Peter Macsovszky in translation


The Heart of Our Castle

Breathtaking, making the cloister dwindle away in a glimmer... Nerves,
the optical nerves are shadowed. So dizzying they are...
these things. Things? In the normal, normalised
course of events: things. Or rather their imprints. Rather free
places, uncovered with dust, footprints of memories. And fits of vertigo.
And glitter. The facades of palaces change into the meanders
of waterfalls. Prattling and splashing of daughters.
Midday sparkling on stalks. Barefoot rustling: we haven't
taken off yet, sisters whoop. We're still circling.

The directions don't say what we should do here, in this
chamber. What to catch hold of. What to undertake, what
to forget. We're still circling. Under the smile of the inner sun.
The safer the chamber, the more lasting the hardships. It would be,
somehow it would be necessary to get through: to cross the barriers. Move,

anyone who can move, otherwise the barriers will come to you: and cross
you. Sublimely and forever. This prayer is like a breeze. It's lacking
nothing, it is like itself. It has: a vault, furniture, windows, a door.
You can use it to come back if it seems too much for you.
To come back, to interrupt the whisper. If you are here, move:
in all directions. Move like Her who keeps pouring water
from one fountain to another. Sparkle of stalks. She who still
walks across centuries: in Toledo she thought that with such coarse
intelligence as she possessed, she wouldn't get far; and yet
she came as far as Seville. Lashed by thickets of repetition. Lashed
by a wave phenomenon, the melody of an immense force field.
Field where objects vibrate sympathetically. No, this cannot
be an illusion. Your prayer: resembles a breeze. We will not
worry, Mother Superior, that we no longer feel pious. The route
from eye to epiphysis winds uncommonly like hell. And here, too, there's a veil.
It is known that the Mother Superior's Mother loved chivalric romances;
but they almost ruined her daughter. No one had ever heard her father
judge anybody. The nerves leading from the eye to the epiphysis
leave the head first. They soar above prattling and splashing.

And she was moving so as not to grow old in a single room. And in the heart
of our castle: a caterpillar gasps. Because there's a veil here. We'll bring
her up: for the sake of her end. Twisted, dry, bare. A bed awaits
her: bridal bed and deathbed. And: ripped away, in the flood
of N, N — dimethyltryptamine, ripped away in the brain (and the mind)
is the veil that in the normal, normative course of events hides
a state. (Oh, how the soul was damaged in those countless letters!)
Meanwhile, what is to be lived. And what is expected: after crossing
any threshold. It's not expected. The following event enters
without knocking. The inner sense hears these sounds. It needn't
prepare a feast. And you? You're not a caterpillar, if you don't get scared.
Not entirely a caterpillar yet, you lack the courage. We're still circling.
What house do you want to get to? How do you want to die in the heart
of our castle, if you refuse to creep? Dizzying, dizzying are the things,
footprints of things, cocoons, cracked pupas, the one-time
moments of repeated deaths. Not stalks but wings. Wings reflect
the sun of our castle. Wings from the torn veil.

And when you saw, dear Keeper of Fountains, to what condition
earthly physicians had brought you and how they had damaged you
at such a tender age, you resorted to the heavenly physicians. You
overcame the security system of cells around the epiphysis; thanks. And
you overcame the presence of anti-DMT compounds and coped
with the low activity of the enzymes of methyltransferases. Thanks,
thanks. Gaps in the dream: resemble a prayer. And you,
Mother Superior, never got tired, never. Because you didn't succumb
to comfort. We also will wait it out, we too. We'll wait on the staircase...
... con una passionalità reale, quasi al limite dell´erotismo... We'll wait
on the staircase for Mass to end in the cathedral of Santa Maria della Vittoria.
We'll wait for the caterpillar. Metanoia: we won't destroy the dwelling of

(In: Easygoing Nun, 2011)

Copyright © Peter Macsovszky 2012
English Edition © Ars Poetica, o. z. 2012
Translation © Marián Andričík 2012
Language Editor © John Minahane 2012
ISBN 978-80-89283-48-4

Viac fotografií (18)
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