Miroslav Holub

Brief Thoughts on Maps

“The young lieutenant of a small Hungarian detachment in the Alps
sent a reconnaissance unit out onto the icy wasteland.
It began to snow
immediately,
snowed for two days and the unit
did not return.
The lieutenant suffered:
he had dispatched
his own people to death.

But the third day the unit came back.
Where had they been? How had they made their way?
Yes, they said, we considered ourselves
lost and waited for the end. And then one of us
found a map in his pocket. That calmed us down.
We pitched camp, lasted out the snowstorm and then with the map
we discovered our bearings.
And here we are.

The lieutenant borrowed this remarkable map
and had a good look at it. It was not a map of the Alps
but of the Pyrenees”

Miroslav Holub

Wings

We have
a microscopic anatomy
of the whale
this
is
reassuring
– William Carlos Williams

We have
a map of the Universe
for microbes,
a map of a microbe
for the Universe.

We have
a Grand Master of chess
made of electronic valves.

But above all
we have
the ability
to sort peas,
to cup water in our hands,
to seek
the right screw
under the sofa
for hours

This
gives us
wings.

Miroslav Holub

 

Dreams

They sap man’s substance

as moon the dew.

A rope grows erect

from the crown of the head.

A black swan hatches

from a pebble.

And a flock of angels in the sky

is taking an evening class

on the skid pan.

I dream, so I dream.

I dream

that three times three is nine,

that the right-hand

rule applies;

and when the circus leaves

the trampled ground will

once more overgrow with grass.

Yes, grass.

Unequivocal grass.

Just grass.

Jacques Roubaud

Walker of dead streets

To François Caradec

I am, in Paris, a walker of the dead streets
Of the streets that are no longer, of streets renamed,
Erased, done in, truncated, diminished,
Street of the Social Contract or Street Between-Two-Doors
Where have you gone Sensible Street, Alleyway of the Whippers 
Street of the Red Apple, Street of the Milk Can
Alley of the Doormats, Street of the Great Howler,
Lost Street, Gated Street, Petit Four, Little Fart
Oh beautiful disappeared ones, Of The Mushroom Bed,
Alley of the Three Dead People, Street of the Three Racks,
Street Which Too Much Goes So Hard and Street of the Rottenfield 
Passages! Dead-ends! Paths! Quays! Squares! Laneways
Ignored pedestrian of the indifferent crowd
I walk alone in the Street Where God Was Boiled

                                    Tanslated by Claire Nashar

Promeneur des rues mortes

Je suis dans Paris un promeneur des rues mortes
Des rues qui ne sont plus, des rues débaptisées,
Effacées, trucidées, tronquées, amenuisées,
Rue du Contrat Social ou Rue Entre-Deux-Portes
Où es-tu Rue Sensée, Ruelle des Fouetteurs
Rue de la Pomme Rouge , Rue du Pot au Lait
Ruelle des Paillassons, Rue du Grand Hurleur,
Rue Perdue, Rue Grillée, Petit Four, Petit Pet
Oh belles diparues, De La Champignonière,
Ruelle des Trois Morts, Rue des Trois Crémaillères,
Rue Qui Trop Va Si Dure et Rue du Champourri
Passages! Cul-de-sacs! Chemins! Quais! Places! Sentes
Piéton ignoré de la foule indifférente
Je marche seul dans la Rue Où Dieu Fut Bouilli

Jacques Roubaud

Sonnet 34 Tomb Farewell: immodest death Will rejoice inside us, We his hovel, we his sty Far from our fountains at Tivoli The stars of the heavenly cake Will scatter, lingering above the hills With us underneath, Prevented from everything. We will become mud, With roots sliding over us, Over our hearts, such docile hearts Then time, with nary a wrinkle, Will balance on the peaks Without us, its waxen suns

 

Jacques Roubaud

Sonnet 19

For Phillipe Courrege 

With papers, crayons, ink, colors, with
Signs then words, with rules to assemble
Them, with persistence and the aid
Of habit (but who knows the quiet that

Rusted your power, the white Verlainian sky,
The cries of the schoolboy Author)
You built something more than language, something
Weighty and beautiful, rendering this difficult truce

Between thoughts, speech, and the hand:
Mathematical laborer, I salute
Your example, and I tell the men

Of tomorrow how this cloudwatcher diffused the magic,
How many stand upon the tool you wrought,
Worthy, genial, growing inside the signs

Zbignew Herbert

A ballad that we do not perish

Those who sailed at dawn

but will never return

left their trace on a wave--

a shell fell to the bottom of the sea

beautiful as lips turned to stone

those who walked on a sandy road

but could not reach the shuttered windows

though they already saw the roofs--

they have found shelter in a bell of air

but those who leave behind only

a room grown cold a few books

an empty inkwell white paper--

in truth they have not completely died

their whisper travels through thickets of wallpaper

their level head still lives in the ceiling

their paradise was made of air

of water lime and earth an angel of wind

will pulverize the body in its hand

they will be

carried over the meadows of this world