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Nina Kossman

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Backward Sound

I’m a backward
sound of myself.
I twist, I turn

through sheer virulence
of habit sleep
that measures me in bursts

of agony, hoary and private.
I ask, I bless.
I speak the raw material of memory;

only flowers here still recall the dead.
I am a green begonia.
I am a red

petal on the stem of morning.
I am, I am . . .
Black sweetness,

save me from these shattered
words, repetitive illusions.
I am dark, uncountable.

I am the meaning of a syllable
the ancients said and dropped.
I am the one the clouds dream of

when their vapour eyes are shut.
The weeping wall, the nakedness of heart . . .
Disinterestedness, now let me go.

You said: it’s guaranteed –
the backward glance, the exit,
the twisting back, back, back . . .

Now let me go, beauty grass.
Your kisses pain me
like all that dies pains that which doesn’t.

I am the eye-nerve of your marriage,
grassy sky.
I bless, I bless.

I am a friend to all that breathes.
I beg you: do breathe me in;
and let me disappear in you:

Forever, earth.
Forever, sky.

Translated by Nina Kossman

Page(s) 106

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