Poetry

by Raymond Federman

we go down resolutely

the great river of life

interpreting it falsely

while its current

more and more rapid

and its water

deeper and somber

flows downstream

and of course this liquidity

suits us so well

just as the firm ground

or the empty sky would have

if the choice had been given to us

but since we do not comprehend

why this journey goes downstream

rather than upstream

even though sometimes

we give ourselves

the lie to believe otherwise

there is no reason nor any means

to try and understand why

even if we could or would

does this journey really exist

perhaps it should be considered

in its mysterious meandering

as if it is accomplished haphazardly

in its tortuous prolongation

towards the great void of infinity

my life began in a closet

among empty skins and dusty hats

while sucking pieces of stolen sugar

outside the moon tiptoed across the roof

to denounce the beginning of my excessiveness

backtracked into the fragility of my adventure

curiosity drove me down the staircase

but I slipped on the twelfth step and fell

and all the doors opened dumb eyes

to stare impudently at my nakedness

as I ran beneath the indifferent sky

clutching a filthy package of fear in my hands

a yellow star fell from above and struck my breast

and all the eyes turned away in shame

then they grabbed me and locked me in a box

dragged me a hundred times over the earth

in metaphorical disgrace

while they threw stones at each other

and burned all the stars in a giant furnace

every day they came to touch me

put their fingers in my mouth

and paint me black and blue

but through a crack in the wall

I saw a tree the shape of a leaf

and one morning a bird flew into my head

I loved that bird so much

that while my blue-eyed master

looked at the sun and was blind

I opened the cage and hid my heart

in a yellow feather

ex-

pelled

from mother

tongue

ex-

iled

in foreign

tongue

tongue-

less

he

ex-

tracts

words

from other

tongues

to

ex-

act

his speech-

lessness

wanting to be

here & everywhere

at the same time

he disperses his words

everywhere at the same time

they tell him

he cannot do that

it’s illegal

but he answers

absence is

the essence

of being

here & everywhere

I was told not to go there

that it was the wrong time of year

that the weather would get to me

but if I really insisted on going

then I should take precautions

especially against insect bites

because these are often mortal

they said it was irresponsible

to even contemplate going there

but I replied that one always suffers

from not suffering enough

refusing all categorization

he perplexes the experts

who cannot grasp

where he comes from

born nowhere but

being everywhere

at the same time

he constantly arrives

and departs carrying

with him a bundle

of souvenirs tattooed

in his flesh

lest he forget

with effrontery

he abuses a language

unknown in the land

that lies between

here and elsewhere

between memory

and forgetfulness

he plays with words

that construct in spirals

a tale made of digressions

that cancel the old souvenirs

but he fears nothing

because his infernal tale

is spiced with indifference

and sweetened with laughter

false evidence

more words come
to open an unfamiliar place
which I enter until in the dark

until they come to get me

my passport already stamped

they told me not say anything

except that now

as a reference
to something else

or somebody else
my name does not ...
indicate anything

I have become
a body alive
in a false evidence

I swan the ocean under the water

a long swim years ago skin tight to my bones

as I came up for air I shouted obscenities

an old man grabbed me by the shoulders

and hurled me into the ground

I shouted america america here I am

no one answered they were too busy

the subways were full of people and sweat

I felt too white too small too insignificant

but fat women touched me all over

and I thought it was love

I looked up at the sky

the moon had spread her legs

they didn’t see me blush

in the dark I sneaked out

of the window and climbed

behind a cloud to look for god

but all I found there were my own footprints

tired of the stars and the colors

I came back among men in straw hats

I had a hot dog smoked a pall mall

and then they put a green costume

on me and shipped on the other side

of the other ocean far away

I had myself a few chinese

and back in my lonely garret

the light and gas had been turned off

I waited in the dark in the cold

until one day I found the answer

in an old laundry bag

that’s when I started writing poetry

without punctuation

the mind

that great menace

for the body

no

the body

that great obstacle

for the mind

every human being is

a staggering error

squeezed between

desperate cries and silence

every human being is

the battlefield

of a permanent protest

the prison of being

every human being is

a photocopy

of the convulsive

sickness of being

so say certain human beings

do not believe them

it’s not that bad

when we fall into the great void

we recede backwards

at the speed of light

towards our origin

so that we can

be launched

again

into the spiral

of our unfinished destiny

and if I told my story to myself

after all telling stories is an exercise

in seduction and power

this way I could seduce myself

and become stronger

it is true that along the rocky story

that led me here I often stumbled

and when I fell I would quickly get up

saying to myself that no one had seen me

and I would continue saying to myself

it was an accident fatality which until then

I had denied with effrontery tripped me

and I set out again hobbling along

saying to myself it’s okay the fall was not a fall

the rocks on the road were not rocks

and even if some bystanders laughed at me

others encouraged me saying that I had

a beautiful story in me and that I had to tell it

even if only to myself

he constantly tortures himself to know who he is he wants to know wants to understand himself

but perhaps it is this ignorance of his self

never to understand himself

and to remain always misunderstood

he offers himself totally his head hands mind

soul zipper all open not to expose himself

but as an initiatory gesture

This is his way of saying I am here

everything I have is here take it

such ego as he may be said to have is the referred ego of those outside of him who give it back to him as they see him

he is not generous in any received social sentimental sense it is simply his nature

not an acquired virtue a personal gesture

like the way he watches over others

he is a child in a sandbox asking others

to come and play but no one comes

to play with him

more often than not they mirror him

but the mirroring does not reflect

it obscures who he is

he is incorruptible

uninjurable unchangeable

in his goodness and wonderment

he exists in one and the same way

he is in every way like himself

in no way can he be injured or changed

he is not subject to time

he cannot at one time be other

than being everywhere

he is all the time everywhere

he always manages to survive

one way or another

he is tough

he never gives up

never compromises

he is stubborn like a mule

he does not give a damn about time

he cannot accept not to be

everywhere at the same time

if this is the night he will be there

he will arrive early and be the last to leave

he is incorruptible

uninjurable unchangeable

in his goodness and wonderment

others

have graves

with real stones

and flowers

once a year

me

I invent my dead

every day

but even forged sorrow

keeps you awake nights

therefore

armed with the toy guns

of my mental arsenal

each dawn I make a stand

to wipe away my dead

he stands on the balcony

in a far away place

raises his arm before him

in a rigid salute

to an absent crowd

we are historical he thinks

but we don't live in history

yes there are records of this

but we are not in the records

Ah such complexity!

he thinks this is the defining act

the actualization of a central image

that of a man standing

on the edge of an abyss

pissing into a hard wind

not a mistake not an idle gesture

but the assertion of presence

there is unceasing arbitration

at work here he senses that

for he is always going out

always being more

than his circumstance

more than the sum

he knows it is

absolutely correct

to be here.

in fact it is a necessary act

it seems that when others

return to the scene of the crime

they are there essentially

to lament their losses

then the criminal is the victor

but what is the alternative

to cower in one's righteous place

in one’s corner of self-pity

a freeing instance here

shouts I am alive

by character and intuition

by inclination too,

he always goes towards

not from and not away

always goes towards it

here in this he has no choice.

he knows that as in the old fable

the hero must confront a series

of fearsome obstacles

the last and greatest of which

is coming home

even when you’re not here

you look at me all the time

you’re everywhere here

in my house and in me

since you changed tense

I am surrounded by you

your photos your portraits

your letters your books

your words your traces

all that observes me

watches over me

worrying perhaps

that in your absence

I will not manage alone

to go where I must go

remember it began

the day when you said

and I looked at you

in despair and asked

you shrugged your shoulders

in a gesture of indifference

as if to say well I don’t know

and me dumb as I was then

I proclaimed to myself

in an interior monologue

and so since that day when

you shrugged your shoulders

I haven’t stopped to do and do

and do some more even what I do

will inevitably lead nowhere

there are no doors

no windows here

you enter from the wings

where living hurts

you crouch

you kneel

you drag yourself to the center

and you wait

you wait under a grey canvas sky

near a dead tree

until they come to beat you blue

to stone you dead

then you crawl into a wooden box

to sleep it off

your bones dry of marrow

dust in your mouth

sometimes you hear voices

in your head

or the croaking of frogs

in the morning before the sun

you perform the gymnastics

of the mind split like a centaur

and you wait

you wait for the moon

to roll over the hill and stop

movement a heresy

one day another man comes

who carries his life on his hands

he too must perform to save the day

so moon can roll again over the hill

even if laughter is a painful process

they will come again

boots trampling in the mud

stars and ropes

and x-x-x-x

in their pockets

and we shall sit

in our rooms

alone or in couples

with children dumbfounded

all of us thinking again

out of our crushed skulls

my mother wept

quietly

that cold winter day

while she sewed

on all our clothes

the yellow humiliation

then she said

her eyes dry now

as she straightened

on my shoulders

the soiled coat

I wore to school

just let your scarf

hang over it

this way

nobody will notice

my fondest pleasure

when I was a little boy

was when my mother

gave me a bath on sundays

naked I stood in the wash-basin

in the middle of the kitchen and

I abandoned myself to the soft hands

of my mother who hummed happily

while scrubbing my frail white body

when the water became too cold

and I was starting to tremble

my mother would wrap a towel

around me and rub me hard all over

after that she would hold me tight

against her and after she finished

squeezing me she would say

go get dress quick now

I think it made my mother happy

to give me a bath in the little basin

while singing love songs to herself

I could see that in her big black eyes

must have had

was when she cleaned

on her knees scrubbing floors

I always feels like I am at home

whenever I come here

and while she polished

the fancy furniture

dusted the bibelots

made the beds wash the dishes

press the shirts of monsieur

being very careful not to make

a crease in the collar

she would say absently

while contemplating

her bruised hands

what beautiful things

these people have

when we stood in line

at the soup kitchen

while my father

was losing our food

at the racetrack

betting on the wrong horse

my mother would pull the collar

of her coat up around her face

to hide her shame

but we the children

my sisters and I

we thought it was funny

to stand in line at the soup kitchen

we would play games

counting the number of people

behind us and before us

also because we were growing children

we would always get a little extra food

and even our mother would give us

the food from her metal container

saying that she was not hungry

on one side the trains roll

into the tunnel of night

to the great fire

of europe

on the other side

the subway lurches

into the triangular

cunt of america

some die heroically

on the battlefield

others defiantly

by jumping off a cliff

but many die

unexpectedly

in their sleep

without knowing it

while a great number

go in fear

and cowardliness

in hospital wards

very few depart

unashamedly

without resisting

but me I want to die

just like that

without enthusiasm

unexpectedly while waiting

before the moment came

desire wasted in words

hands barely touching

and if we were to die

one morning in the midst of a dream

an unfinished nightmare

leaving our body cold

at the edge of an afternoon

without an afterward

would they stare at our empty eyes

would they whisper among the stones

invent reasons for our absence

follow our memory while questioning the sky

their steps disturbed by the fallen leaves

or a cloud hiding the sun

would they fumble for umbrellas

and what of the dull horse

dragging us to our place

among millions of unfinished moments

it is not death

we fear

it is the fear

of death

having oscillated all my life

between the torments

of superficial idleness

and the horror

of disinterested action

I find myself at last

in a situation

where to do nothing

exclusively

becomes an act of

the highest value

deliberate physical irresponsibility

of a hand clutching an ivory body

that trembles in the winds

of a secret hideout

look how the mirror destroys wrinkles

while deep inside closed eyes

wild horses rear a false pain

that spread on the ground

with mad laughter

I await another humid life

while the muscles are torn

in a dazzling of red and bleu

and now regain your form

you old fool

sixty already and still not a word

mumbling like a fool

at best

two or three groans

that's about all

lots of qua qua

yes that's how it is

in the bubble of the skull

dragging myself

in unconjugated verbal mud

looking for a word

the first one

a verb perhaps

yes

an imperative

we make little signs

we scratch obscure

symbols

on pieces of paper

we draw little x-x-x-x’s

everywhere

to gather back into us

the lost ones

back into the design

of our family name

I am the end of the line

the last Federman

but I continue

to make believe

that I am only

the beginning

those who listen

in silence

when I shout

our name

seem to certify

by their silence

that our name

is still there

those traveling

with you now

far inside

the unforgivable

how it was me

who is with you always

pushed you hard

deeper into the deep

where you found

our most bitter dreams

our sweetest dreams too

and how later

back and forth

back and forth

in the hollow of our

inextinguishable names

together we learned

to fly again

to fly away

again

together

in our name

maybe someday I'll go

to the place of ashes

and there I'll sit

beside the ashes

of my mother and father

I'll sit in the dark

and watch the glow

of the coal fire

through the tiny

broken mica windows

of the salamander-stove

then I'll hold my breath

and carry the chamber pot

downstairs to empty it

in the courtyard

and again I'll sit

beside the ashes

and try to scoop them

in the palm of my hand

so they can speak to me

and tell me what happened

after I was abandoned

brother she says

write the poem

I will whisper to you

but he is afraid

that if he writes it

the words will not

come out right

brother she says

her voice rising

from a little pile of ashes

when you crossed the ocean

and felt sick to your stomach

did you feel sick for me too

brother she says

among dead leaves

when you fell in love the first time

and felt the original happiness

and everything in you was giddy

did you also feel happy for me

clutched

in the life line

sudden nonsense

of spread fingers

mute speech

sign of my presence

do you know why

we are afraid

to look at scars

and even more so

to touch scars

because it is

the place

on the body

where the soul

struggled to leave

but was forced back

and sewn in

I know

because I have

many scars

on my body

and even I

am afraid

to look at them

though sometimes

in the dark

I furtively pass

my fingers on

the one that made

me suffer most

before my soul

was sewn back in

to write

to write one's life

is to take a road that leads nowhere

and yet parallels the totality of one's existence

to write one's life

is to evoke a silhouette

that of the writer rushing through his past

one cannot tell where he is going

as he detours diverges deviates

but that is why we want to follow him

along the way like a lost traveler

he picks up pebbles from the ground

and stuffs them in his pockets

as he gropes backward he loses himself

but we are willing to be disoriented with him

willing to be lulled by his vain repetitions

stranded in time with him

we lose ourselves in space with him

and yet everything holds in place underneath

as if pulled by a magnet

all that was absent

forgotten from his life

is now suddenly present again

imagine

for

a moment

that

I am

the

last

man

on

earth

picture

me

then

standing

on

the edge

of

the

abyss

of

history

like

an

exclamation

mark

at

the end

of

the final

sentence

of

human speech

when you don't know

how to go forward

you find an excuse

for past suffering

to make you feel better

about the challenges

you face

so you make justice

or rather reparations

a condition of your

going forward

but of course there is

no justice for past suffering

and to believe there is

guarantees more suffering

to be retired

is to retreat

into yourself

to verify

your past life

now inscribed

in your body

in retreat

towards the

final victory

tired

too tired

tired beyond cause

tired as an old tree

yearning to shade its bark

tired

too tired

tired as an armour

against time

yearning to disintegrate

after all

what is sleep

but a descent

into the final

reaches of tiredness

the final exitus

will it be violent

will it hurt

or will it be quiet

full of silence

will the sordid images

that have haunted us

be suddenly erased

or will they be replayed

endlessly replayed

in virtual reality

will we fall

or will we rise

or simply pass through

as one goes through

an open door

to enter a room

perhaps it will be

an escape

another escape

from the little box

where it all started

among empty skins

but this time it will be

the final escape

from the great cunt

of existence

and this time

without any gurgling

will the stolen sugar be

as sweet as the first time

and what of the moon

tiptoeing on the roof

will she smile upon us

or remain indifferent

will there be words

left to describe what

is taking place

words and silences

or will there be only

cries and whispers

at first when you enter

you think it’s just like

whence you came

except it’s much darker

that’s what you think

but in fact you are

not thinking because

you can no longer hear

yourself think

that’s why it feels darker

not just outside

but inside of you tooas if the light was slowly

dimming towards

total darkness

it’s a strange place

one you would prefer

not to be in