Poems
Ivan Martin Jirous’s poetry of 1981–1985, which first appeared in the collection Magor’s Swansongs_1 and includes the poems published here, was written during the poet’s longest period of imprisonment, and there is no question today that it represents the apex not only of Jirous’s literary oeuvre, but also of recent Czech poetry. Jirous gained fame as a poet later than he had as the spiritus agens of Czech underground culture and the “artistic leader” of the rock group Plastic People of the Universe. A former dissident who signed Charter 77, one of the most well-known political prisoners of Husák’s “normalization” period, and recipient of the prestigious Seifert prize in 2006, awarded chiefly for his poetic corpus as collected in Magor’s Summa (1998, second edition 2007), Jirous writes poetry that is extraordinarily rich both formally and thematically. And it is precisely the poetry that he wrote in prison (all of which he composed and preserved in his memory, to write down after his release), that most clearly demonstrates his poetic mastery. Using traditional, familiar rhyme schemes, Jirous’s poems are presented as profound personal confessions, ironic and self-ironizing glosses, polemics, explicit social criticism, and even religious blasphemy. He uses puns, macaronisms, and vulgarisms, inherited through his study of the Czech avant-garde, as well as condensed texts full of profound spirituality and humility, texts akin to prayers, in which Jirous shows himself to be a follower of the Czech Christian – particularly Catholic – poetic tradition as well. In Swansongs the poet has also managed to draw on the “primitivist,” neo-dada line of Czech samizdat literature from the early work of Egon Bondy and Ivo Vodsed’álek of the fifties, with complex intertextual allusions, frequent literary borrowings, paraphrases, and citations from both his literary models and loves, such as R. M. Rilke, Bohuslav Reynek and Boris Savinkov, and his fellow underground poets – Vratislav Brabenec, Andrej Stankovič, Pavel Zajíček, and Eugen Brikcius.
Only a few of Jirous’s poems have been published in English to date, and those translations were made for informative purposes and thus did not reflect the inventiveness of Jirous’s poetic language. This is especially true of the translations published in the journal Yazzyk 3, 1994, but also to some extent of those published in the collection Ten Years After the Velvet Revolution—Voices from the Czech Republic (New Orleans Review 26, 1–2, 2000). Moreover, the latter includes poems from Jirous’s later collections, but not from his chef d’oeuvre, Swansongs.
Martin Machovec, September 2008
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The guard dogs’ howls are continuous As Radim celebrates the Eucharist. The words to the song “O St. Michael” ascend from the cell. The chalice is a spoon and the host a roll. The Lord God is with us forevermore. |
Služební psi na dvoře vyjí a Radim slaví eucharistii. Slova písně Ó svatý Michaeli linou se z cely. Kalich je lžíce a hostie jsou z veky. Pán Bůh je s námi po všechny věky. |
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God, do you know at all about me, since you’ve shut me up in here? Do you ever remember me, in this filthy pit for years? You made laurels and nightshade, which will end my days? Have you condemned me to useless fame, or will I die somewhere in shame? I beg you humbly, Lord, Bartholomew, so cruelly flayed: Do not leave me anymore in the Leviathan’s mouth in vain. |
Víš ty, Bože, vůbec o mně, žes mě zavřel v tomhle domě? Vzpomeneš si někdy na mě, jak tu sedím v hnojné jámě? Stvořils vavříny i oměj, co z toho jsi schystal pro mě? Odsoudils mě k marné slávě nebo pojdu někde v slámě? S kůží v ruce Bartoloměj pokorně Tě prosím, Pane: Už mě nenech vězet marně v Leviatanově tlamě. |
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On the façade cygnus olor inside terror and horror From the other side St. Bruno guards terrifying depths of dark Gutted like a pig the church gleams at the clink |
Na průčelí cygnus olor uvnitř hrůza je a horor Z druhé strany sv. Bruno střeží děsuplné lůno Vykuchaný jako prase skví se tady kostel v base |
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In misfortune I always return deftly to religion but I don’t even pray anymore as soon as I settle in (The saints in niches on the façade should perhaps intercede with St. Hugo with the swan Only you can forgive me) Twenty-two angels on the floor above are stuck to pilasters in a line ten, twenty years in the joint in miserable bids men serve out their time They sit around me in the church On their faces are shadows cast not by the eternal lamp but by natural gas God is it just midday or do I discern the approach of night Is the bomb just a big knife? Is the wind tearing out the last leaves from the hawthorn in the yard or will they again grown green? tell me Is there bark around the sky as around the trees on earth? Or do only angels’ choirs surround you in your glory? Is that you God in that void? In that void does there burn fire? Sultry south frosty north Is Kartouzy the navel of the world? As the neck of a swan who bends me You Lord? The presbytery has no altar from the burner come hell’s flames In misfortune I always pray with the gentle patter of the rain on the stony faces of the saints. |
V neštěstí se vždycky hbitě vracím k religiozitě jak se však trochu zabydlím tak se zas ani nemodlím (Přimluvit by se snad měli světci v nikách na průčelí se sv. Hugem s labutí Odpustit můžeš mi jen Ty) V patře nade mnou dvacet dva andělů přilepilo se na pilastry deset let dvacet v údělu lidi zde mají hrozné flastry Sedí v kostele kolem mne Ne věčná lampa zemní plyn na jejich tváře vrhá stín Bože je teprv poledne nebo pad na svět soumrak už? Je bomba jenom velký nůž? Poslední listí vítr rve na dvoře z hlohů nebo se zazelenají poznovu? řekni mi Je kolem nebes taky kůra jako na stromech na zemi? Nebo jen kůry andělské obklopují Tě v slávě Tvé? Je oheň v srdci prázdnoty? Jsi v prázdnotě to Bože Ty? Mrazivý sever horký jih Je pupek světa v Kartouzích? Jako tu šíji labutí kdo mě ohýbá Pane Ty? Bez oltáře je presbytář od hořáků jde pekla zář Modlím se vždycky v neštěstí Kamenným světcům na tvářích jemný déšť jemně šelestí |
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Mont St. Michel is great The farthest I’ve come is Valdice my poems are all clichés and herpes marks my face |
Krásná je hora Mt St Michel já nejdál do Valdic jsem přišel moje básně jsou samý klišé na hubě vyrazil mi lišej |
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It’s hard to compose elegies when everyone’s sucking penises How inadequate every rhyme is to describe them sucking privates So as not to sound like a hooligan I write down only now and then how one prisoner pleasures another convict’s genitals |
Špatně se skládá elegie když kolem cucají si pyje a každý rým je na to chudý popsat jak kouří si zde údy Abych zas nepsal výtržnicky zaznamenám jen sporadicky jak jeden odsouzený přelíz druhému zločincovi penis |
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In Vienna Vráťa waits for the coming autumn days a dry wind blows from the barren plains, this year in Vysočina, I see, they’re harvesting flax without me. Way out here in Valdice I sit perhaps so as to see a little bit more of the bottomless pit. No longer will I drink beer with Vraťa—I remain here. You will sleep alone far away beyond Iglau, ow, beyond Iglau. At the table you’ll sit alone, as from a fan a light breeze will blow and stir the surface of your bowl, the last breath of winds from the barren plains, blowing from the south at midday. Through Znojmo it’s just a short way, and farther on for me you’ll wait— in that old Celtic land you will stay. In Vienna—just a short way— with Marie Vráťa is drinking beer. Through Znojmo it’s just a short way from here. |
Vráťa vyhlíží ve Vídni blížící se dny podzimní vane na Vídeň z pusty fén, na Vysočině letos len sklízejí beze mne. Snad abych z jámy bezedné poznal zas o pár sáhů víc, zapadl jsem až do Valdic. Nebudu s Vráťou pít už meltu, zůstal jsem tu. Ty budeš sama spát v dálce tam za Iglau, au, za Iglau. V poledne budeš sedět u talíře, lehounký vánek jako od vějíře trochu zatřese hladinou. To slabě z jihu zavanou odrazy větrů, z pusty fén. Přes Znojmo je to kousek jen. A budeš na mne čekat dál v té staré zemi Keltů. Ve Vídni – kousek opodál – s Marií Vráťa pije meltu. Přes Znojmo je to kousek jen. |
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Mountain bound in cornbind river teary with crying Fields encircled by headlands Christ rising in anguish Sheaf tied with ligatures grave filled in with earth Candles pierced by flames hearts cruelly pained Lips with bitterness closed cold gnawed into the bones Churches stabbed with a cross or in a cloud swathed And eyes wide with shock at it all read the burning inscription in the wall |
Hora svlačcem omotaná řeka pláčem naplakaná Pole souvrať obepíná na mukách se Kristus vzpíná Snop povříslem převázaný hrob hroudami zaházený Svíce plameny protknuté srdce ztýrané ukrutně Ústa sevřená trpkostí mráz zahryznutý do kostí Kostely křížem probodené nebe oblakem zahalené A oči hrůzou vytřeštěné hořící nápis přečtou v stěně |
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They go to vote on the way from prayer and from elections they go straight to church so what did Sion rise up for there? and what good did Mount Horeb serve? Oh St. John Hus Christianity – what a disgust |
Jdou volit cestou z kostela na mši jdou přímo z voleb nač tady potom Sion stál a k čemu hora Oreb? Ach svatý Jene Husi jak se mi křesťanstvo hnusí! |
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An angel brings Bondy from “By the Suns” down to the square to St. Nicholas he binds his arms in a stole adorns his forehead with an aureole Bondy towers in radiant dark above the roofs of baroque Prague drops of blood from his temples drip down the dome of St. Nicholas a flock of pigeons circles in the gloomy shade above the unexpected adoration the Vltava pounds in the quays O Bondy! O God! O Jesus! |
Na plácek k svatému Mikuláši anděl Bondyho od Slunců snáší převazuje mu ruce štolou zdobí mu čelo gloriolou v ztemnělé záři Bondy ční nad střechy Prahy barokní krvavé kapky z jeho skrání kloužou po mikulášské báni hejno holubů krouží v mracích nad nenadálou adorací buší Vltava do jezů Ó Bondy! Ó Bože! Ó Jesu! |
Translation by Kirsten Lodge
NOTES
_1 Jirous’s pseudonym Magor may be roughly translated as “crackpot.”
