Poems
Aigerim Tazhi
* * *
In the house a window
In the window a pot
In the pot a twig
A drowsy woman is knitting booties
Inside her a fish swims without air
But she is content
She smiles as if to her own womb
At shouts in the street
At broken lights
At dark news from the bright box
The woman waits for the inevitable boy
A girl will do as well
In the window a pot
In the pot a twig
A drowsy woman is knitting booties
Inside her a fish swims without air
But she is content
She smiles as if to her own womb
At shouts in the street
At broken lights
At dark news from the bright box
The woman waits for the inevitable boy
A girl will do as well
* * *
Probably a god is like a dying person
Probably a god is like a dying person
In his eyes what no one can see
over his head the remains of a shining aura
salt on his lips perspiration popped out on his brow
I look at him and something in me feels shame
Give me water he thinks not saying the words
To the right foremothers sit forefathers to the left
at the foot dwarves giants at the head
have come in and say nothing
(they remember how he came out of the womb)
before them he is a naked infant
to whom not everything is possible but everything is proper
Others weep loudly pray for forgiveness
But in his ears it is his own voice sounding
There is no there will be no future
There is no there will be no future
And the past is far too illusory
* * *
Underneath, in a German-chocolate box
mother hides the name-tag, the teeth, the first hair
of her son, who lives somewhere on the outskirts of town,
who calls on her birthday in a weary voice.
When he comes to visit, a man now,
with his gnarled hands, with a bouquet of cheap flowers,
She pours the cup of tea only half full
so he won’t stay long.
She pours the cup of tea only half full
so he won’t stay long.
* * *
Heavier than age
Morning has us
By the throat.
Why do you birds rise so early?
Birds have tiny tongues
A bird is a bell.
Dark people in white clothing
Creep around town.
Heaven, heaven, pour into their ears
A song of tin.
Let them hear only the sea,
The old sea, the new sea.
While we keep on crying out
Crying out our grief.
* * *
A violet sucks up from a saucer yesterday's sea filtered through the earth.
The sun gropes around the room, a stubborn beam warms a glass of water.
Any minute now his thread will burst. The sounding of a distant string.
Turn in my direction, an actual person. Let me see you. Your face
is growing dark. Transparent light withdraws into a cold garden.
Tracks of an ant-trail. An unfamiliar shadow on the pillow.
Outside the window, falling leaves.
* * *
I strain to listen for an imagined world:
one that absorbs music from the outside,
and will not preserve the borders
of an internal country. The peaceful theme
multiplies joy, doubles
my ease.
But something obstructs the oblivion of a dream.
On a moonless night or on a bright day
I hear something strange. Coming from where?
So desiccated tendons resonate
on a strummed instrument. An invisible
beetle stubbornly gnaws in the woodwork.
* * *
First at a call a large lion's
Head pivots,
The sun over the top of a hump
Looks inside you.
Slowly washing the river sand,
It's panning for a nugget, but in the sieve
Useless rock.
Stones rattle in the water.
And after an earlier fire the forest
Stockade has cooled down. Poisonous dust.
But a child who felt fear breathes
Although he appears lifeless.
* * *
And you were there and the floor seemed to float
A blanket walked on naked feet
A creature nestled inside it
Hello, you're up? Breakfast on the table
Egg-yolk eyes skewed against the fork
Have frozen forever. So it will be.
Look at the deceptive way things go on
The tea cooled down, then rose again
From extinction with a single step
Prophetic, a glass ball glowed
Light broke down into pure shades
An onion bulb sprouted in a jar
Nothing under its husk. But a forest above.
And there it vanished, you, I vanished
... It sniffed settled on a knee
Hot breath tucked into a neck
* * *
I overheard a conversation in the park,
came up to a withered old plum tree
And hid my face in its crown.First, I spoke up strongly
Then, embarrassed, threatened:
“Give me your fruit or I’ll cut you down.”
So the sky exploded in plums,
As if a bead necklace had broken.
Three days of a frenzy of fruit
Until I’d had enough of feasting.
Fruit lay like garbage on the grass
Mashed into a puree.
* * *
At the edge of the village a woman in a stupa ground millet.
She whistled brazenly, calling the wind from the steppe
to keep the chaff flying so her eyes wouldn't sting.
They all protested — she brings on the wind again —
"She's summoned a hurricane," "plays with the storm."
The wind blew over the grain.
A storm-cloud was born deep inside the stupa,
rose over the house,
taken in by the people, animals.
Mighty golden eagles dispersed.
Foxes barked.
The fire in the samovar hooted like a locomotive.
A swarm of blind husks. Her pestle beat to fatigue
in the mortar's cage. The grain grew heavy.
“That will do, enough!” —
then she lifted herself over the stupa.
The wind dropped like a hunting dog
on the doorstep, exhausted.
* * *
When the body dies, eagles and fish dine well,
— Lobsang at the communal dinner could not keep quiet,
spreading out the remains of rice on the plate.
— Whose soul do you save, carp, picked to the skeleton?
Sow rice in the fields where people lay.
pass by that earth when the rice will grow.
And you join the motley queue at the bright carousel
cheerful and barefoot, to keep from being eaten.
* * *
Walking like a camel
a traveler throws up dust, draws near.
Eyes of different colors,
hands carved from wood.
A dead viper in his breast,
a rope with fangs.
A horse felled in the road.
Fragile as a twig,
a skeleton. Waves of a sandy pelt.
Your name? Say the word out loud.
A furrowed face. The angle of the sun shifts.
Paper-thin skin translucent,
letters appear on the forehead.
* * *
In the depth of a mirror mottled with stains,
something is revealed — we would rather not see.
Fish turn back at the air’s edge, one breath, another.
A crescent moon swims belly up in the heavens,
and water eddies away into the distance.
People in white are talking — Let the words go.
do not look them in the eye, nod absentmindedly,
as if not having noticed: a bed stands empty,
a person cradled, shrouded in carpeting.
It seems clear who, but hard to believe. A line of mourners.
Is the soil cold now? Who will be sleeping there?
* * *
A shaggy cactus in the window
Catches on the drape. A stinging
Spine in the hand. Along the wall.
Don't step into a moonbeam,
Don't tread on a house-elf
Or any other living thing.
In the newborn darkness
Pushing away dreams and shadows,
Sit on a sofa, keep still,
As if time had been turned off,
As if the finale were not waiting for us
And the world is spectacular, but small.
* * *
. . . and somewhere everyday life turned into a miracle
a dragonfly summer stock still
grows waterlilies in a drying pond
though i don't need to, i'm going there
beyond the arch of interlaced trees
a forgotten house unhealthy and chill
accidentally preserved the familiar color
i look at: was the blind swinging? no
and the sun throws lavish glares
marking out the brokenness of space
with charcoal and chalk on an empty table
the light leafs through the outlines
a jug with a broken spout, hearts
of flowers pinned on their stalks
the same teddy bear still lies
or that's not it on the dusty piano
from over here i can not see for sure
Translated by J. Kates. Poems here include those published in Paper-Thin Skin (Zephyr Press, USA, 2019), appeared in US and European Literary Magazines.