DU LULU

SIX POEMS

translated by Stephen Nashef

The Tuner Who Arrived Early

All of a sudden the tuner arrives
We are not ready
The moment he enters all our plans
Dissolve into the air—

I so want him to like our house
Its fittings and floorboards
The bright white bare walls
And a festival wreath thrown on the floor
“—I’m sorry,
I hoped no one would see the mess from last night.”

The table is piled with foodstuffs and drinks
He should, by all means, help himself to a bite
If, that is, he would like!

Beneath the light of a sun we have not seen for days
The tuner enters our house.

He says nothing, touches nothing
He walks straight to the piano
And begins his work.

A Pretense of Honesty

I considered the opening scene, the small girl with braces
on a trip to the dentist. There’s nothing so special about the room where you work. 
The hopefuls are hidden behind glimmering mirrors: honest,
experienced, the Doctor Xs and Ys who cannot be overlooked.

Led by her mother the girl approaches each one
as you silently watch. You are the new arrival
with no right to this contest. Sat at your desk you arrange
your pliers and bands.
As a child you excelled at taking these tools to a frog
or whatever fish were around, and of course those things.

Those, things––
You see in the mirror by the hand-washing station your
radiant smile. The small girl is grinning behind you,
her teeth wrapped in metal. She speaks of a dentist
from the depths of the ocean. “I ate him, to say thank you.”

You become the girl’s new dentist.
You agree to share secrets. The girl’s mother smiles too
as her white dress slowly disappears through the door.
You motion to the girl to lie down. “Now she is mine.”

You lie down together, her on the chair, you on the floor.
Beneath the light of the huge lamps
are your glazed-over eyes, your untrembling hearts.

You adored one another sincerely, this I have never doubted.
The letters she sent you
tell stories of your moments together. She looks forward to you

filing her every tooth flat. And you just write records, filling up
book after book, making meticulous notes of her daily intake,
her excretions, what she says in her sleep, her medication. Her mother
is quick to report the upsetting things that she does.

“My mother is far away. That woman is a liar,”
she says to you. “Only you are honest with me.”

You add a note to the day’s records:
The patient can differentiate between people and has learned to cover up her mistakes.
You see her smile slightly.

You did not see her again. As I was clearing away the stuff she left behind
I asked where you had gone. Everyone shook their heads.
I only asked out of politeness,
you needn’t feel guilty.

Missing People

What belongs to me
is this mysterious moment.
Alone in the car, waiting for the eucalyptus ahead
to make space for a path to live through.
I know them, these trees,
as insatiable as the worst of my neighbours
standing guard here
waiting for me to recklessly charge forth.
But I won’t, not today.

I speak with a friend from afar.
We speak of our darling children
scrap paper all over the table, our senses we’re losing––
In her muffled voice
the future which offers no sign
gives me a wave.
So I wait here alone
and look at the stars––
the stars that have died.
This eucalyptus forest is coming back to life
while you unlucky people
climb out of your cars
with lips chapped and dry
and disappear into the forest
––this stagnant stretch
of landscape I love.

She and the Girls

Those things this woman planned to say to you
are in her stomach frothing and rotting.
With her finger up against the skin of her belly
she confers with the words, attempts to resolve
the conflicts between characters.
The difference between this moment and the next.
She puts them in order. In perfect formation, they set off.

She opens her mouth and lets out a deep sigh.
This long, unbroken breath
unearths from inside
a girl who is sighing.
A girl exhaling another girl.

They stride out of her, a non-stop
barrage of girls spawning more girls. They form a line in front of her eyes.
A row of exhaling girls with long hair.

They get down on their knees, lie down on their backs.
They stroke the skin of her belly, poke the rank and file of her words,
destroying her order,
a team of panting delinquents talking nonsense at her.

They shatter it all.
They turn her into a stammering fool.
Listen, she’s struggling to spit out one or two words
that have maintained some integrity. She says, “I––”

What do “I” need? What will “I” become?
“I” am anxious to talk with you.

The “I” draws itself out in her mouth
until no other sound can follow.

There is nothing more to be done so they jump back into her mouth.
I didn’t go back.
I stayed by her side to help her wipe her tears.

The Big Bird on the Mountain

I saw it once,
when I was pregnant.
I woke up in the night.
It was tapping its wing on the window.

My belly stirred twice. It burst through the screen and flew over
then stood strong in the middle of the room. It lifted its head,
its long, slender beak rising.

It was a big bird,
huge, arrogantly moving its body.
The whole room fell into its wing’s shadow.

It is the same bird that the mountainside people have heard
just before dawn,
its lingering moan seeping into everyone’s ears.
We call it the Phoenix.

It is black, or dark grey.
Together with night
it inhabits the still.

Who knew, Phoenix, that you looked so foul. I held tight to my belly
and waved it away. I closed tight my eyes.

Of course it paid no attention, but walked over
and pecked at my finger
eating my flesh bit by bit. It hurt but I didn’t dare make a noise.

“This is retribution,
I must show it weakness.”
After eating up my left hand

it stopped, looked at me.
It thought for some time, then stretched out its beak
and split open my belly.

Hello 

A sad face forces its way over.
He is too close, his eyelids infringing on mine
his eyeballs bulging at me,
my dilating pupils and heart,
how can I breathe?
Grab hold of those two objects
that keep pulling back.
They have some warmth and a conscience,
they speak with each moment of realisation.

This is something that took place as I slept.
This afternoon I showered, brushed my teeth,
cleaned away yesterday’s memories
and tomorrow’s possibilities. Today I want only
to think of right now.
Like a witch trying to take off on her broom,
lifting my legs
then putting them down. I cannot fly.
I can’t move.

I’m tired, my darling.
I’ll just take a nap on the bed, shut down the trembling in my body.
Quiet baby.
You’ve seen it before, you all know how it’s done:
take off your hat, rest your head and shoulders flat, let both hands
dutifully descend
and lie down soft as a bosom.
I want to stay a while on my own.
Don’t remind me of nightfall when I must climb up again.

Nothing concerns me,
no one is to come.
You must not let me shout. I cannot see the truth making its way back.
Let’s make the house spin
and diffract like a beam of white light.
Take me with you
wherever.

Oh but these are earlier thoughts,
from the time before that face came.
Then it came,
like some feral bastard choking my space
and without even knowing what it was
I raised the white flag.

“Hello.”