“I’d like to say a few words about these songs of mine. Many years ago, I was with my closest friends. From my various travels I have brought back for them… well, impressions, impressions in verse set to a sort of rhythm. So I took my guitar in hand and began to strum away. And what emerged was something like a song. But it was not a song. It was, the way I see it, poetry recited with musical accompaniment. In short, poetry set to rhythm. I remember the atmosphere then. It was the atmosphere of trust and unconstrained freedom, and, what’s more important, friendship.”
Vladimir Vysotsky
History of Illness.
I was weak and vulnerable,
Trembling with my whole being
Bleeding within my ill
And tormented being.
And as if in a vulgar potpourri
An enormous forehead appeared in the door
And illuminated
With healthy evil.
But the hand jerked authoritatively,-
Lie down, face against the wall,
And now they were hitting my flanks
Upon a sticky couch.
And the chief of all sat at the table,
Sighed possessed
And began something against me,
Something resembling a case.
Now held by fingers thin and clingy
Adam’s apple trembles
They punched my groin, and then my guts,
And my poor liver.
When they were crushing my ribs
All inside me throbbed
And the pen was cawing blood
Upon the innocent paper.
In half delirium, in half a corner
I stripped naked
An old hag was preparing a needle
For me, in the corner.
And from the roots of my hair down to my heels
Horror was crawling down me
What if they knock me out with an injection
And crack me in my sleep.
He, having finished his work with my belly,
Squashed my skull, and then
Pulled my forearms with a band
And cut the current of blood.
I almost screamed, but hushed myself,
Dry lips tightly locked,
And he was groaning, twisting the lock
And rejoicing in the hall.
He flew into rage, a familiar rage,
And I yelled
What are you scribbling there, show it to me
That secret nonsense.
The assistant, a former psychopath,
Tied my wrists,
The weapons of prejudice, lined up in a row
Were growing dim.
I am crushed, I am beaten, I am tough in my character,
I can break things into pieces,
But here they’ll restrain me and calm me,
And I droop and get bored.
I am lying down naked as a falcon,
And the chief sneaks, and sneaks behind the table,
And is writing something in the report,
Even though I don’t respond.
No, I need to save my strength,
I am weak and tired
I know they’ll be burning my heels soon
To make me laugh.
I am awake, on the alert
But I feel with disgust
That they stuck a pill in my throat,
I spat it back.
I am clutched, held by pliers
They are crawling over me, fussing about,
They want to pull out, worm out everything
And they are trying everything to the touch.
And it won’t be five minutes, before they
Will pull out your soul, rumple it, trash it,
Wear it out, wash it out.
Breath, breath deeply with your mouth,
Now exhale, otherwise you die.
If one exhales here
He probably won’t inhale any more
With all my dry mouth
I am grinning,
Well comrades, this trick, you won’t manage you won’t manage
To playing it with me.
They took away light and gave gas instead,
Some kind of a mess lit up there
And spurt out from my eyes as pus,
And the trachea gurgled.
He was going wild, turning ecstatic,
For some reason they brought a basin,
I already saw this once,
A film as a trophy.
They are approaching me from behind
And doing injection,
Pierce me, sons of bitches,
But give me the report.
I even came down on my knees
And pressed my forehead against the basin,
I was demanding, threatening,
Begging and abasing myself.
But they have immediately pulled the band,
And I can see now they are burning the alcohol lamp,
And keep waiting for the red haired witch
With hairy whip.
Here, in this place, they’ll always get what they want,
And myself, an old fool, I am guessing
When will it come, the burning whip,
Now or later.
The witches Sabbath was burning incense and growing bald,
Sweat was flowing down hotly
A chime was heard and the black raven
Sat on the white shoulder.
And the raven shouted ‘Never more’
It is artful and swift
And he reminds
The torture room leads straight into the morgue.
I weakly raise my tail,
Although for them I am stupid and simple,
“Hey, you will have to pay
For your prejudiced interrogation.
You, what are your names there,
You went back to the old times,
But the report of interrogation
You are obliged to give it to us.’
I am looking sideways at that scribbling
Over my shoulder
I won’t sign it for you
Until I read it.
But someone’s yellow back
Responded indifferently
‘Your signature is not needed here,
Even without it, all is clear to us’.
Sister, dear, don’t be afraid,
I won’t be silent, I won’t digest it,
I’ll deny the report
When I meet the lawyer.
I haven’t told them anything
I haven’t informed on anyone
Tell everyone I know
I remained a brother to them.
He said, drawing the line,
Read, and calm down,
I glued my eyes to the scribbling
And the only thing I see is Latin.
Circles in the eyes, zeros in the head
Damn fear, disappear.
They have simply started
My history of illness.
_____
Without pretension, a first poetic post, a first and/or last making under the inspiration “that poetry is meant to be set to music & chanted or sung – for one reason alone – because it works“. (Hakim Bey, Chaos: The Broadsheets of Ontological Anarchism)