Richard Siken/Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out

 Every morning the maple leaves.

                               Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts

            from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big

and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out

                                             You will be alone always and then you will die.

So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog

         of non-definitive acts,

something other than the desperation.

                   Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party.

Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party

         and seduced you

and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.

                                                         You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?

A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.

                  Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.

What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.

            Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly

                                                                                               flames everywhere.

I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,

                that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.

I’m not the princess either.

                           Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down.

I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,

               I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow

         glass, but that comes later.

                                                            And the part where I push you

flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,

            shut up

I’m getting to it.

                                    For a while I thought I was the dragon.

I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was

                                                                                                the princess,

cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,

          young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with

confidence

            but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess,

while I’m out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire,

                                                               and getting stabbed to death.

                                    Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.

          You still get to be the hero.

You get magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights!

                  What more do you want?

I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re

            really there.

Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?

                                                       Let me do it right for once,

             for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes,

you know the story, simply heaven.

                   Inside your head you hear a phone ringing

                                                               and when you open your eyes

only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer.

                               Inside your head the sound of glass,

a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion.

             Hello darling, sorry about that.

                                                       Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we

lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell

                                    and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.

            Especially that, but I should have known.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together

            to make a creature that will do what I say

or love me back.

                  I’m not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not

feeding yourself to a bad man

                                                   against a black sky prickled with small lights.

            I take it back.

The wooden halls like caskets. These terms from the lower depths.

                                                I take them back.

Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.

                                                                                               Crossed out.

            Clumsy hands in a dark room. Crossed out. There is something

underneath the floorboards.

                   Crossed out. And here is the tabernacle

                                                                                                reconstructed.

Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all

               forgiven,

even though we didn’t deserve it.

                                                                    Inside your head you hear

a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up

            in a stranger’s bathroom,

standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away

                           from the dirtiest thing you know.

All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly

                                                                                              darkness,

                                                                                     suddenly only darkness.

In the living room, in the broken yard,

                                  in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport

          bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of

unnatural light,

             my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away.

And then the airplane, the window seat over the wing with a view

                                                            of the wing and a little foil bag of peanuts.

I arrived in the city and you met me at the station,

          smiling in a way

                    that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade,

          up the stairs of the building

to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things,

                                                I looked out the window and said

                                This doesn’t look that much different from home,

            because it didn’t,

but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights.

                                           We walked through the house to the elevated train.

            All these buildings, all that glass and the shiny beautiful

                                                                                             mechanical wind.

We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too,

            smiling and crying in a way that made me

even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I

                                                                                      just couldn’t say it out loud.

Actually, you said Love, for you,

                                 is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s

                                                                                                 terrifying. No one

                                                                                 will ever want to sleep with you.

Okay, if you’re so great, you do it—

                        here’s the pencil, make it work . . .

If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window

            is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing

river water.

            Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it

                                                                                                                 Jerusalem.

                            We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not

what we sought, so do it over, give me another version,

             a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over

and over,

             another bowl of soup.

The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.

             Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.

                                                                                                 Forget the dragon,

leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.

                                        Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,

             in gold light, as the camera pans to where

the action is,

             lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see

                                                the blue rings of my eyes as I say

                                                                                                   something ugly.

I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way,

             and I don’t want to be the kind that says the wrong way.

But it doesn’t work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats.

                                                            There were some nice parts, sure,

all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas

             and the grains of sugar

                              on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I’m sorry

                                                                                  it’s such a lousy story.

Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently

                     we have had our difficulties and there are many things

                                                                                                  I want to ask you.

I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,

             years later, in the chlorinated pool.

                                      I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have

             these luxuries.

I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together.

                                                            We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . .

             When I say this, it should mean laughter,

not poison.

                  I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes.

Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.

                                                  Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

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Kavafis/They Should Have Provided

I have almost been reduced to a homeless pauper.

This fatal city, Antioch,
has consumed all my money;
this fatal city with its expensive life.

But I am young and in excellent health.
My command of Greek is superb
(I know all there is about Aristotle, Plato;
orators, poets, you name it.)
I have an idea of military affairs,
and have friends among the mercenary chiefs.
I am on the inside of administrati on as well.
Last year I spent six months in Alexandria;
I have some knowledge (and this is useful) of affairs there:
intentions of the Malefactor, and villainies, et cetera.

Therefore I believe that I am fully
qualified to serve this country,
my beloved homeland Syria.

In whatever capacity they place me I shall strive
to be useful to the country. This is my intent.
Then again, if they thwart me with their methods —
we know those able people: need we talk about it now?
if they thwart me, I am not to blame.

First, I shall apply to Zabinas,
and if this moron does not appreciate me,
I shall go to his rival Grypos.
And if this idiot does not hire me,
I shall go straight to Hyrcanos.

One of the three will want me however.

And my conscience is not troubled
about not worrying about my choice.
All three harm Syria equally.

But, a ruined man, why is it my fault.
Wretched man, I am trying to make ends meet.
The almighty gods should have provided
and created a fourth, good man.
Gladly would I have joined him.

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Kavafis/In 200 B.C.

“Alexander, son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaimonians...” We can very well imagine how completely indifferent the Spartans would have been to this inscription. “Except the Lacedaimonians”— naturally. The Spartans weren’t to be led and ordered around like precious servants. Besides, a pan-Hellenic expedition without a Spartan king in command was not to be taken very seriously. Of course, then, “except the Lacedaimonians.” That’s certainly one point of view. Quite understandable. So, “except the Lacedaimonians” at Granikos, then at Issus, then in the decisive battle where the terrible army the Persians mustered at Arbela was wiped out: it set out for victory from Arbela, and was wiped out. And from this marvelous pan-Hellenic expedition, triumphant, brilliant in every way, celebrated on all sides, glorified as no other has ever been glorified, incomparable, we emerged: the great new Hellenic world. We the Alexandrians, the Antiochians, the Selefkians, and the countless other Greeks of Egypt and Syria, and those in Media, and Persia, and all the rest: with our far-flung supremacy, our flexible policy of judicious integration, and our Common Greek Language which we carried as far as Bactria, as far as the Indians. Talk about Lacedaimonians after that!

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Erlend Loe/Doppler

dün bütün gün ufaklıkla çadırda uzanıp havadan sudan konuştuk. ona su verdim, taze dallar koparıp getirdim; ben de ateşin korları arasında büyük et parçaları pişirip yedim. kürkünü tarağımla tımarlarken, insanların binlerce yıldır eğlence olsun diye değil, hayati bir ihtiyaçtan dolayı geyik avladığını anlattım ona, pedagojik bir biçimde. hayvan topluluklarının sınırsızca büyümesi felaketlere yol açar, dedim; ne dediğimi ben de pek bilmiyordum, buna benzer bir şeyi ya bir yerlerden duymuştum ya da bir yerde okumuştum, o yüzden böyle söyleyiverdim. geyikler çoğaldığında, hem fiziksel hem de zihinsel hastalıklar yayılır, dedim, sonunda ormanda keyifsiz bir ortam oluşur. gözünde bir canlandır bakalım, dedim yavruya. artık bir adı olmalı, ona bir isim bulmalıyım ama bir gözünde canlandır bakalım, dedim: salgın hastalıktan mustarip, ruh sağlıkları bozuk bir sürü geyik yiyecek için dövüşüyor, böğürerek sağa sola saldırıyor, ormanın tüm yasalarını ve geyiklerin etik kurallarını ayaklar altına alıyor. böyle olmasını kimse istemez. bu yüzden benim atalarım geyik avladılar, bu yüzden bizler bugün geyik avlıyoruz, dedim. bugün yaşamak için geyik etine ve derisine ihtiyacımız yok ama -burada sesimi alçalttım- yine de avlanıyoruz. ormana dalıp geyik avlamanın hoş bir şey olduğunu düşünüyoruz. avcıların arasında sıkı bir yoldaşlık var, anladığım kadarıyla, dedim, bir tür alışkanlık olmuş. eski alışkanlıklardan dolayı bunu yapıyoruz. ayrıca, daha önce de belirttiğim gibi, hayvan sürüsünün çok büyümesini engelliyoruz. işte böyle. ancak ben anneni eski bir alışkanlıktan dolayı öldürmüş değilim. ihtiyaçtan öldürdüm. günlerdir hiçbir şey yememiştim. yabanmersini mevsimi bittiğinden bu yana karnımı doğru dürüst doyuramamıştım. o işi bıçakla yaptığım için de özür dilerim, dedim. bu kadar haşinlik lüzumsuzdu ama tüfeğim yok, zaten kullanmasını da bilmiyorum. beni suçlayacak olursan, benimle ilişkinde, birtakım noktalarda duygusal bakımdan zorlanırsan, bunu anlarım. olabilir. bu duygulara kendin kulak vereceksin ve nerede gerekli görüyorsan oraya bir sınır koyacaksın. ama şunu bilmeni istiyorum ki, bu zor zamanlarda sana destek olmaya hazırım, dedim, hem -kısa bir moladan sonra devam ettim- annen bir süre sonra aranızdaki bağı merhametsizce kesecekti. seni kendinden uzaklaştıracak ve çekip gitmeni isteyecekti. çünkü geyikler böyledir. çok iyiymiş gibi görünür, sonra da çocuklarınıza bok gibi davranırsınız. çok hayvansınız. çocuğu doğurup, emzirip biraz da yol gösterdiniz mi, tamam; onlar tam kendilerini güvende ve tehlikeden uzak hissettiklerinde de başınızdan atıverin. annen kısa bir süre sonra, hatta belki de gelecek hafta sen kendi yoluna, ben kendi yoluma, diye başlayacaktı; o gün senin için acı bir gün olacaktı, pek çok geyiğin asla üstesinden gelemediği bir gün, ama ben anneni öldürdüğüm için şimdi bunları yaşamaktan kurtuldun; bunun yerine onu, çatallı diliyle değil, her zaman arkanda olan ve manasızca, birdenbire senden koparılıp alınan biri olarak hatırlayacaksın, dedim tüylerini tararken.

teşekkürler sevgili bardaki tatlı kadın. ben de kıkırdayarak güldüm seriyi okurken.

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Pablo Neruda/Dolaşıyorum

görünen o ki insan olmaktan bıktım.

yine görünen o ki terzilere, sinemalara gidiyorum.
büzüşmüş, su geçirmez, keçeden bir kuğu gibi
yol alıyorum küllerden oluşan bir suda.

berber dükkanlarının kokuları hıçkırıklara boğuyor beni.
tek istediğim hareketsiz uzanmak yün gibi, kaya veya,
tek istediğim dükkan görmemek artık, bahçe görmemek,
emtia, gözlük, asansör görmemek.

görünen o ki ayaklarımdan ve tırnaklarımdan bıktım
ve saçlarımdan ve gölgemden.
görünen o ki insan olmaktan bıktım.

yine de enfes olurdu
noterin ödünü kesik bir zambakla koparmak,
kulağına vurup öldürmek veya bir rahibeyi.
yeşil bir bıçakla dolaşıp sokakları
soğuktan geberene kadar bağırmak
harika olurdu.

ağaç kökü gibi karanlıkta yaşamak istemiyorum artık,
güvensiz, kök salmış, titreyerek uykusunda,
daha da dibe giderek ıslak duvarlarından dünyanın,
içine alıp düşünerek, bir şeyler yiyerek her gün.

bana fazla artık bu sefalet.
kök olmak, mezar olmak fazla,
toprağın altında bir başına, cesetlere mahzen olmuş,
yarı donmuş halde acıdan ölmek fazla artık bana.

bundan ki yaklaştığımı görünce o hapishane suratımla
petrol gibi yanar pazartesi.
yaralı bir tekerlek gibi inler giderken
sıcak kan damlaları bırakır ardında geceye doğru.
bazı köşelere iter beni, bazı rutubetli evlere,
pencerelerinden kemik fırlayan hastanelere,
sirke kokulu bazı ayakkabı dükkanlarına
yarıklar kadar korkunç sokaklara.

sülfür renkli kuşlar var burada ve iğrenç bağırsaklar
nefret ettiğim evlerin kapılarından sarkıyor.
çaydanlıkta unutulmuş takma dişler,
utançtan, korkudan ağlaması gereken
aynalar var.
şemsiyeler var her yerde, zehirler, göbek delikleri.

dolaşıyorum; sakince, gözlerimle, ayakkabılarla,
öfkemle, unutarak.
ofisleri geçiyorum, ortopedik mağazaları,
çamaşır ipleri gerilmiş avluları,
pis gözyaşları akıtan
külotları, havluları, gömlekleri.

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