Sand-pit II. – extract

Posted on 26th Říjen 2007 in English

How I’d wish to know

at least one

nickname of your ship’s keel

- that fluttering stallion

which consolidates whenever

a bell calling all the sea monks

chimes through the brine.


A dryad.

Each tender step of hers

is blackbelted.


for Dana Culling

Rowan berries on the snow,

or do you feel olive?


Butterfly clinks like a child.

Sound of blackbird´s feet.


By the ford of a fumous man:

do I wait for the blossoms of

an oak, a greenweed and a meadow-sweet;

or for returning home?

Tell me, dryad,

how do you see your eyes?


You walk upon the solid rivers,

you soar in the faseous ones;

now and then you sink

two hundred meters upwards.

I, lost in the yellow fields,

pound to my air shadow

with my wand,

looking for blossoming.


Crazy nettles run all around

as they look for a path for you.

I lead my little herd of stones

to a new pasture.

Paying no attention to thorns,

you walk.

Maybe you will bring your animals

to my stones.


Dragon of hours sends

butterflies from gardens´ memory

to flame out some fires

and light up other ones.

I walk among them,

one of my eyes looks at your tracks,

the other looks for

the apple gate you went through;

the third skips between your glare

and the milder glow of flames.

Lava grashoppers sing so much

that the sun will shine again…


Salamanders and lungfishes went astray

and you show them the way

from the reservation of grammar

through the fog springing from mouths.

Air-raid of saliva.

By the forest stream, in audible light,

a core of a tree stump.

Let us write the song down.


A robotic pavement.

And beyond it

the perfection of a tree leaf.


The starlight of a meadow

wreathes my fingers;

swifts consisting of withered cells

show me the clouds;

a white ship,

half swan, half reptile,

offers me a castle whispering

that leads to treasures;

but I want your smile.


You waded through the river of flesh

to a land where tears are waist-high.

Animals ask for stalactites

from your face;

they want to purl a fountain

at the heart of the forest

with them.



dal lords sing

their bony song.

A pilgrim throws himself into the wind,

finds an unchanging tree.


A zodiac in his front eye,

an andiac in the back one.

A sun on his front palm,

a moon on his back palm,

stars around his chest.

He firerakes with his front leg,

looking for a third eye,

he replaces the trees with his back leg

to places peopled too much.

When he longs for hilly dreams,

he goes to sleep to a little house

built on the forest shore by you.

He contemplates, contemplates all the time,

about the worlds you have opened

before you left

and whether to visit them

and whether they stop coming to him.

And whether he will see you again.

And when one has to pay.

He lies not about volcanoes

in case someone meets him.

If he is broody, just let him

stand in the tide;

throw to his net whatever you have in your pocket.

Say a prayer for them.

And for yourselves and for everything.


Look who goes with me:

two storage jars whose bottoms

are glued together with honey

rotate on his head:

a counter of jars, actually.

Crows are here

and so are ravens and greycrows,

but not magpies, not magpies:

a pebble typewriter took them for a trip

on a narrow isthmus,

to a road to a little church,

lit by sun shining through olive oil.

A ship which carries here a little balloon.

A red one.

Which won´t blow up.

Such ship…

Oh, I don´t think so.


You recognised a beck
and wanted to get a pebble on its shore,
but a sauropod
was hibernating under it.
Sorrows go with you like fossils.
Those on whose family you´re all at sea
you systematize as Megalosaurus.
Come to me, someday,
to my tower,
I´ll classify them.


You juggle with little diuretic suns.

In the meantime, she sips the tea for which

the water was prepared by a painted harp.

Birds of prey flew here some time ago,

each of them took hold of one of your fingers,

from honey buzzard by your little finger,

through Harris hawk to a stock owl

which stood to your thumb,

and they carried away your hands,

which had so often created their silhouettes upon the walls

over the hill to her, where your heart

dwellt for so long.

You stood together in the sun

and looked at the sand

and it wasn´t until then, when she was with you,

that you saw the sand is a beach of a magical sea.


comments: 2 »

2 Responses to “Sand-pit II. – extract”

  1. elfos napsal:

    Beautiful, Henry. I do´nt understand all, but it is beautiful.

    Butterfly clinks like a child.
    Sound of blackbird´s feet.


  2. Henry Psanec napsal:

    Thank you. I hope you’ll soon read it in Czech.

Napsat komentář

Vaše emailová adresa nebude zveřejněna. Vyžadované informace jsou označeny *



You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>