Mosquito song
in the june night this dream
the house borne on the foam of the cherry trees
to the gurgling wash of the drowning birds
beneath a bell jar frailer than the mirror of the fjord
my sleep the egg of a wren: a wall of
whitewash and optical illusion strained to bursting point
quiveringly planted in the dark in the white a sail
and silently there pecks an unseen beak
on the mirror’s membrane of wind and salt
the burst is imminent
This is a translation of the original Danish poem. In his collection 'In Nomine' (pp.155-159) Klaus Høeck does variations on the text. I have marked the Malinowski poem's lines in red. The Malinowski poem above is a later translation.
in the june summer night this dream
in every detail as we are our
selves already on
its foundation of cement
and leca pellets
already raised with
beams rafters and roof garland like a new arri
val already now:
the house floating on the foam of the cherry trees
the house floating on the foam of the cherry trees
(not the japanese
kind of candy floss
and raspberry snow or stiff
ly whisked whites of egg)
and all too late for
cherry plum and sour cherry
from the hedgerows but
the poem’s zazen
to the gurgling ripples of birds that are drowning
to the gurgling ripples of birds that are drowning
electric motor
and hammer blow the rat
tling staccato volley
of the typewriter
work is going on
outside and in on the self
same house and poem
the innermost word
beneath a bell more fragile than the fjord’s mirror
beneath a bell more fragile than the fjord’s mirror
language is filled up
with words like ‘gas con
crete’ – ‘glass wool’ – ‘mortar’ or ‘fasc
ine drainage system’
down from the build
ing site of reality
where the dream raises
its roof through my poem and in
my sleep the egg of a small wren: a wall
my sleep the egg of a small wren: a wall
a poem i make a hole in
from inside so the
words can slip out as something
else than mirror wri
ting and the ima
ages as more than rust dots
on the retina
as something else than the dreams
of chalk and bursting optical illusion
of chalk and bursting optical illusion
the old wall is still standing
as a guard of hon
our for washing machine and
for haka tumbler
a sentry box of
cracked and damp plaster with col
umbine at its base
and with rosethorn
tremblingly planted in the dark the white a sickle
tremblingly planted in the dark the white a sickle
a lunar plough
in panes that are soon
to be replaced by other
real forms of vision
with ‘moses’ white hand’
in the rubaiyat of the
butterfly bushes
and poetry’s quartz watch shifts
and an unseen beak pecks without a sound
and an unseen beak pecks without a sound
(unlike the woodpecker that
hammers hard at the
elder tree’s hollow trunk with
its freemasonry
while the roof is laid
and is screwed firm and tight with
new words on our house)
inside there in the final poem
on mirror membrane of wind and salt
on mirror membrane of wind and salt
and water i inscribe my name
with my fore finger
on the dust and sawdust of
the double glazing
from where it is just
as swiftly erased once more
by the rain and wind
a haiku consisting of nothing more than itself
collapse is near
collapse is near
all the systems and formulas that bound my poem
which i now release
because it is complete and
like everything that
finds itself has come
into being has
become sheer reality
where it loses itself without trace
in the june summer night this dream
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