Яна Кане - Зимородок

In the story

Of the first creation

The Divine power

Lifts the supple clay,

To mold His image,

To imprint Her likeness.

The Divine breath

Enters the human shape,

Calls it to life.

The potter’s hands

Explore a lump of clay,

Stroke, press in

The hollow of the vessel,

Form the plump lip,

Extend the graceful neck.

The artist dips the brush

Now into paint, now into water.

An image blossoms:

Ocher and sienna blend;

The colors thicken —

Shadows outline the round rim,

The colors thin —

Light curves down the glazed flank.

You

Lift the clay jar,

Gaze at the painting,

Read these lines,

You

Have the power

To breathe into a creation

Awareness, thought, meaning,

Life.

It is possible to escape,

To hide from the darkness:

Squeeze your eyes shut,

Press hard on the eyelids.

Circles of phantom fire

Will blaze in front of your staring pupils.

Let us trade: I would barter

My past, my memory,

For a handful of stars,

For the dimmest of constellations…

But you drive a hard bargain

By simply refusing to exist.

In a blind rage

I splinter my heart into kindling,

Pour gasoline,

Set the whole mess aflame,

Watch as it burns to ashes.

But it keeps on beating,

It keeps on beating in the darkness.

There is nothing to do but sit.

Stare into the void.

Read the blanks on the empty page,

Over and over,

Till they form a pattern,

Till the repetition yields a meaning:

“Let there be darkness, for there is.”

There is darkness.

There is darkness.

There is darkness.

All there is, is darkness.

Until slowly, slowly

Contours form,

A faint outline emerges:

“Let there also be light.”

We call it reality

And consider the matter settled,

So we can turn our attention to

Making sandwiches for the school lunchbox,

Submitting the quarterly forecast report,

Walking the dog,

Writing the thank you note.

At least, that is how it is

For some of us,

Some of the time.

We collect data about it,

Quantify the uncertainty

Of our measurements,

Publish papers in academic journals.

We put ironic quotation marks

Around its edges,

Take selfies.

We blaze with anger about what it is,

Emblazon on our banners

What we want it to be.

We split into tribes, go to war,

Mangle and kill each other

Under the pretext

That there is one right way,

One right answer to every question

About the definition

Of a pin, a dance, an angel;

About the way to count how many…

We beat our heads against it,

Search for the path, the mantra, the koan,

Meditate, keep diaries,

Create sand mandalas of great beauty,

Sweep all the colors together,

Let the river carry them away

As we fall into insanity,

Rise to enlightenment,

Or the other way around.

We pick it up like a toy, a ball.

We run across sunlit grass,

Laughing,

Tossing it back and forth.

We forget it in the gathering dusk

Under the lilac bushes.

It is time to go back in,

To get some sleep.

At least, that is how it is

For some of us,

Some of the time.

Proof by construction is the path

That God Himself has set in math.

To prove that chaos can be transformed

Into a world, the world was formed.

A choir of angels came to be

Singing: “Hosanna! QED!”

But man, a thing of clay and dust,

Had little wit and too much trust.

Soon he was fooled and led astray.

And we, his children, to this day

Remain a weak and bounded race.

Induction for the finite case

Is all we do, till in the end

Each one must meet the final N.

But there is yet a baser proof.

It’s branded by a fiery hoof.

Proof by negation seeks to alter

The very truth. And should you falter,

And in your pride or desperation

Seek to invoke the dark negation,

Repent! Or you should ever rue

Your “Let the opposite be true”.

Nothing is certain.

Nothing can be guaranteed.

Not even nothing.

She dressed properly,

She spoke quietly,

She loved modestly,

She died peacefully.

Harmless, humble,

God's lamb…

Damn!

Loss drives concealed love

To go supernova.

It blows its cover

With a flood of blinding light.

It bursts out,

Piercing space with rays of radiation.

It screams and screams,

Pressing hard against the walls of reality,

Pushing apart the boundaries

Of the universe.

In deep winter the sleeping trees

Dream of branching out,

Spreading wider

Than the reach of their earthly life.

Their roots drink in the stillness that pools

Beneath all layers of the ground.

Their crowns bloom with constellations.

They hum and sing with winged beings

Who are tinier than the smallest insect,

Greater than the largest bird.

They drop their luminous fruit

Into the stream

That flows far beyond

The shores of the known world.

God as a soap bubble:

Water, breath, form.

Sublime, radiant,

Evanescent, eternal,

Emerging again and again,

Beguiling the senses

With rainbow illusions,

Holding the light of existence

With perfect clarity.

Indigo and russet dandy,

Fearless diver,

You plunge from a tree

Into a stream;

Burst from the water

Into the sky.

Hungry hunter,

You snatch living quicksilver

From the swift current.

In your sharp beak

Quivers my soul.

Как луч, преображённый витражом,

Как воздух, в слово перекованный в гортани,

Душа желает влажной глиной стать,

Во всём покорной всемогущей длани.

Пускай пройти придётся сквозь огонь,

И век служить, и не копить заслуг,

Она желает и творит себе сама

Предназначение, и гончара, и круг.

Торговцы счастьем, продавцы спасенья

Лукаво зазывают: «Выбирай —

Душа иль тело, вечность иль мгновенье,

Там в ад дорога, тут тропинка в рай».

Но, страха и надежды не тая,

Познает дух, уверится сознанье:

Единой нитью по канве небытия