Читать книгу Lisa Robertson's Magenta Soul Whip - Lisa Robertson - Страница 7

(after Oscar Niemeyer)

I will take my suitcase into a hotel and

Become a voice

By studying stillness and curtains

I will take my stillness into a hotel

Careening, not flowing, through

Cities become his voice

Into a hotel I will take my city

And roads

And the entire moving skin of history

Utopia is so emotional.

I’m speaking of the pure sexual curves

Of utopia, the rotation

Of its shadows against the blundering

In civitas. History does not respond

To this project – History, who has disappeared into

Architecture and into the

Generosity of the dead. This states

The big problem of poetry. Who could

Speak for the buildings, for the future of the dead

The dead who are implicated in all

I can say? On this very beautiful surface

Where I want to live

I play with my friends

Like they do down there.

I don’t understand what I adore.

I think of my body in the night

And remember my grandparents. With

Blood running through my wrists I represent

This. I believe my critique of devastation

Began with delight. Now what surprises me

Are the folds in political desire

Their fragile nobility, Sundays of

Rain. Listening to music, things pass.

I cry softly thinking of friendships then

Begin again to invent the line of

My life amidst utopia. Probably

This is the centre – the worn-out house, walls

Humming the repose of systems, the

Modest light, but I wanted an urgent

Line to begin the future, something like you,

What will you do with your legs and your heart?

Some think only of pleasure in their projects.

I am one of those people

Or so desire. I needed to make a living

So provoked astonishment. What I said

Is already gone, locked in

Migration. Sometimes we make things that seem

To have will – yet the beautiful life of

The house is each day more fragile. We suffer

And laugh and swim. We go

Daily to the botanical gardens to witness

Complication. Each plant becomes what we

Love in its other language as we rest

Near the privacy of women. I wait patiently with this voice

At this late hour, in our rudimentary

Lodgings, in our migrations, and the future

Is terrible and is a play

Of liberty. Work that ignores the night

Is not my work. I’ll solicit nothing

But ornament, that spacious edifice –

Kinds of ornament are change

Because it will change anyway

Beside the privacy of women

When I’m with them I forget

The simplest fact

Of loneliness which is not regret

I will take my privacy

Into its hotel.