voilà ce que j’ai découvert
la pornographie est plus vraie que le sexe
plus intense
plus vivante
la haine est plus vraie que l’amour
plus intense
plus vivante
la mort est plus vraie que la vie
plus intense
plus vivante
(et sûrement sa durée est plus longue)
traduction par dionysos andronis
probably the best poetry publication on the web. i’m delighted to have five new poems in it! click here: http://www.blazevox.org/fall09.htm
You don’t have to be a visionary to see into the future.
The future already happened. Again and again.
It’s called history. Events have a way of
repeating themselves. The technology
gets upgraded and the casts change.
For the rest it’s all ditto. And only
the rich know how to dream.
suddenly everybody logged out all at once
i felt the blood go to my feet
years later: nothing
had changed
that moment in the hotel room in new york
when you showed me your breasts
was all i could remember
of the 1990s
am i that much older?
even a whiskey
these days
is too much bother
now it’s time to
logout again
Discourse
About knowing a subject well
Let’s look at the example of ourselves
What subject could we possibly know better
Than the self
Since we are that self
And yet who knows themselves well enough
To say “I know myself”
Anybody who says that is a liar
Or a fool
A satisfying alternative to trusting one’s own opinion
Is to have no opinion
I prefer to trust my intuition
It is best to have no motivation
To allow the Youniversal mind to guide one always
You write “There is not much clarity in communicating
with the confused.”
On the contrary, this is the only clarity
I cannot imagine you as a person in a wheelchair
Unless it were your wolves
Who hauled you through the snow
I would like to appeal to others,
But how one has to stoop in order to do so!
I could not stomach the debasement
For this reason I have no money
And no prospects for the future
But, I do sleep well,
And, I am able to confront myself in the mirror
Every morning without having to gnash my teeth
Merciless love is not a concept
It really is nothing other than itself
It is an onotological experience of being
Incomparable with other states
Certainly not to be dissected linguistically
One should never have to strive for anything
Merely being the thing is always best
Striving is for losers
Which coloured poem are you playing?
I kiss you good night
It is a very slow, very long kiss
We are both dreaming of…
“I saw that you were something,
but what it was I wasn’t sure…”
les tabourets passent
et tu feras
pareil
traduction Dionysos Andronis
j’avais une vision aveuglante de toi
pres de moi
respirant
doucement
traduction dionysos andronis
When I was young
I wanted to be bigger than Jesus
I grew out of that
When I had acne
I wanted to be Hitler
Gas all the people
With clear skin
When I thought I was smart
I wanted to outsmart
Einstein
That was dumb
Now I’m forty
I just want to get paid
And laid
There’s a lot of talk
These days
About the previously
Dissed
Brothers and Sisters
You still getting dissed
That didn’t stop
Except for window dressing
And a few name changes
Not even that
Piet Retief is still
Piet Retief
And this poem is in English
Not exactly a language
You could call native
And what about the elections?
You can stand in a queue
All day every five years
But the land is still theirs
As for me brothers and sisters
I just want to get paid
And laid
Previously dissed
My point
That you might have missed
Is that amandla lost the plot
When democracy got the vote
Instead of nonkululeko
Nowadays it’s all the white folks
Going “Viva Nelson Mandela”
With their fists in the air
Yes indeed
There’s a lot of talk
These days
About the previously
Dissed
i.
De kip is bijna klaar
Het is waar
Alles mag niet meer
Geen fietsen a.u.b.
ii.
Daar zaten wij te etteren
Kutzooi allemaal
En toch
Lang niet
zo slecht eigenlijk
iii.
Wat hebben wij het goed
Waren we maar gelukkig
iv.
Pleepapier after party
Helemaal goed
Super te gek
v.
Gemakzucht
suf getraind
Van natuur
dat men
dat vindt
Daar ga je
de mist in. Het
was of zo of niet
Het staat je best leuk
Stijfkoppigheid. Ik ben
vormgever, Schat patat
Heus wel
Terwijl ik
daaro
In Pik
stilte zat
Veranderde
mijn Huppelkutje
geleidelijk In een darteldoos
vi.
Iedereen maakt zich druk om kinderarbeid
En volwassenarbeid dan?
vii.
Wat hadden wij het goed toen
Ik las De Groene
Jij keek naar Studio Sport
viii.
Zo had ik het niet bedoeld
Lieve mensen
De bar is gesloten
Tot de volgende oorlog
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
naissez travaillez achetez mourez
translated into french by Dionysos Andronis
this is what i discovered
pornography is more real than sex
more intense
more vivid
hate is more real than love
more intense
more vivid
death is more real than life
more intense
more vivid
(and certainly longer lasting)
he is dead
you have killed him
and cut off
his head
he is dead
kiss him
he is dead
kiss his lips
he is dead
listen to his
last words
he is dead
he whispers
“do it again”
I
Living Without Lucre:
Oh the title is wonderful
it’s the content I’m living with(out),
held fisted like a packet
at the no name brand ATM
and you’re fast my dear and you’re folly
but none o’ that’s nae good without lolly
even my purse has its piles,
only prising clots for the chemist
we were waiting in line you and me with our sugar coats on and only one critical word away from absolution
aye, canny that
clipping at heels
and never at coupons
the taste of hunger isn’t a favourite flavour
Oh and, before I forget, the title is wonderful
II
Protest Poem Against Durban
I became a little too cabbagey with self-pity
I was living in Durban then
my skin in retreat from the noonday sun
my ears a-tuned to Isolation
I peeled the wax off of each afternoon
and avoided the verandah.
There was something larval about the way I preened
at the right angle you could see right through me
Incubated in your mom’s musk, and shoebox,
I was not chrysalis for anything.
The taste of talcum powder on my faeries
and the fingers that had to work slowly through my thicket to free me
The bush-brush, the blanket laid flat, my legs
in the sliding door, milk-weyed, photographed.
But that was before you archly taught me
that my tongue, chained to ice,
was not enough
that the imperfections were precisely
what made us beautiful:
we were the
Gods after all.
III
Yes, you are right.
Since we’re doing themed protest poems so well
Let me tell you a few of the chains that have yoked me and ire.
Sister-sitters, kept in futons and floor-space and in proof,
deposited with each new scratch, new slip. Things you didn’t resent.
Ah but don’t go down that dark road again you rascal you’ll only madden me
It’s been ten years away from the powders and then last night you gladdened me
I scrape off the bacon, move it loose from the mains.
I don’t want to worry about the side plate, anymore.
Not since the cold breath of your stinging goodbye
And what could follow that?
Except learning about evenings, fresh and unpawed, the old legs
tucked into your pyjamas, your siblings on the bed.
Headless hatless erased while you murdered me
Then did it again, slower geared, just to be sure we were on the same page
(so to speak)
But we were a folio fan, creased lengthwise, creased saam.
Even using a ruler, the fullscap looks frayed.
Well then, don’t measure it
Oh and, by the way, since we’re doing protest themed protest poems again
there is no grief that I could keep. There’s only slight that spilt, like seeds.
See, I said us into say.
these three collaborative poems were first published in the 5th anniversay edition of admit 2
Genna Gardini is a young South African poet. She studied Drama and English at Rhodes University and has since been published in various magazines, including New Coin, Carapace and, most recently, African Writing Online. You can visit her blog at www.gennacide.blogspot.com.
Aryan Kaganof has been busy dying for years now. In this way he hopes to be reborn. The poems are a kind of detritus, little markers to remember the many failures on the way. He is 45 years old and has two gorgeous daughters, Goya and Abraxas.
she’s like a sponge
everything affects her
if she’s given approval she
lights up, elated, and whizzes
around the room like a let-go-of
balloon. if she gets criticized the balloon
deflates, instantly, and she floats down to her
depths in an instant. it’s as if there’s nothing inside
her that’s hers; all her content comes from whatever is
happening around her, from whoever is in her proximity
but she can’t hold on to anything, she can’t remember
names. she doesn’t know where she is - what
neighbourhood is this? - she has too ask
don’t speak to her about politics, that’s
too heavy. she doesn’t like things to
be heavy. she desperately wants
to express herself - that’s the
reason she became an artist
but there’s no self to
express. the art
could be about
anything. she’s
unable to talk about
it. just shrugs, “it’s something
of the moment” very zen, like a koan
she drifts in and out of herself, brushing
her hair from her face, absorbing moods and
then abruptly disrobing herself of them. most of all
she wants to be taken seriously but, paradoxically,
avoids at all costs being serious. just when you
think you’ve got a hold of her she becomes
someone else. the porous woman
she doesn’t have skin. she’s a
sponge. everything affects
her. she drifts in and out
of herself. of who she
thinks she is. who
she wants to
express.
eventually she went back to nothing
not even black. nothing. she
always knew she was
nothing. i didn’t
know it. i
thought
she
was a
princess
that’s how
she knew i was
mad. that was the
imbalance. i tried to
hold it all together. to juggle
between my projection. and the
empty reality. of course it couldn’t
work. if you hold nothing up to the light
the rays pass through
she knew that
that’s why
she was
always
running
away. the
intensity of
the drama of
the running away
seemed like something
it deflected me from her
lack of substance. the last
time i saw her it was years after
the events that led to my breakdown
and subsequent incarceration in the nuthouse
she sat down opposite me
late as usual
and the
same
stream
of nothing
came tumbling
out of her juicy lips
but the lips weren’t so
juicy anymore. years of that
incessant cigarette smoking had
dried them up and this time when all
the same old inanities and platitudes rained
down on me i finally got it.
i looked at a shadow
and saw that it
was nothing
she put
her hand
out to console
me and when i jerked
back with a shudder she
got the message and ran out
back into the night
back into
nothing
update your status
follow me on shitter
wow man, that wall looks
great, and you were fast, thanks
update your status
follow me on shitter
our family only meets
at funerals
update your status
follow me on shitter
i don’t mean to pry but…
drop your standards a little bit
update your status
follow me on shitter
just let me know if my
hair’s on fire (autotautology)
etc…
money is the boss (the refugee carguard’s lament)
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
born work buy die
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born work buy die
