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Dyrham Park, England/National Trust Photographic Library/Bridgeman Images
Andrea Casali: The Personification of History Writing on the Back of Time, early 1760s
City
This is the city.
This is the station.
This is the torn bird.
This is the wide years.
This is the national flag.
This is the blood of terror.
This is the deafening centre.
This is the coat on the hook.
This is the ash beat boardwalk.
This is the metro bullet to nowhere.
This is the dream’s malleable scripture.
This is the man strung out and braying.
This is the black fig agape on the paving.
This is the rope and the grip for dear life.
This is the vertigo pulse of the enlightenment.
This is the percolation of a great body of cells.
This is the failed appliance unfurling from a socket.
This is the labyrinth of a man’s stomach of thought.
This is the raw lighthouse beaten by a stammer of lost seas.
Leminscate, Chris Viner
i.
…The bull fills the room……………………………………………………………..throws
…its horns………….wide………………………………………………………….handfuls
of barnacle……………..tapering…………into slick ivory points……………..medieval …chessmen spearing…………………………………………………………the paintwork
……………………………………………………………………………………………the bull
…is slick dense its skin pungent with grease…………………………………..the smell
………..of coffee grounds………black pepper……………………………the angular bronze
…of its backside .nudges the walls……………………lowers the thickly
…veined swing……of its haunches……………………into a crouch……………hooves
…unsettle the floor
……………………..the girl
…must not touch the bull
…………..must fit herself…………in his gaps
the game…..children play……………………………………….where shapes
…must be fitted…snug…into same-shaped holes only………………………..the girl-
…shaped holes in the room keep moving…………steering her
around the scalding weight………………of the bull’s shoulders………edging………her
…to the wall hyper
……………………….aware of the centimetres……………………..…between
her chest………and the flick…of the bull’s………hooves…she finds……………a space
…framed between left…… rear leg and tail………head ducked at the
…height of its swaying belly its
…………………………………….…phallus
………………………………………………………..the room’s inevitable
…centre of swollen gravity hauling all…….the thick air
………………………………………………………………in
……………………………………………………………………………other days
the girl must………………touch the bull………………must slather it
…in oil ease the creasing of its skin must rub
…the bull’s shank plead its hooves …..to calm break
…beer bottles over its horns let the liquid slide down the in
…and out of the bull’s nostrils its breath …………………… fruiting ……………stale ghhrrrummphhrumpphh against her chest
……………………………………………………the girl ……….. must hold
…her palm … to the muscles …… switching like butter
…under the thumb swell of the bull’s ……… silken temples
…must stroke its Rococo brown lashes as they close feel out
…the milky folds under the bull’s jaw find the largest vein
hold the pulse as it slows must allow
…her limbs to become ……… granular to soften in on one another tuck
..her hands and feet away feel herself become a shifting ..handful of rice quick
………………to find handful-of-rice shaped holes
I’m sorry
girl in the room with a bull
………..………..who wants to be a handful
………..………..………………….of rice I can’t solve this room your search
………..………..………..………..………………….for a few centimetres
of safety since I left
………..………..the room of too much bull and
………..………..………………….too scared girl I’ve held this cube
………..………..………..………..………..………..in my stomach
………..………..some days
………..………..………………….in my throat
………..………..………..………..………..………..some days
I place it on the ground and watch the game
………..………..from the outside the bull
………..………..………………….looks
………..………..………..………..………………….like a stranger I can smell the sweet sour ………..………..………..………..………………….pepper of him but can’t translate
………..………..………..………..………………….the edge
of his breathing can’t
………...remember
………..………..why you’re still there
iii.
The bull lives in South London
………..writes artificial intelligence software for a food delivery company
………..eats cut-price take outs with three flatmates loud sporty types
………..stained the expensive leather jacket he bought with the girl’s credit card
………. tries to remember her ASOS password
………..goes to the Ritzy Picturehouse mostly on his own
………..thinks of the girl when Brixton Road is damp with leaves
or when his card is rejected
The girl moves west the girl
………..buys a magenta coat and heeled black boots
………..polishes them to a perfect shine
………..walks into town takes Bath Road
………..the yolk of each streetlight demanding yes yes yes
………..looks for anyone to touch her
………..touches anyone
………..presses rice to her tongue smells pepper
………..on the bottoms of her feet
………..in the cracks of her bathroom tiles
………..leans back as it spreads her nostrils
opens her brain
The last time the bull calls he asks for money
………..the girl might give him the money or she might take three trains to Brixton
………..and shoot him square between the horns
she doesn’t have the money and she doesn’t have a gun
–
Alice Merry is a British poet living in Lima, Peru. She has previously been published by the Emma Press and Orbis and has performed at events including the Cheltenham Poetry Festival.
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« il dit vous allez mourir d’un arrêt cardiaque
« on va dans le jardin
Serhiy Zhadan é um poeta ucraniano. Nasceu em Starobilsk, Luhansk oblast.
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Take Only What Is Most Important
Take only what is most important. Take the letters.
Take only what you can carry.
Take the icons and the embroidery, take the silver,
Take the wooden crucifix and the golden replicas.
Take some bread, the vegetables from the garden, then leave.
We will never return again.
We will never see our city again.
Take the letters, all of them, every last piece of bad news.
We will never see our corner store again.
We will never drink from that dry well again.
We will never see familiar faces again.
We are refugees. We’ll run all night.
We will run past fields of sunflowers.
We will run from dogs, rest with cows.
We’ll scoop up water with our bare hands,
sit waiting in camps, annoying the dragons of war.
You will not return and friends will never come back.
There will be no smoky kitchens, no usual jobs,
There will be no dreamy lights in sleepy towns,
no green valleys, no suburban wastelands.
The sun will be a smudge on the window of a cheap train,
rushing past cholera pits covered with lime.
There will be blood on women’s heels,
tired guards on borderlands covered with snow,
a postman with empty bags shot down,
a priest with a hapless smile hung by his ribs,
the quiet of a cemetery, the noise of a command post,
and unedited lists of the dead,
so long that there won’t be enough time
to check them for your own name.
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Translated from the Ukrainian by Virlana Tkacz and Wanda Phipps
