The blood which enters the world
and the blood which leaves
whoever donates it and whoever receives
from whatever veins into our veins
above all the vessels of the body
It's a sea in its own right
a silent sea
poured into capillaries of glass
in the depths of a cell
in elements and stars
ar the very heart of every word
less corruptible
than metal or fire
a silent sea a wisp of wind
paving the way for resurrection
Take from me, take all my blood.
Translated by Dennis O'Driscoll with the poet
In the end
disorder reaches perfection
languages dissolve into the music of wind
chaos attains pure splendor.
In the end out of the whirlwinds whirlpools evolution
the world screeches to a halt a fixed image
waters skies cities hang suspended
the entire universe consummates
in a daring and profound
photograph.
He holds up the print still wet
examines it for a long, long time
examines himself for as long a time
and gulps it down.
Translated by Adam J. Sorkin with the poet
1.
The old woman is telling the much younger woman
about her past: tender red lips and
foamy, hot rapids which now she can look upon only while weeping.
In the ill-furnished room time slows down slows down
turns back: stops short for a suspended instant
and suddenly reveals a ghastly countenance.
At that moment the young woman sees the huge translucent Vein
through which she and the old woman and
the impoverished room and the meager, sordid things around them
together with the entire city and frothing cascades
like a colorless blood incomprehensible a monotonous murmuring
flow out of a bottomless obscure mouth
into another dark mouth.
2.
The old woman is telling the much younger woman
about her past: savage diseases and cruel operations
chilling complaints about medicines and death.
In the austere room the young woman absentmindedly listens to
her:
she is thinking of love love and all at once
she would love everything around her the chairs, the table
the old woman and her decrepit, wretched things
the grimy window the city.
And suddenly she imagines death
with a strange, unbridled joy; a construction
at her overawed heart a fierce fiery wave floods her body
as in puberty when in a secret fever she daydreamed
of her first man her first love-making.
At that very moment the young woman sees
a dazzling Blood
incomprehensible foamy flow out
of a bottomless obscure mouth
into another vast illuminated mouth.
Translated by Adam J. Sorkin with the poet
Her name was Hyacintha, iacinta,
name of the spicy flower of spring unfortunate melancholy ephebe
diffusing his unripe blood throughout the countryside
and name of a Christian martyr
her name was iacinta, how strange, hyacinth, I was exalted
as it from breathing in her perfume suffused in chloroform
her name was Hyacintha but she ignored everything
and cared for nothing.
She lay in the white hospital bed,
had four children, didn't know anything about sex, genitals,
cycles, pills, all those mysterious things,
she was sallow and thin, had straw-colored hair,
almost a peasant, was afraid of the lancet and of blood,
desired to have no more children. I asked her,
do you know how it feels to be a hyacinth?
Iacinta looked at me, so startled.
She lay in the white hospital bed
terrorized by her very body ashamed
Just because her name was Hyacintha, iacinta,
spicy flower of spring plucked from snow-covered fields,
handsome ill-fated ephebe,
immaculate Christian martyr,
I taught her about genitals, cycles and pills,
in the bed full of hyacinth flowers
I helped her
to disseminate
her blood...
Translated by Adam J. Sorkin with the poet