Z absolútneho denníka I (Slovak)
(2)
Keď budeš visieť na drôtiku a nohy sa ti budú knísať v prievane, pochopíš, že sú to iba ďalšie kroky do prázdna. Tak už s tým prestaň, už je po jarmoku a ty si sa predal ešte za živa... Bol si vždy oslík, ktorý beží v kufríku, bol si vždy uzavretý, bol si na kľúčik a nesúc svoj náklad, bol si nesený, lež iným smerom. To práve je tá mechanika pohybu, to je ten slávny výstup blázna, ktorý prichádza, aby sa presvedčil, že tu už nie je, no vracajúc sa vidí, že neodišiel, a tak tam sedí, plače na schodoch, zúfalo kričiac do rehotu divadla: »Preboha, kto som a kam sa ponáhľam?«
Ubúda času ako múky z vreca. Mohla byť z teba krásna mŕtvola, mohol si ležať v tráve, pozerať svetu pod sukne, mať v uchu cvrčka, žltnúť pri hudbe, mohol si byť citovaný, mohli po tebe pomenovať cukráreň... — A čo si? Nula. Trocha kostí. V najlepšom prípade vec občas potrebná na hodinách anatómie.
Už sa rozpadáte, ty a ten starý dáždnik, čo sa zabúda, nič, púhe kostry v tmavom kabinete...
Pod tvojím hrudným košom hrať s lunou basketbal! Nič. Tma, prach a krieda! Len postupne objavujú sa topole a trávy, morské hviezdice, trhá sa Zem, kontinenty sa vzďaľujú...
Kde si bol vtedy, homo sapiens?
S tebou to ešte skúsiť? Teba potiahnuť hodvábnym leskom?
Ó, čierny dáždnik, strata pamäti, zatmenie slnka, náhle slepnutie!
Ó, čierny dáždnik, bodka za životom!
S tebou byť nezáväzný. Teba si púšťať z ucha do ucha ako banálnu hudbu, teba si v hlave rozložiť, nechať ťa letieť po vetre, bol by z teba povetroň, vzrušil by si mesto!
(4)
Padáme ako po behu, vypľúvame zakrvavené mestá, opúšťame ich, škrtíme sa vlastnými rukami a pred zrkadlom odhaľujeme pohlavie maloletého slova, ochotní vyspať sa s každou lepšou básňou. Závidíme si, nenávidíme sa. Tak ako vy bifteky, hltáme svoje narkotiká, aby sme uvideli motýľa, prechádzajúceho do skupenstva ruže.
Trápime ženy, nechávame sa trápiť ženami, píšeme, píšeme, posledná spodná sukňa noci je dávno popísaná, a nikto nevie, čo je poézia.
Niektorí ju definujú ako prijatý návrh na ukončenie panenstva a iní ako prerušovanú súlož citu s rozumom, ale to je fatálny omyl! Poézia chodí v kockovanej košeli a kašle na bontón!
Z tohto hľadiska kométa v hlave a luna pod nechtom môžu byť celkom vhodné pre báseň, ale poézia je niečo iné, vážení! Začína sa to vtedy, keď spozoruješ, ako sa v tebe pohol kostlivec,
ako ti znútra siahol do vrecka a skúma rok, mesiac a deň narodenia, farbu očí, zvláštne znamenie... To je čas básne. Tras sa, lebo prichádza posolstvo v podobe semena, bolesť a krv, olej na oheň. Tak do biela rozžeravená nahota syčí všade okolo, kolotoče stromov sa krútia a krútia...
Každá báseň má svoj čas, ale čas básne je kratší, než si myslíš.
(7)
Ach, akvamaríny sú studené, bolia ma tvoje oči, oranžové plamene!
Hnedá, vôňa pálenej kože, povraz na hrdle. Biela, pleť konvalinky a nože!
Dajte pokoj, ja to viem, aj vy ste plakávali do vlasov predavačky z parfumérie.
Vtedy ste boli bohatí a milovali vás!
Dobrý deň, slečna. Svieti u vás med, šialenstvo šalvie, purpur, oheň, pižmá.
A kde je báseň? Nemáme! Ach, akvamaríny sú studené!
(9)
Úbohý básnik, ktorý vykráda klenotnice a kostoly, verný vôl plužných slov, s Andromédou v pysku!
Príležitostne budeš vypískaný, pôjdeš na oheň, všetky hanby sveta budú v tebe porátané a ich suma pripíše sa ti k ťarche. Tvoje poníženia sa rozpočítajú na prvé a druhé a prvé vojdú do druhých, aby ich naplnili, samy nimi napĺňané.
Ó, nežný úd! Tvoje meno je strata semena a tvoje tehotenstvá sa nikdy neukončia plačom mláďat. Budeš opľúvaný a ženy, ktoré si miloval, budú pri tom, s očami prižmúrenými tak nauzučko, že pod nohy ti budú plakať žiletky...
To nie je ako vtedy, keď ste spití kdejakou hudbou náhodného tela do výstrihov malé luny dávili! Kde je tá žena, ktorá sa nevyzliekla v zreničke tvojho oka?
A predsa — kto, ako ty bezradný pred tajomstvom blizien, prosil pozhovieť? Kto odmietal jesť ľalie? Kto nahú ani rosu nevzal na jazyk? Kto veril, že sú všetky zrnká peľu spočítané? Komu bolo ľúto ľahkých púpav? Podvodník! Ktovie, čo si niesol, ale niesol si to tak, aby všetci uverili, že máš so sebou vozík, do ktorého sa ukladajú strieborné podkovy strateného šťastia. Postupne si vypovedal celý svoj životopis, ale zámerne si zabudol na nejakú maličkosť, ktorá sa stávala kľúčovým bodom básne.
(10) Ubúda času — len sa teš! Si bežcom, ktorý má pod košeľou líščie mláďa! Uploaded by | Répás Norbert |
Publisher | KALLIGRAM, Edícia: Knižnica slovenskej literatúry |
Source of the quotation | Miroslav Válek - Básnické dielo, ISBN: 80-7149-795-9 |
Bookpage (from–to) | 168-173 |
Publication date | 2005 |
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From the Absolute Diary I (English)
2
When you are hanging on the tiny wire and your legs are swaying in a draft, you will get, that these are just another steps into the void. So stop it, the fair is over and you have sold yourself alive… You've always been a donkey running in the trunk, you've always been closed, you've been winding, and carrying your load you've been carried, just straight to the opposite direction. This is that mechanism of the movement, that's that famous act of a fool, who is coming to check he's gone, though returning he sees he hasn't, so he is just sitting there, crying on the stairs, desperately shouting to the theatre's guffaw: "For God's sake, who am I and where am I rushing?"
The time is running out like flour from the bag. You could pass for a nice corpse, you could lay in the grass and peep under the world's skirt, having a cricket in the ear, getting yellow at music, you could be quoted, they could name a patisserie after you... - And what are you? A zero. A bit of bones. At best a thing occasionally needed at the anatomy lesson.
You're falling apart already, you and that old umbrella which is always being left behind, nothing, sheer skeletons in the dark room…
Under your rib cage to play basketball with the moon!
Nothing. Darkness, dust and chalk! Just one by one poplars turn up, grasses and starfishes, the Earth is torn apart, the continents are moving apart…
Where were you at that time, homo sapiens?
To try with you again? To cover you with a silk gloss?
Oh, the black umbrella, the loss of memory, the eclipse of the sun, a sudden blinding!
Oh, the black umbrella, a full stop beyond live!
To be with you bondless. To play you from ear to ear like banal music, to spread you in the head, to let you fly with the wind, you would be a glider, you would excite the town!
4
We are dropping as if after running, spitting towns full of blood, we leave them and strangle ourselves with our own hands and in front of the looking glass we uncover the sex of an under-aged word, willing to sleep with every other poem worthwhile. We envy ourselves, we detest ourselves. Just as you gobble beefsteaks we do our narcotics, to see a butterfly getting in the state of the rose.
We bother women and we let women bother us, we write, write, the last skirt of the night is filled with writing, though nobody knows what the poetry is.
Some people define it as an approved proposition for the ending of virginity and others as a coitus interruptus between sense and sensibility, but that's a fatal mistake! The poetry wears a tartan shirt and doesn't give a damn about good manners.
From this point of view, a comet in the head and the moon under the fingernail, might be quite suitable for a poem, but the poetry is something else, dear all! It begins when you notice that skeleton has moved inside you
as he dived into your pocket from inside and examines the year, the month, and the day of birth, the colour of eyes distinguishing sign... That's the time for the poem. Tremble, because it's coming the message in the form of semen, the pain and blood, the oil and the fire. That white hot nudity is hissing all around, the merry-go-rounds of trees are spinning and spinning...
Every poem has its time, but the poem's time is shorter than you think.
7
Ooh, aquamarines are cold, I feel the pain of your eyes, the flames are gold!
Brown, the smell of burning skin, the rope on your throat. White, complexion of the lilly-of-the-walley and spleen!
Come on, I know that you also used to cry to a perfume shop assistant's hair.
You were rich at that time and they loved you!
Good morning miss. Is the honey shining there, the madness of sage, purple, fire, the musks.
And where is a poem? Out of stock! Ooh, aquamarines are cold!
9
A poor poet who robs the jewel cases and churches, a faithful ox of slimy words with Andromeda in chops!
Occasionally you'll be booed off, you'll go on the fire, all shames of the world will be counted onto you and the sum will be added to your burden. Your humiliations will be divided to first ones and second ones and the first ones will enter into the second ones to fulfill them being fulfilled with them.
Ooh, gentle member! Your name is the loss of semen and your pregnancies will never deliver the cry of the juvenile. You will be spat on and women who loved you will be there with the eyes squinted so narrowly they will cry the razor blades under your feet…
So unlike at the time, when you were drunk by the who-knows-from music of a random body, you puked small moons into cleavages, sir! Where is that woman who you didn't strip in the pupil of your eye?
And yet who, like you, helpless before the secret of stigma, begged to wait? Who refused to eat the lilies? Who not even dew didn't take naked on the tongue? Who believed that all bits of pollen are counted? Who felt pity for light dandelions?
Trickster! Who knows what you were carrying, but you were carrying it the way, that everyone believed you'd got a trolley, where the silver horse shoes of lost happiness can be laid on. By and by you've told whole your curriculum vitae, though you deliberately omitted one detail, which was becoming the curtail point of the poem.
10
The time is running out – look forward! You're a runner with a fox puppy under the shirt!
Uploaded by | Répás Norbert |
Publisher | Amazon Kindle Edition |
Source of the quotation | Collection of Poems: Miroslav Válek, ASIN: B00V6YBLWK |
Bookpage (from–to) | Kindle Locations 350-484 |
Publication date | 2015-03-24 |
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