it's not the same

we had been watching Princess Mononoke for a couple of days then, a Miyazaki-anime in which prince Ashitaka struggles to make human beings and animals live together in harmony. she had kept asking me questions about the Japanese. that April day which happened to be her birthday as well, i took out a pair of chopsticks to teach her how to use them. at one point, she became pensive and, after a while, said almost imploring: oh how i wish Ashitaka could come out of the story and be here, with us! 

the intensity of her pleading caught me unawares: i am afraid this is not possible, little one. she looked me in the eye: please, talk to somebody who can take Ashitaka out of the story and bring him here, there must be this someone, somewhere. i lowered my eyes. how i wished that this could be true, that this someone really existed, for her, for all of us. instead, i said, in a sudden moment of inspiration: you know, i have an idea, i can make _you_ part of the story.
 

we took out toys and little chairs and made costumes and re-enacted the entire plot, right there, under the blossoming trees of the garden. we took turns in playing all roles, her face glowing with happiness. at some point, though, she stopped and looked at me, and sweet-bitter sadness glimmered in her eyes: still, it's not the same, not the same...

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somewhere beyond the bitter

come, dear, let's go

LUBOV. What truth? You see where truth is, and where untruth is, but I seem to have lost my sight and see nothing. You boldly settle all important questions, but tell me, dear, isn't it because you're young, because you haven't had time to suffer till you settled a single one of your questions? You boldly look forward, isn't it because you cannot foresee or expect anything terrible, because so far life has been hidden from your young eyes? You are bolder, more honest, deeper than we are, but think only, be just a little magnanimous, and have mercy on me. I was born here, my father and mother lived here, my grandfather too, I love this house. I couldn't understand my life without that cherry orchard, and if it really must be sold, sell me with it!

ANYA. Mother! mother, are you crying? My dear, kind, good mother, my beautiful mother, I love you! Bless you! The cherry orchard is sold, we've got it no longer, it's true, true, but don't cry mother, you've still got your life before you, you've still your beautiful pure soul . . . Come with me, come, dear, away from here, come! We'll plant a new garden, finer than this, and you'll see it, and you'll understand, and deep joy, gentle joy will sink into your soul, like the evening sun, and you'll smile, mother! Come, dear, let's go!

Curtain.

from The Cherry Orchard, by Anton Chekhov

Translated by Julius West, 1916

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the last day in Veliko-Tarnovo

.

...

Oh God, Oh God! that it were possible
To undo things done; to call back yesterday!
That time could turn up her swift and sandy glass,
To untell days, and to redeem these hours.

Thomas Heywood

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some spring-time snow

here, amidst flurrying cherry blossoms
it’s as though some spring-time snow
were falling and did not melt  

monk Soku (ca. 880)

spending the spring night in the foothills
I slept, and deep inside my dream
blossoms fell without cease

Ki no Tsurayuki  (872-945)

..

on a moonless night

like a black cat
i come to you
in my dream

longing burning

breasts racing fire

heart in flames

my body is

the field of dreams

this moonless spring

of your lust

.

the golden beyond

.

let me sit here, quietly, for a while

you must go beyond the wall.
at least once, at least one step. with your bleeding nail
you must carve out a little hole in the brick,
your eye must at last catch
a glimpse of the other side, before being blinded
by the pouring down of the golden hour.

i know.
tomorrow i will put on my golden dress,
fasten my hair with a golden ribbon, the whiteness of my shoulders
aglow in the setting sun, as i cross over, into the golden sea,
as i conjure the golden fin, kneeling down
to pray for the deepest cut, for yet another
spear of light.












i know.
before that first and last wave of gold sweeping through me,
nevertheless, let me sit here, quietly, for a while. let me know of nothing but the
humble solidity of this wall, its barren geometry enough
to make peace with necessity,
whose circumference traces the outline of what one would call 'life',
my life and yours and, don't forget, the life of these branches
as well, moving restlessly in the dry wind, the life of these shadows crawling
upon the bare face of the land. let me breathe here,
for yet a while longer, my gentleness expanding
into the gentleness of the hour,
my body draped only by the rhythmical unfolding
and receding of a soul, wishing for nothing,
knowing of no beyond.


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shadows of things are not things

shadows of things are not things.

these silvery buds of smooth delight
that i gently brush against my skin:
they are called, you know, neko-yanagi
in japanese, a language which, by drawing things
instead of pinning down their shadows,
keeps both the cat and the willow alive.

the cat is the key, then.
balancing on the rope
tightly wrapped around my ankles,
its fur aglow, all loveliness.
it reminds me of a cat
i once saw in vilnius.
it is still crossing the street, even now,
while you brush the image away,
with, i think, what could be called a smile:

photographs of things are not things.












the rose, oh the once flawless rose
lies there now, beheaded.
it is just one of those metaphors,
you think yet again, refusing to see
the thin red line widening upon my neck,
throwing no shadow, as it were.











..