EŅĢELIS ANGEL
Kārlis Vērdis trans. Ieva Lesinska (from Latvian)
"Are you my angel?" - Allen Ginsberg,
A Supermarket in California

Jā, es esmu tavs eŋgelis, šovakar izdzīts no debesīm ietīt
tev celofānā gurušu vītušu ābolīti, kuru tik daudzreiz
vienas kāras rokas devušas otrām. Izpārdošana šonakt:
zaļi augļi - ar atlaidēm, mirusi miesa - uz nomaksu.
Neteic nevienam, es esmu tavs eŋģelis, Mikelandželo
izdreijāts Dāvids. Ja šonakt skūtpstītu manas plaukstas,
dzinkstētu pirkstu kauliŋu porcelāns. "Tavas debesis
acu krāsā", sēktu man ausī, jo est dzejnieks.
Nez, cik tu dabūtu, izjaucis mani un detaļās pārdevis
patiltes utenī? Pudeli džina, ko viebjoties tukšot ar
upeŋu zapti miroŋiem pilnas istabas krēslā, kopā ar
svešu veci no bāra. Viŋš apreibis muldēs par tankiem,
promejot nozags tev naudas maku.

Šonakt aiz katras letes pa eŋģelim. Vai nav tiesa, ikviens
smaida platāk, nekā darba līgumā pieprasīts. Maiŋa
beidzas, tie, savicinājuši spārniŋus, aiztrauc uz
pustukšām istabiŋām ar kailu spuldzi un krāsni kaktā,
kur vēsās rokas saŋems un nomutēs kādu mīļu un
sprogainu galvu.
Kungs aiz tevis jau skaita naudu. Varbūt visas plūmes un
banānus, varbūt visu lieltirgotavu viŋš nopirks, un
mani piedevām. Noliks plauktā aiz stiklotām durvīm,
bieži slaucīs ar astrui slotiŋu, debesis pulēs ar plīša
strēmeli.
Neklaigā, neplāties. žigli izvelc no kabatām gurķus, palūdz,
lai tevi aizved uz mājām. Neskumsti, uzraksti dzejolīti.
"Are you my angel?" Allen Ginsberg.
A Supermarket in California

Yes, I am your angel, driven out of heaven tonight to wrap a
wary wilted apple for you, an apple passed so many times
from one pair of greedy hands to another. Sale tonight:
green fruit at a discount, dead flesh by instalment.

Don't tell anyone. I am your angel, David shaped by
Michelangelo; if my hands were kissed tonight, their
knuckle porcelain would tinkle: "Your sky is the colour
of eyes", ever the poet, you'd wheeze.

I wonder how much you'd get selling my parts at the flea
market? A bottle of gin mixed with jam and drunk wincing
in a dimlit room full of dead bodies, shared with a stranger
picked up at a bar; boozy, he'd babble of tanks, upon
leaving he'd snatch your wallet.

An angel behind every counter tonight, aren't their smiles broader
than the contract requires; the shift is over, in a flutter of
wings they take off to their half-empty rooms: a naked
bulb, a stove in the corner, cool cradling hands, a kiss on
that sweet, curly-haired head.

The gent behind you is busy counting his money. He'll buy all
the plums and bananas, he'll buy the supermarket perhaps,
and I'll be included; he'll set me on a shelf behind glass,
dust me off with a horsehair brush, polish heaven with a
strip of plush.

Stop shouting. stop bragging. Quick, take the cucumbers out of
your pockets, request to be taken home; don't fret, write
a poem.

Orig. Copyright © Karlis Verdins 2004, Trans. Copyright © Ieva Lesinka 2004 - publ. Arc Publications


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