selections from:

Approximate Man by Tristan Tzara

the bells ring for no reason and we too
the cares we carry with us
which are our inner clothing
that we put on each morning
that night undoes with the hands of dream
decorated with useless metallic puzzles
cleansed in the bath of circular landscapes
in cities prepared for carnage for sacrifice
near the seas of sweeping horizons
on the mountains of uneasy harshness
in the villages of painful nonchalance
the hand weighing on the head
the bells ring for no reason and we too
we leave with the departures arrive with the arrivals
leave with the arrivals arrive when others leave
for no reason a little dry a little hard severe
bread sustenance no more bread to accompany
the bawdy song on the scale of the tongue
the colors lay down their burden to think
and think or cry out and stay to feed
on delicate fruits hovering like the smoke
that thinks of the warmth spun by the word
around its center the dream called ourselves

***

the bells ring for no reason and we too
we walk to escape the multiplying ways
with a flask of scenery one illness only one
one single illness that we nurture death
I know I carry the tune in me and am not afraid
I carry death and if I die it is death
who will carry me in its imperceptible arms
subtle and light as the smell of thin grass
subtle and light as the parting for no reason
without bitterness without commitments without regret without
the bells ring for no reason and we too
why seek the end of the chain that links us to the chain
ring bells for no reason and we too
we will ring in ourselves the broken glasses
the sterling coins mixed with the counterfeit
the debris of festivals burst in laughter and in tempest
at whose doors chasms might open
the tombs of air the mills crushing the arctic bones
these festivals that whirl us skyward
and spit on our muscles the night of molten lead

***
approximate man like me like you reader and like the others
heap of noisy flesh and echoes of conscience
complete in the only element of choice your name
transportable absorbable polished by the docile inflections of women’s voices
diverse misunderstood according to the pleasure of inquiring currents
approximate man moving in the almosts of destiny
with a heart like a suitcase and a waltz for a head
vapor on the cold glass you block your own image from your sight

***
at bottom at the very bottom he has concealed he sees
he sees another eye hidden within
at the meeting of the currents of carnal tendencies
the kernel is forgotten in its eyelids and petals
while the posters tear the lining of the wall
but there are signs saying all is not outside

***
shells and small stones stratified in tiers of proverbs
significance is the only unseen fire consuming us
since the origin of the first number
the breeders of birds speak a simple tongue
formed from an alphabet of birds with white exteriors
white is the finger that the thinkers rubbed so long against their temples
we are not thinkers
we are made of mirrors and air

***
the shells and small stones stratified in tiers of proverbs
are read from top to bottom direful fragile glass
the climbing laughter seeds with storm the constellations of bees
and the snails sniff the accursed riot of downpours
laughs with one face and weeps with the other
for outside is always white
and like the trout struggling against the current leaping over the weirs in the opposite direction from waterfalls
you go back in your graying youth to the place where the sun laid its eggs
and from each calm shimmer rises a quivering halo of greetings
no one knows what high tide of magic rushes forth to conquer new points of return
thus you gather in nets of shadow the rough desires that spend their lives dying through them
and the constant deaths which do not succeed in dying
man milks the eternal subtraction from each slice in himself
that remains for him to ripen in his black debt toward the harsh suns
laughs with one face and weeps with the other



Translated by Mary Ann Caws