More poems | Oleg Prokofiev

METAPHYSICAL METASTASIS 1997

Translated by Graham High 2004

(These are the first 10 poems from a large group of poems which were written in the least year of Oleg's life)

I hear they call life our only refuge PAUL CELAN

At dawn deserted hours

fill their time

with the sweet sense of nothingness

thick as boiled jam

and burning hot like the terror of being no-one

at night there’s this glorious music

devoid of poison and lies

a long shadow from the tower of allusions

stretching out in confused form

I etch in the appearance of it

it begins to sparkle in a moment

brief

like the sudden flying past of a life

the god of morning

sprinkles me with deceptive joy

I believe – do not believe

nevertheless beauty like a blade of grass

bows to greet me

in response to dawn’s disdain

whose proscriptions dispel the stars

into the dark blue hot-house of the universe

god takes a sniff at me

and after lays me between the pages

of a folio dedicated to

the shadows of dreams

man

this is rarely heard

how a person’s dreamed discomforts

can awaken with the morning

alone on his last legs

he gets his head together

and catches sight of the darkness that is there

and an expanse like sleep turned inside out

dislocation for the sake of divination

yes and to prognosticate from it

about him who so long ago could not wait for us

and now is hidden around the corner

and with a smile curses under his breath

better definitely to fall asleep at daybreak

and sleep until the evening ignites

better still certainly to be left amazed

by a peaceful world without sleep

I was lying concealed in your baking oven

and in my sleep not aging in the least

but nevertheless disturbing fancies

escaped from banalities of the flesh

suddenly I developed a taste for strange fruit

reminiscent of childhood

and lusted in a kind of half-conscious dream

with an existence not understood

where aesthetics laid in wait

for awkward law

to raise ourselves upwards we sink ourselves downwards

awakening as we intend to sleep

in our departing we are returning home again

a change of trajectory

until exhausted with ourselves

we forget the general designation

so that every new point of novelty

shines like the sun

and rules everything

and we exchange growing old

for a rejoicing heart

the discoveries of poets are a menace to everyone

they plunder little pieces of the world

then conceal them at night in tiny boxes

for the sake of curiosity

they scrutinise blindly

but little by little they are finding with horror

that all we consist of is letters

which take the shape of set words like vestments

receiving as if from telephones

we even strip ourselves naked

in order to step into the void

reconciliation with yourself is surely impossible

even in profound sleep

but if such does not arrive

in this fragile instant

to split open heaven’s fire

not thinking falls into unthinking

not snagging on the rind of stars

but into the backdrop of stony smiles

to look for oblique galaxies

to feel the soul inside a comet

a consciousness of the dawning explosion

they collect everything together

it would appear

slightly second hand

fragments of bombs

that blew themselves up long ago

they reflect one to another

continued infinitely as if they were

an army of occupation in the metropolis

unknown to the enemy

and against all volition

they take a step into the future forever

then they congeal their twistings

speaking in a remote language

and straggling off

abandon me to a flat world of doubts

broken loose from the total text

an ossified aphorism

FABLE

a poet was utterly absorbed in his colleagues

as if in acidity

and rose to the surface to collect his corroded thoughts

with his inconsolable heart oppressed

weakened with despondency in a deep pit

a timid creature does not depart from the flock

with the eyes of a child prodigy

to understand tranquilly melodiously

the essence of every distant thing

a sheepish valley metaphor

does not recognise the attention of crowds

nor that her wool is the guest of the grass

while bleating romance at the wood’s edge

the poet wandered along a worn out hill

the lost sheep ran headlong away from him

rather than be touched

stop and pay attention

to the increasing growth of guardedness

hooking on to you in a flash

and watching suspiciously like a thief

in order to steal your astonishment

as you stand gaping at the moment

in which you have still not perceived

the unique instant

that the universe waits for with impatience

treading on your tail