the bell 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
...
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
vapor on the cold glass you block your own image from your sight
...
with mouths blue and drawn from the cold on the other side
of nothingness
greedy you grip the door so hard your nails sink in the flesh
the dark throat where the clouds pile up
the word alone suffices for seeing
I have left behind real life overflowing with the manners of gentlemen travestied in dream
I walked on the sky head down
...
man grows infinitely shorter with the year
but let the door open at last like the first page of a book
vomited from the white crests the fog solidifies among us
and soon we will be take into the dense and muddy matter
soon will be absorbed by the spongy lethargy of iron
laughs with one face and weeps with the other
at each step found again and yet more fleeting
always found again and always more blind
like a plant that would unknowingly devour us
like a love that would unknowingly devour us
the tree lives in you and you live in its shadow
concentric circles flee with time
the heart a heavy stone that the drowned men put on
holds oyou in the depth of inexpressible relationships
hardly moving among the errors
the solid links - oh slow oarsmen of soot
come in through the window - the night old with masks
allows each night the long youth to enter into me
never again to lose its footing on this hostile earth.
sailing with clarity I know not where
...
I remember a clock which cut off heads to tell the hours
...
we wanted to drink all the blood of rocks purulent with sun
that the waves tried to snap with their burning mouths
the sea brought scars still sensuously warm
and the sharp cliff seated knees aginst its chin
chewed on its star and the peaceful light that ruled it
in the lonely jail where blood prowls thick with remorse
up there where all is stone
...
up there where all is stone indefinitely
smooth down the clump of clouds - these are the teeth of thunder -
...
into gaping eternity of hiatus has bitten
resounding in the assonance the proclamation
conveyer-belt from faith to nothingness -
let the leaning one
beside the dark one
fistcuffs knots in the long journey of existence
what do they shatter clear with time and with mirrors
I raised my silence to the gentleness of death
...
and while anger howls at the moon's mourning
and spreads the fetic shadows in vacillating alleys
there are still like me some light drops of soul
rejected by the centrifugal force
and where the stalk stands like a dagger's crook
squat the heavy souls unseeing
whose every end is a beginning
and the seas too it has inverted
that is what we know of the seas inverted in the well of the sky
poor little life losing ground each day
overthrown toppled trampled poor life
...
but to what purpose climb the peak strain the clouds
when human tenderness can no longer warm my joys
but when memory comes frightening in its mask of shouts of crime
eager to snatch the letters from the words
the straw emerges from the mattress of my body which unyeilding as my god oppresses me
and so hard of feverish sky and
and I am broken along the iron structure
and crushed like a fruit under the careless foot
I weep gall succulent deliverance
if I could kill memory elusive prey
how the work is dirty at its approach why not strangle it
before it spills from the bucket of the atmosphere
a man would like to weep a man
a man would like to punge his head into the cool river his head
a woman would like to weep over the man
a man is so few things that a fine net of wind carries him off
man
it is raining sun on the embers of sun
and ships of sun drown in the germination of nothingness
...
leech fastened to the year's frenetic flesh
vague foreboardings sound the shouting depth of the wells
where we pile up pell-mell knowledge and poetry
age is ready to take you in its artful net
from which escape is difficult and memories sift painfully
put the muzzle on the buring clock tower of barkings
which in sonorous confusions details the neglect
where every hour our other selves arrive burdened with awkard parcels of life
my horizon is limited to the face of a watch
the arena where the bullfight boils in my heart harrassed by shouting summers
but there are also hands that write
peace to some disillusioned wealth to others according to the chance of wells we fall in
incendiary hands
the only ones that shine
I still hear the cloud saw
that cut the horizon from maturity from the ripppling vestiges
I dwell in the music in the stove where the shadows bake a tear
where at every step the riddle of our reality grazes the anger of the reasons for azure and madness
and of so many others and of so many others
do not close your eyes yet
the murderous cavalcades of solitude
and this blackened force that reverberates in me
breaks in me aginst the walls breaks
impetuaous as a spattering ray of heavy sun
that the hammer drives into the muffled throat of the well
and still the train chatters in morse code across countries and voices
I wait and wait the patience of my destiny reaches the candle's end
the last flutterings of a moth all I have left
that the shadow first plunged in me and then pulled out slowly
and slowly crushed the stone slowly strangled the confession in me
I waited bundled in my menial humility
rescue like a drunkenness overpowering the dull eye
emerging from the bouquet of muted rays
I wait for divine imprudence to drop its die of love
on my head whose roots already go to meet it
the sharp virtue of the number it releases and shows me
I wait for the apocalytic chariot
to take me in its whirlwind of infinite and gold
for the prophecy of order at last to crystallize in death
and so many others and so many others
the clot of what I could not understand rising in my throat
a ninepin at the mercy of a thoughtless impulse what am I
a disconsolate starting point where I return smoking the word in the corner of my mouth
- 다다이즘의 창시자이며 대표자인 Tzara. 이 책을 구했을 때 얼마나 기뻤는지 모른다. 다다이즘은 의미가 없다는 뜻으로 아무 의미없는 dada란 말을 사용해 그 개념을 설명하고 있다. Tzara는 문득 보면 무질서한 언어의 나열과 문법과 상관없는 말의 조합으로서 삶의 의미없음을 그의 글에서 표현하고자 하는 듯이 보인다. 그러나, 내게는 그의 극단적인 아름다운 문구들에서 생의 부조리, 유한함에 대한 원망, 글과 삶에의 열망에도 불구하고 바꿀수 없는 현실 등이 유리송곳으로 뇌를 갉는 듯이 전해진다. 그의 인간존재에 대한 깊은 사유와 같은 운명을 지닌 인간들에 대한 동정 또한 글 곳곳에서 배어나온다.
뜻밖에 만난 내가 예전에 썼었던 문장과 일치하는 문장 몇 개, 그가 지나왔을 생각의 절망과 부조리의 늪에서 만난 듯...
그의 글은 가슴을 한 조각씩 떼어내는 듯 아프지만 그럼에도 너무도 아름답다.
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