17 Mayıs 2011 Salı

I Do Not

Yes, today I got a book of poetry as a gift. By Michael Palmer. It is called The Promises of Glass. I will immediately share my favorite-till-now.


"Je ne sais pas l'anglais."
Georges Hugnet
I do not know English.

I do not know English, and therefore I can have nothing to 
say about this latest war, flowering through a night-
scope in the evening sky.

I do not know English and therefore, when hungry, can do no 
more than point repeatedly to my mouth.

Yet such a gesture might be taken to mean any number of 
things.

I do not know English and therefore cannot seek the requisite 
permissions, as outlined in the recent protocol.

Such as: May I utter a term of endearment: may I now proceed 
to put my arm or arms around you and apply gentle 
pressure; may I now kiss you directly on the lips; now 
on the left tendon of the neck; now on the nipple of 
each breast? And so on.

Would not in any case be able to decipher her response.

I do not know English. Therefore I have no way of 
communicating that I prefer this painting of nothing to 
that one of something.

No way to speak of my past hopes for the future, of my 
glasses mysteriously shattered in Rotherdam, the statue 
of Eros and Psyche in the Summer Garden, the sudden, 
shrill cries in the streets of São Paulo, a watch 
abruptly stopping in Paris.

No way to tell the joke about the rabbi and the parrot, the 
bartender and the duck, the Pope and the porte-chochère.

You will understand why you have received no letters from me 
and why yours have gone unread.

Those, that is, where you write so precisely of the 
confluence of the visible universe with the invisible, 
and of the lens of dark matter.

No way to differentiate the hall of mirrors from the meadow 
of mullein, the beetlebung from the pinkletink, the 
kettlehole from the ventifact.

Nor can I utter the words science, seance, silence, language 
and languish.

Nor can I tell of the aboreal shadows elongated and shifting 
along the wall as the sun's angle approaches maximum 
hibernal declination.

Cannot tell of the almond-eyed face that peered from the 
well, the ship of stone whose sail was a tongue.

And I cannot report that this rose has twenty-four petals, 
one slightly cancred.

Cannot tell how I dismantled it myself at this desk.

Cannot ask the name of this rose.

I cannot repeat the words of the Recording Angel or those of 
the Angle of Erasure.

Can speak neither of things abounding nor of things 
disappearing.

Still the games continue. A muscular man waves a stick at a,
ball. A woman in white, arms outstretched, carves a true 
circle in space. A village turns to dust in the chalk hills.

Because I do not know English I have been variously called 
Mr. Twisted, The One Undone, The Nonrespondent, The 
Truly Lost Boy, and Laughed-At-By-Horses.

The war is declared ended, almost before it has begun.

They have named it The Ultimate Combat between Nearness and 
Distance.

I do not know English.

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