The window isn´t large enough! II. – extract

Posted on 11th Říjen 2007 in English


After a victorious race

the brothers applaude until

they switch hands and mouths

with each other


I heard him raising a ruckus

from the mainmast´s top,

he was dressed in jester´s clothes:

„The land of your towels

the land of clenched mirror muscles

the land of your green linen

the land of two or three fish which spit out seaweed

the land of crystals of sun and salt

that land is mine,

because I´m bathing!”

And then, from the sea, he was plucked by an albatross.




o fish with silicious lips

I know how amused you are by the fact

that the lake is almost bald

and when a salt avalanche falls into it

from the mountains from time to time

your mouth closes, as if

the upper and the lower lip explained each other

the difference between a parallel and a meridian

A violet, soap heart throbs under your ribs;

too slippery for fishermen, and all in its debt

You know

that there are stones in the sky

and that the sky is in a stone.




A nine-legged spider

(four legs in Permian,

four in Triasic;

the last one shows Aldebaran

to a couple of plaster knights).

Well, alright, the man stands up

from a sash window,

he takes a can with dabbling marble

from a shelf:

the hammers in cages are hungry.

A steelmill suddenly pulses faster

- the pipeline composed a song

about a chemical laboratory.





an old warrior now,

sips red wine

from your shadow.

Two „a”s of bicuspid teeth.

A chocolate bar straightens its tie.


You want to borrow

my tea cozy?

Why of course you may!




The vortex of tomato fragments

irritates tiny bulls

The little jade-ite flags of small tails

transilluminate the nettleoathed air

In a thrown-aside bra

a carnival is going to start soon.




A parallel trolleybus.

Under a hill,

just like a beard

in whose ring-net

a clinical record wavers.

Now they live wild only there.

A lawn, a top-hat.

(Someone’s face; a hand-axe.


A funeral.




Two jarllogists

bring here drift-ice that weaves

and seals that unweave

in tubs of ice.

They too communicate by bowing,

and a wren

which exists in summers only

looks for his brother.

He dares to come to the horizon’s beard

only when armed with a broken lock;

a fisherman net calls: „qq!”

Bread and butter.

On the snow.




The nest of less first nerves.

On the tongue of the peninsula a man

who knew obsidian

thinks up the weather

and feeds fire with flames.

He risks a lot,

but not as much as nettles,

which wash away the dirt,

but cannot wash away the blood.

Beads of faces

on the strings of a puppet,

which is already being expected

in the forest of knives.

The man generalizes receptivity and sensibility

into grey tears.

And from somewhere else,

a cold lyre, a contour of a sword;

and I, somewhere in the front (?),

hug the battleship’s bridge

with my sixth sense.




A rune hill,

from under which dead music stems.

Prince’s footsteps head towards it.

His arrival is an oak;

if he had a wife,

she would be a linden-tree.




To Marco Pantani, in memoriam


I walked upon sand

and rain was falling down

like the tears of the saint from Assisi

to bend that bent ground

the stones of stray sheep

and the first biography was

written by Tommaso da Celano


(from “The window isn’t large enough!”)




Without climate…

without climate the high-comb makes a pause.

Try to replace it with the snapping of pincers,

you won´t succeed.

Family is a pond to you.

My brother the crumpet, my sister the pancake,

my niece the hurdle race,

my nephew the partner of bridges,

my best friend the melée of

mazes and slides.

And what is the feature of the headquarters?

Cartilaginous silence.

In the forest of shafts

the amanitas are more placodermic

than the lion of Nemea.


The climate zones!

And the comb clangs again.



From the hollows of the fairy trees

you’d wish to hear

the neighing of mares

that disappeared to the sea.

The tide brought an apple

for each of them.

You planted their pips

in the golden sound of places

that we already lost.



Constant crocodiles

of a worcester orchestra,

peremptory fester,

pickle made of teaspoons,

splendid coldness,

a desert lure:

I open my briefcase on a pea douane.

Pea customs officer,

a bogus-onion hunter himself,


he writes with his moustache on a wall

its university degree.

I present the desert lure to him,

so that he can recall

the volcanic moments

under the blue

finger-nail of Parthenon,

the hippopotamic sugar,

the stone sea field

behind which the hoatzins climb:


his youth



The choir of medicine balls sings

a white glove.

An iguanodon crawls through

the plumy future, here

and there

he looks around between two skull-caps

which are as blue as a house.

The choir of medicine balls sings

a black glove.

Orangeade of turbo propulsion

drives through the past

where the velcros of double road barriers

collapse from inside.

The choir of medicine balls stopped singing.

A marchpane bullet

comes there in seventy four cars.


Pepper of drums!

Pepper of draperies!

We beg for an encore

in the language of magma.

It will come, immediately

after the three toasts: to a train,

to a helicopter,

and to the existence of singing.



Holding a nightingale´s jug

I tried to win your eyes;

I desperately carried mud

to a place rivered

by my horses;

dressed a kinjal to diverosity

by the yellowness of a field;

contemplated upon a plastic wave

on quieted balconies;

Wandered all the way to the betweenlipshire

for roses;

with a remorseless romance reassured

retama’s rumbling;

drank orange colour;

and look at me now, look

at my helplessness,

chemical promises,

a synthesiser during days

when I sleep to make

waiting for sleep easier.




Large eyes of boughs:

You´re in the laughter of the olive snow.




At that time we resembled fires,

yet our mountain crystallinity

dallied in our aunts’ shadow.

A hair was the decision

that had to be made.

A cherry-tree, in whose bark

a thaw was skating, was hidden

under the letter „e”;

the fatal jump of a porpoise

through a lifebuoy.

Lemons were on guard,

but we had to be afraid:

the decision had been made.



Sun glimmered

upon a Malayan gift.

Couples of fingers stuck out

from quartets of shapes;

sizzle was climbing up the flagstuff.

Heads of cattle were breaking in the air.

And under all that

a liquid propulsion was singing confirmation.


Bird mornings,

empty evenings

(six out of seven:

each seventh there comes

an elderly bald gentleman;

stands in front of flat spools;

he’s said to be able to smile benevolently.)



An old routinist,

meditating over causality,

walks through a carnivorous zodiac,

he grains symbols

to a dragon archipelago.



A diagnostician of chimeras fences with a stick.

Beyond the coast of cottons,

whose existence was withal proven by raft sailings

in streams of numbers gushing forth,

I modernly climb the perpendicular wall of a tor

in which a heart gently rages.




Volcanic temples.

Somnambulistic crystals on your forehead,

you walk through the sand of mouth.

Orange, slowly moving feathers of the sun.


(From “Multiple Göteborg”)






comments: 3 »

3 Responses to “The window isn´t large enough! II. – extract”

  1. Eleni Sikelianos napsal:

    I like these poems. Are there more in English?

    • fismeister napsal:

      Thank you very much. Yes, there are – both from this book and from other books. One of my books, “Pieter van den Hoogenband”, was published in English as an e-book whose download is free.

    • fismeister napsal:

      Of course, if you want to read more of them, I’ll 2. be honoured and 1. they’re at your service.

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