
and long-distance rockets
of taxes and platinum cards
of foreign words
of the perfumes of Bukhara
of tyrants living and dead
of morning coffees and cold streets
an eclipse of the moon
and rainy monsoons
of artificial insemination
and the slaughter of seals
of suicidal whales
of great talents
of a long jump
of shuttered mines
of unrecognized killers
of rapists
and poisoned waters
of great statesmen
of hopeless fellatio
of a yellow river
of endangered snakes
and massacred orangutans
of killers of bulls
and sudden winnings
of toxic mushrooms
and killed-off peoples
of errors intentional and accidental
of lucky oversights
and unforeseeable rescues
of hunger of breathing
of fame and execution
of the headsman and his masks
of justice and the scourges of ecstasy
of unutterable pain
of words of letters of nothing.
The Leash
along the street that was flooded with twilight
between the yards where willful knowledge sang
and the dulled fields through which the raven cawed
a tiny dog is pulled on a tight chain.
the boy who pulled him looked like the blind future
with sharp eyes like judgment in his heart he was making a decision
while his head was unwrapped like the horizon
absent like what would fool him
light like the light that is only acknowledged once
he was leading the dog down the slopes of darkness
of the one who in the dark growls and can't bear it.
but the reason was above both of them
he who had carried out petty crimes
and he who held the leash
to neither of them
is a measure given
not one controlled with barking at the unfamiliar
not one didn't breathe from the motives he recalled
and no one knew what was in their embryo.
the dark reason was evening out scores
what's going to happen will happen in faith
that he perished outside of knowledge
that the path of death is the path of a devilish birth
and that the path of love opens through staggering.
The Heart Of A Nobody
she had silver incisors
that ease that she moved
with flexible jolts
with rounded creases. fastened
like a rampart they burned and preserved
the volcanic heatedness of the alveola
that body that was distancing itself and
disappearing into the door behind which
the fine scents of the city were swelling. behind her
her hermes ran around. a fancied-up
lad. like a computer stretched taut
agitated like a percentage chart
luxurious as a diaphragm. in light
sandals he capered before
the diamond eyes
slid down the quick hands of shadows
while i tried to catch her glance
between the counters
across the shelves
through the thick air it beat.
if the world disappears
if the grass doesn't grow
if my soul is empty
let her blade quarter me
let my heart explode
the heart of a nobody with nothing better to do.
The Island
the war never ended. i remember the dawn when
i was leaving my home. it was everywhere. it held an hatchet
behind the doorpost. on the bed it had piled a body draped
with a wolf's skin.
it looked like a peacock that was eying me dubiously
and getting ready to peck my hands. it lowered the blinds
on the windows. it was hiding so i couldn't see it.
i knew it was breathing down my neck
it tied up my breath and made things transparent
to which i had dedicated my vision.
it addressed me scornfully:
you who chew quartz you'll expect to vomit it
you'll learn to remember what you've forgotten
i am your knowledge that you waking predicted
that which you'll turn back to see will be darkness
the father who will never return
the sea off which flame will arrive
from which you'll go deaf.
who is stronger than war
i whom nobody asks about anything
an island from which only the name will remain
a usurer who'll loan to me
a weapon that kills before it's forged
or a snake that crawls in where it's no place for her.
The Ocean
they who raised a rebellion
against the tsar were sliced by the tsar's swords.
so the legend has it. they got close to the palace
they saw the crown
if they extinguishe its gleam they will light torches
if they extinguish the torches they will light their hearts
and burn out in darkness. they who raised the rebellion
against the consul were crushed. they got close to
the palace and heard the rustling of the consul's capes
if they tear the banners they'll save their hands
if their hands fall they'll wind up in a cave.
they who dared to move against the castle
broke into the courtyard from courtyards
into rooms. from the rooms they entered the heart of darkness
out of which their memory never strides.
they who turned heads and the voice of the leader
doesn't return into the ears of the scribe
tore the banners and dressed in tatters
the one who had given them air and told them fables.
they who sang to the only god who in the song
droved away all other gods
were surrounded by fire and threats
and their promise went out as an ember
is extinguished in the ocean.
but not a single tale is dependable
not a single tyrant lost
not a single rebel slain
the consuls still shuffle their papers and eavesdrop
on conversations
the praetorians sit at headquarters and don't see
how not a single battle
has been won
how the deserts are waste
while cities are hastened
how everyone is under surveilance
yet no one speaks of it.
in vestibules gather the shadows of those who
don't recognize caesar
don't recognize his nature don't see his limbs
nor the shields on the mountain passes
nor the banners around the cities
nor the dead in the deserts
nor the impoverished in shelters
do not see the gifts that he throws from the heights
don't see the victorious fury
nor the glory that tames distances
and links the unlinkable
while he has just about joined the fools
who will behead him with their joy.
The Tomcat
For Svea Haske and Maksi
when i got to Berlin
i ran into a tomcat who met me
at the door
he looked at me like a teacher eying an ignoramus.
his protectress told me he was fatally ill
and no longer went out in the garden and didn't lie down in the gleaming grass.
he looked me over as if I was
someone from far away who would carry his chains.
but he quickly realized that i was his brother
that my panting was similar to his
and that my breathing was like crying.
he lay in a corner staring into the distance
as if he was examining what waited for him there.
berlin is spacious and leans on the water like a prairie
maybe it will meet me once more like a fish
mute to tell me anything about its past life
but prepared to lend its muteness to any schoolchild.
Brecht's Houses
for Robert Wein
rain's falling in berlin and i go under the overarches
to fly over the rooftops and go down under the earth
to see a living dead man who lies beside his darling.
he was a hell of a learner
he waned to know more than a tyrant and less than a stone
he wanted to get away from insidious blows
and to find himself with weak friends
they had thin robes through which winter stung
through which the cold rain poured
and here i am in Berlin in his nest.
the water goes down my cheeks
while i climb there where the worlds were or their other sides
speed or sleepiness
a multitude that needed to save the whole.
i climb up the stairs in order to
look over the room for conversations
to sniff the deathbed
to marvel over the vessels of illusions
a smal terrace and a great many cups
bowls with a dull gleam
spoons with which food was picked up
between sentences that like flocks
settled in the doorways
in the treetops of the garden that
gleams like cemetery evergreens in the wilderness.
and somewhat farther the cemetery paths
and the dead laid out as if at a market
behind my back huguenots and opposite bert
with a great big head
stately notables
plaques with names
stones planted carelessly
who could have gathered them here besides death
cold wisdom from which we learn that no one will
speak up about what has to be kept silent.
Ears
two boys were hunting a rabbit
through the deep snow and through immobility
that spread out above the figures
but didn't touch the souls.
the sun was miserly
the shiny snow elevated blindness
through the distances
and everything was linked in one
while the one split up in a tense race
paging through the breathing of the god of visibiliy
in the nostrils of a beast and its pursuers.
they caught it
and while it was twitching
counted the breaths that were
extinguished in its miniscule heart:
does the creator err when he distributes salvation
not caring to reward
the ones who spill mute blood
and gather unworthy happiness
and the one who dreamed of the faces of his hunters while he was still
listening to fairytales and while they were sanctifying to him
their ears.
The Cage
i look at the cage
i used to keep a parrot in it
he was as miniscule as breathing
in his brightness he grew smaller
only to disappear after.
i kept a hamster in it
he moved in a circle searching for a gap
so he could discover distance
but the circle was perfect
and he understood certainty
and drowned in it.
who can i shut in the cage now:
a desert lion
who i'll teach to sing
and so kill him
a broad-winged condor
whose wings i'll break
ad so finish him off
a green python who i'll tie in a knot
so he doesn't try to teach me
so he doesn't lead me into sin
and so make him be silent
or nothing
who doesn't spill its food
who doesn't breathe and doesn't die
who doesn't make my heart feel pity
while it stretches out into infinity
while it flirts with cheery eyes.
I Turn Around In God
i sit in god amid god's
devices. at god's table surrounded
by his machines. voices and noises
of the indistinct angels. in god's
belly with god's purpose. all that is
unutterable is unconquerable and is not maintained
in the fraudulent mirror. a little piece
of god's soul in me wriggles
restlessly in god's spaces
among god's images
before god's love
before god's sins.
i think of god's arson
of god's anarchy
of god's fury. god's brothers
gods hostages i see in death
in god's justice death reaches them
god's atrocity
and god's crime is on their burned
faces. i turn in god's conversation
in god's straining
in god's fear
that i don't remain alone by god
in his grandeur
in his endlessness.
gods crucifixion utters god's words
saves its head
saves god's purity
supports god's lostness
crowns god's sorrow.
i turn in god
to see where god's heads are flying from
where nothing advances from
and i can't see the end of it.
Weight
two and two make four
paltry knowledge but dependable
how much it was helpful
when i was counting
what the crack of dawn would make known
when i was guarding what needed to be lost.
the bill was the wilderness
while the water was peaceful
and a murmur flew into the heights
and a sparrow-hark sang in the wildness
but those who were passing only looked at me
as if at a weight that is yet to be laid
on the scales.
while i made haste to chew up what could be expounded
i waved as much as my heart knew how to calculate
i saw that water was mixing up the numbers
that the air was devouring the sums
that a clap of thunder threw out fragments and scattered them
in tails of light
that the roof was the place where works turn to stone
and the supports give way
so that the underground climbs with a hank of fire
and pours over the cities
that to leave doesn't also find
that to shore up doesn't mean to save
that to find doesn't mean to take on the deferred
to go away lacks the soul of return
that the one who returns has no memory
and that when three go away but one returns
it's as if no one returned.
i saw a shadow that grows in the dark
a treetop that looms over the trunk
a swallow that attacks an eagle
a hatchet that returns on the shoulder of an angel
however much you gather
however much you forget
will be too much.
Descent
while I was stepping along shadowy trails
and looking at how the ganders' necks were gleaming
and at the sparrow-hawk as it fell and the sparrow in tendrils of feathers
and the field mouse in haste and the finch in on the bent vine
i saw that my pale face too was reflected in startled eyes
that were moving from the light into shadow from dryness to dampness
that it is the time of the bowl and that i’m a boy who sees everything
and that i am noticed by everything
and that everything gathers into one point that keeps me on my feet
and moves the scourges of light and sanctifies a thousandfold hands
that pray and refute
i realized that i’m not alone and that i’m covered with a thousand veils
and that i won’t be able to untangle them and count them as long as i
rely on the eyes that lead me through the groves
over warm puddles and through the silent grass that warms me
i knew i was blessed and my tongue was borrowed
that i gathered it from the mouths that oversaw me
and that sprinkled me with seasonings so i would be a bright steer
whom they prepare so his meat will firm their limbs
and to make their tongue flexible as the hunter makes his sense of smell
prepared to find prey among the myriads of things
and recognize his reason as undeniable among the addled names
like salt that is grabbed to throw over heat into the gleams of the throat
let it be known that i must be born countless times
and that i always climb down from my mouth anew into the refuge of the shade
that recognizes its body
here in the lair of time into which i went down to cognize
that i am not the one who i am
and that what i see
is not seen by the one whose skin waits for me in its mouth
who will devour me.
Haystack
i’ve forgotten the noises of the treetops
which the voice of the silvery owl broke through
the attic in which she wove her other life
the prattle that threw me over the unnamed groves
the muteness where i would meet my heart as it dissolves
before the breaths of promises
i forgot the voices that arrived through
the gestures of night that in its wings
hides the kind-voiced beat of tiny creatures
whose eyes flash like tomorrow that will light up
the mouth that with substance renews being
i forgot the slippery canals along whose slopes
the grass blazed and in whose stomach purpose was transformed into law
while law into measure which my look could not multiply
i was a flier of whom it’s not known whether he’s a hunter in a blind or
a dedicator
i was in an angelic trumpet in which the air was peaceful
then i didn’t know that fire was starting to burn in nearby
and that its glow is the reflection of unchangingness
and that the haystack burns only in order to calm us
and that the arsonist is innocent while the measure is dispassionate
like an event that must take place
and that every arrangement is outside intelligence
however much water you’ll spill is already calculated
and every time when you snatch it closer to the hearth
your hand will not untangle that
like a soul that waits for a blind angel
to teach it that doing is a fire that does not calm down
and that blindness is sight that casts far away
large ears and a babbling mouth
that blaze like incombustible straw
A Burden
to carry a dresser or furniture
piles of books or a sack full of grain
up the attic steps or along the banister
to the elevator to drag provisions
with tensed muscles
to carry a mirror in which you don’t look at yourself
what is reflected
links up in the same acts
mixed-up pictures of childhood
distant water
artificial fibers
thirst crumpled up like breathing
a wish that lifts you up and shame that lowers you
small change
time conquered and time lost.
you look back after the burden
like a cry-baby who cries
like a mocker who mocks
everything emerges from everything
fruit from sprouts
uncleanness from cleanness
a lion from a lion’s den
a hyena from a hyena’s lair
and everything carries a burden
that gets bigger and adds up
like a stack in a field that doesn’t fall apart.
In The Dusk
In the dusk before the scythe
they found a warren of rabbits
they brought a young one that trembled
i was a boy when i pressed it to my chest
i shivered like a heart that wanted
to become a fire that pours out mercy.
in my hands time scatters
blood burst out of his nostrils
love mixes up with death
and his breath went out.
i was the scythe that doesn’t stop in its swing
that falls as if it hasn’t bought even a moment
and squeezes breathing into a death rattle.
The Spectacle
the wind sings in the treetops
above roofs and footsteps
on a city afternoon
beside the river on the city’s edge.
birds over the horizon
the glass of doors behind which
you can’t hear the voices
shadowy gardens
transparent bushes
and light that plays
and settles down above the grassy greenbeds.
i don’t budge
as i was put in the spectacle by a creator
who doesn’t know what to do with me.
Lead
today i am joyful
tomorrow that won’t repeat
i’ll receive the letter
i’ll hear a voice over the telephone
someone will knock on the door
a fire will break out in the vicinity
i’ll see memory that wears a wrinkled face
that has fallen apart and curls up in the offices
i’ll see running away that has gobbled up its body
and homelessness that darkens its windows
and lookouts you can’t stand in
because of the cold storm and the sleet
i’ll see beauty that has collapsed
and death that hides in the corridors
and a mob in which noise grows like the bier of a mortal
and babbling that burns like the dark before
dawn
i’ll see cities and villages and spies and customs officials
and friends and curious people and shouters in the markets
and water lilies on the water and lifeless birds with extinguished
eyes
i’ll see dead music and dried out leather on the drums
and the sounds of the heart and the shouts of the city and empty islands
and overgrown roofs and hopeless owls
and molten lead and the copper of alchemy
and i’ll see sorrow as it widens
as it sings
like a bird on the edge of the window
and gobbles up my joy.
Step
i stand on the shoal and listen to the river noises
the reflections of words and grimaces
movements and cramps and ringing voices.
i stare through the blinds of the air
i listen
to a woodpecker’s beats on bark that breathes
echoes united with the earth and growth
the murmur of wings
the rustling of tails through dry leaves.
i hear the hum that connects
shadows and water and nothing, which swings like a bell
and flits between the treetrunks.
the noise is transformed
into a hard curtain where breaths sink and windows go dark
where bodies decay and love is taken as the meat of death.
a wall that breathes
a step in the dark.
I saw the moment when i was on the water
when i went down its slopes
down the warm strokes of the current
i kicked among the shoals
its perspicacity summoned me
to see the lightning that illuminates
the boat that glows with tattered sails.
Iron Jaws
what are our cites like
what villages.
house next to house
unpredictable paths roads
vehicles legion
uncountable sounds.
each habit is a custom
and the custom cause for sobbing
and when they carry or see off a dying man
and when the police gather in swarms in broad daylight
and when the dark mass of descriptions is neatly laid aside in waterproof bags.
how much of it there is no one knows
while the former knowledge was more dependable after all
the signature of commissars or of a senior official
a chance that guarantees wisdom that is not forgotten
he’s caught even today from a flyer throwing the most wanted
people without names
women without passion
doormen without the familiar diligence.
bones are sniffed and artificial hips
photograph their arms and iron jaws
and send them forward without big words.
and you go down the street on every balcony a handful of prophets
some of them clamber up on a wooden chest just to stand over us
to put the truth on our heads from above
wherever you turn everywhere are promises
from the screen they shout that it’s the day of decision
that it’s the moment not to miss
and that they’ve found the lookout from which to see the farthest.
if you stand you don’t know how long it will last
if you sit you’ll miss your bus
if you start thinking you’ll forget where you set out to go.
Memory
i listened to the old songs
i listened to the new ones.
what connected them
really nothing but hoarse voices or the ones with ornaments.
some didn’t have enough time
others didn’t have darkness
in some of them there was too much landscape
or too much faith
of tremorous melodies which
referred to a lost thing
others in a scattered sounding confirmed their own selves
while leaving the reasons on a barren lawn
there somewhere like an unsightly servant
or a deceptive companion.
thus i too stand before the strident birds
some sing and want me to feed them
others trace a curve to avoid me.
the ones that take food don’t know what
i sing. they see me as a savior and as a hunter
and so they are cautious
my song has nothing to do with them
nor the voices i listened to
once where the waves rolled
and the depth wheezed and whined
and the planets struck in the water’s heart.
while they take food they hear their own breathing
and see one hand that goes away and moves closer
do they also see memory in whose mouth
words fall apart.
Disown
make yourself invisible
so much that you go to sleep
as if your dream has already been told
and you remember it from another life.
make yourself devoted
so you’ll know the thing no one is paid for
until doubt wrecks the stone
on which the silver coin doesn’t fall
nor does anyone bend over to smell it.
disown
the dark
disown reason.
reasonlessess is the law
and power measured approximately
takes over spaces
and is shared among the ones who don’t ask
which day is first among equals.
if today i set out
will i get there today.
what is more important
than the moment you set off
to grip your heart which already sees you overtaking yourself
and to knock out the doubt of those who don’t believe that you
arrived before you set out.
disown distance
disown proof
for knowledge serves to lullaby the deaf
while words ring not in order to sow rebellion
but to embrace nonexistence
and cover the darkness.
Under The Clouds
the more darkness
the less brightness
voices from the distance and voices right by your ear
are similar as a womb to a womb
you hear these and those
these dimly those indistinctly
and as if you’ve been fed
when you catch the echo
confirmed that you’re alive.
but those who preach quick chewing
and perishing as the eye of justice
see themselves as judges
and as witch doctors and as lost in the darkness
and they judge like victors and mourn for themselves
like losers.
the more darkness
the more lightness
and however
we’ll finish up when we go to sleep
and we’ll disappear if we don’t wake up.
look at the geese under the clouds
and the bison in the fields
look at the irritable ones at the steps
and the crush on the bridges
we passed without delay
and the one who won’t return looks back.
Jovan Zivlak – A Short Biography
Jovan Zivlak was born in 1947 in Serbian Nakovo in Banat, a region of Vojvodina, near the Romanian border. He finished secondary school in Kikinda and graduated from the University of Novi Sad with a degree in Serbian language and literature.
Zivlak was editor in chief of Svetovi, publishing 1985-2007. Now he is the manager of Adresa publishing house. He is not only a publisher of postmodern literature and philosophy, but also editor-in-chief of the magazine for literature, art and culture Zlatna greda, which he helped to found in 2001, and head of the International Literature Festival in Novi Sad.
Zivlak has edited works by well-known Serbian writers (Laza Kostić, Jovan Dučić, Dušan Vasiljev, Danilo Kiš, Milorad Pavić, etc.) and has written studies about them.
Jovan Zivlak has published eleven volumes of poetry and three of essays in Serbian to date.
His poems focus on the gaps in reality, and his poetry is influenced by the art of discretion, a stage for painful absence. Based on a distrust of the present, Zivlak refers to metaphysical knowledge and places the action of the subject over the modern in the foreground. As an expression of metaphysical self-exploration his language transmits clear and solidly structured images, fragmentary impressions and deep reflections that seek to decode the mystery of the modern world. “Zivlak's spiritual and philosophical views provide the backdrop to their own morphology of society and culture in which the ambivalent role of man in relation to nature is expressed and, moreover, his position within his own culture and history is explored.” His poems are in important anthologies of Serbian poetry at home and abroad, and his books have been translated into numerous languages (German, French, Italian, Polish, Hungarian, Bulgarian, Slovak, Macedonian, Romanian...): Trepied, Paris, 1981; Poèmes choisis, Laussane, 1999; Gedichte, Mitlesebuch, Berlin, 2009; Despre Gaide, Temisoara, 2010; Slizane, Sofia, 2012; Szczeliny czasy, Warszawa, 2012; Winterbericht, Leipzig, 2013; Le roi des oies, Paris, 2014; Informe invernal, Ciudad de México, 2014). He have received many awards.
Jovan Zivlak lives and works in Novi Sad.