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The Emergency Stopping of Time

a poem by

Ewald Murrer

translated from the Czech by Jed Slast

originally published in Nouzové zastavení času (Brno: Host, 2007)

Copyright © 2007 by Ewald Murrer


English translation copyright © 2007 by Jed Slast

All rights reserved.


PART 1

The sky was gone


the morning
he went out the door
to walk through the city.

Rather than firmament


he saw a wooden ceiling
hurriedly nailed together.

A team of men likely


brought their tools
at night
and crated over the roofs.

Musing, it seemed
he remembered
the obscure blows of hammers
muffled by a dream.

“I didn’t dream it then,”


he said to himself
and lowered his sight.
Earth same as before
reflected the wooden structure
in its pools.

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II

Earth reflected the wooden structure


in its pools.

He walked and watched


the vapor rising from his mouth;
it occurred to him:
“As glassblowers create
lifeless forms
with their living breath,
I create with my living breath
the lifeless box of my soul.
If I were to exhale a visible essence,
it itself would be life.
I haven’t noticed
that I would also be inhaling visible energy.”

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III

“I haven’t noticed
that I would also be inhaling visible energy”—
he pondered,
and morning in the streets,
the start of a day.
Trees in the same places, living
on legs swollen
by the centuries-old labor of standing.

In the eyes of the on-coming people


he noticed seesaws,
minute figures in boats flying wildly,
then a small carousel
in the eyes of a passing dog,
and a high tower
with a view to the clouds
and a shoal of flying fish.

An ordinary morning near a city park.

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IV

Morning near a city park.

He approached the shrubs and grass,


sniffed it now in the breeze.
Rain in the air,
the park graying.

Upon entering the park


he saw boulders rising from the earth,
and on their bodies he glimpsed rising veins.

The trees darkened,


eyes opened
and closed
in the leaves.

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V

The eyes of the trees opened


and closed.

Beyond the city


a cloud was mountain born.
Trees inert looked on
as grave as priests,
witnesses without wagging tongues.

The cloud rose from the mountain.

He stopped, pulled up his collar,


thought —
“A cloud’s lot is clear,
shadowy, limpid, cold.
Its completion is rain.”

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VI

A cloud’s completion is rain,


a man’s completion is tears,
rain of the eyes.

Fog behind the eyelids,


fog.
Fog that is voice,
voice of voices.

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VII

Fog that is voice,


voice of voices.
The street expired,
a chill breath,
wearied his steps.

Retaining a sense of warmth,


is this desired most?
But how is warmth known?

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PART 2

VIII

A rich harvest
from the barren field
where no one scythed.
The dungcart stood stilled,
overgrown with grass,
not departing.

Perhaps at night,
the time of revival,
it drove alone to the landscape
and watered
the seeds
dispersed by the wind.

There were no traces,


no one had any news.
A strange cart without
horse and driver
passed not one nightwalker.

But a rich harvest.


Madmen in the country,
they came from somewhere,
smiling with their eyes
turned inward.

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IX

They watch with their inward-turned eyes.

A glance will betray


you as not a bird
though you sit in a dark bush.

Your dwelling of thorns


grows from a house.

Your house of man


is a sad thuja,
green from the graveyard corner.

Happy and carefree you go,


and are harnessed
to the plow that breaks ground,
furrowing the airy sod.

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X

The plow furrowing the airy sod,


I apportioned fairly
to my sons
the mussel soup,
the baked garlic.

A woman sitting at the table


cooked the mussel soup
and baked me the garlic.

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XI

The woman baked the garlic;


and I had left.

It could be called chance


that the house door was locked,
yet the yard was alit,
as was agreed.

It could be called chance


that the echo of steps
was so loud it startled the birds sleeping,
pulled the dogs from their kennels
and set them howling in a concert cacophonous
of throats surly and chill.

It could have only seemed


to my rattled soul
that the voice in the house was foreign,
and the laughter from the window
rained on my head,
striking me with injurious intent.

I know this is you,


waiting at the table huddled
with a candle
until I arrive,

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prepared to set water to fire
and warm yourself with me.
I know well your astonished gaze
with which you watch
the clock
and the door
that will not open.

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XII

The door will not open.

In the country
flat
trees walk
with birdclaws
instead of roots.
In nesting boxes
the plumoseness accrued.

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XIII

The birds accrued onto the boxes’ wood.


A sweet taste of tobacco
in my head
and the sensation of a leather armchair,
later we could to the carriages.

We could meet with woods,


water,
crows in the glade,
in the wind
as they shake their arms
and shriek.

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XIV

The crows shriek.

It is a holiday,
our disease has been given a name.

Celebrated by wearily ambling


the hill-set streets.

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XV

I celebrate the disease with a weary amble.


Once long ago,
I leafed through a book.

A year ago,
a dog barked.

Yesterday, a leaf fell


into my hand.

It rained violently at morning,


evening less so.
Tomorrow the sky will blue.

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XVI

Tomorrow the sky will blue.


The shadowimages will be
on the walls.
The shadowplay of rain
on the locked homes
where the shadowpeople go
to set ring to ring.

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PART 3

XVII

It is cold,
eternal cold.
In each of my memories it is cold.
I am confined behind a door in the wall.
I hear voices.
The voice of a woman,
and a person with her too.

In the garden, flowers,


I leave with them in my arms,
asphalt agleam,
reflecting the face of the moon,
a witness prepared to testify.

They stand at the crossroad,


my pilgrimage will be long.
I cry in confusion.

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XVIII

I cry in confusion.
The dark dissolves
and I am in a park,
I exist in a park.
Instead of grass a lake,
down the trees running
the blood of the morning coming.

To be so dark.

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XIX

If it were so dark.
Laughter peels from the walls,
mirthful dust falls onto the furniture,
dank joy rises from the corners.
I am in a house,
I exist in a house.
The house is warm, glowing,
the monotonous humming of the gas burning.

The felled bull closed his eyes,


his blood on the table.

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XX

The blood of the bull in a chalice on the table.


In my thoughts I return,
backward I ascend the stairs,
returning from where I was exiled.
An overturned chair rights itself;
now seated I suck up words with a pen
written on a wrinkled sheet
I smooth out
and deposit in a box with other white sheets.
The flame to the candle rooted,
the wax swelling, the wick turning white.
The fire conceals itself in the match.

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XXI

Fire conceals itself in the match,


anxiety in the thought.

In my mind a storm rages,


sudden suspicion.

The figure alone might be sleeping in the bedroom.


It might be sleeping in the bedroom.

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XXII

The bedroom is consecrated to sleep.


I’m not in the house,
I don’t exist in the house.
In the house a child
frolics to the window,
laughing at my face behind the glass.

Outside is cold, there I am a face,


inside is warm, and a child.

On the table
in the room
are cakes and tea,
hands.

Outside steam rises from the mouth,


birds fly down from the roofs.
A child laughs at a face behind glass.

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XXIII

A child laughs at a face behind glass.


Inside the house a beast sits at the table
and gazes through a vessel’s red glass.

The beast is old,


his fur is black and coarse,
his face has begun to gray,
even bald in places.

The vessel is broad with tapered neck,


half-full.
The liquid inside the vessel
clear.

At the table sits a beast


along with other beasts.
They, too, gaze through the glass.

The soporific silence


of these beasts.

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XXIV

The silence of these beasts


induces sleep.

The eyes of the bull close,


the bull’s eyes close.
A sailboat drifts on the blood surface.

I hold my sleep,
keeping to my dreams.

I hear shreds of conversation


from rooms that are beyond me.
Words wanting to be speech,
but are not.

Who are you?


I don’t want you.

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XXV

I don’t want you,


I want to feed loach,
caress sandmartins,
saddle burbots and bee-eaters.

Women are leaving the forest


in the masks of children.

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PART 4

XXVI

They have children’s faces


and the hearts of corpses.
The eyes of murderers
look out from innocent faces.

I expect a greeting,
not a reward.
A silent file of men wait for money,
and war is behind the door.

Murderers and murdered


are natal brothers.

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XXVII

Murderers and murdered are natal brothers,


in their mothers’ beds
a spider weaves its home.

A child walks through the street


carrying
a porcelain troika
garishly painted.
Behind his head, distantly,
the sun quickly
runs the sky.
It sets and again rises.
sets and rises.
Dark and light, the child cries, the child laughs.

I glimpse the face of an old woman


behind a cracked windowpane.
In the moment before
she vanishes I see
her smile, and I ponder
the import of this smile.

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XXVIII

I ponder the import of the old woman’s smile.


Should I return to again receive this smile,
the proffered glance?
Should I return though
I know the danger
that the old woman in the window should no longer
be?
Should I return
and risk that no explanation should come?

— I’ll go nowhere,
sufficient a passing gesture.

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XXIX

A passing gesture will suffice.


— I’ll accept the experience
of vagabonds who have come before me
in the city’s streets.

To run,
not to serve the moment.

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XXX

“I’ll not serve the moment!”

He continued on,
and the way again rose,
again no one anywhere,
a difficult ascent.

He reached into a pocket


and produced coins,
counting them a moment in his hand.
A number of various large pieces
giving hope,
the chance of purchase at some other moment,
another situation.

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XXXI

He focused on the potential of another situation,


and it came.
At the end of the street suddenly
appeared the silhouette of a man descending.
The descent as difficult, it seemed,
as the ascent.

They approached one another slowly,


over the city flew a squadron of fighters,
their din bringing the creatures to the windows,
hands closing the windows.

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XXXII

Hands closed the windows,


and the noon grew dark,
as if the sun had not enough shine
and the city was left
the reflection of its electric lamps.

Even the sounds now faded


and the men’s drawing near
occurred during the single tone
of the planes gradually growing distant.

This situation’s color was white,


slicing the eyes.
An unpleasant light.

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XXXIII

An unpleasant light,
and the oppressive drawing near.

The situation ripened


and the men met.

The rhythm of their stride


was in no way altered.
They passed,
the sound of the planes having abated.
He again saw hands
in the windows newly opening.
In the window nearest appeared
the tiny hands of a child,
a little girl
with polished nails.
The sight of them brought him to a stop.

He looked at the girl’s hands


remaining in the windowframe.
“As if they weren’t human,”
he thought.
“As if they belonged only to the window.”

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XXXIV

“As if the hands belonged only to the window.”


he thought,
and glanced back.

The man was now distant,


his stride suddenly free and breezy,
nothing hindering.
“Was I the cause of his exertions?”
he asked the hands in the window.
“Yes, you,” came the reply.
“You.”

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XXXV

“You are the cause,”


spoke the hands in the window.

Attempting to flee,
the road offered no help.

The planes reappeared in the sky


and now the houses answered with a wail of sirens.
“There’ll be war,” said this sound.
“War.”
“Once again, war.”

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XXXVI

“Once again, war.”

With this thought his walking ceased


and he sat in the shade of a tree
to open a book.
He found in it pressed birds
and pressed animals,
a pressed people,
wretched, miserable clichés
— the feathers of all the angels.

He closed the book


and felt stirring in his head
a cellar imp.
. . . he had to find a cellar.

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PART 5

XXXVII

It was enough to open the door nearest


and go down the stairs.

He was in the cellar,


he existed in the cellar,
now only the cellar was
and the low ceiling reminded him.

The ceiling was.


The space intolerant of soaring thoughts,
a space stifling
and low.

“Why am I here?”
he thought.
“Have my footsteps brought me here?”
Voicing these questions
he knew
his steps hadn’t led him to this end.
“What had, then?”

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XXXVIII

“But then, what?”


“What has led me here?”

The age?
An age envious of footsteps in the streets?
Reveling in the shadows,
in the dark?

The age?
This being,
a magnetic pole amid the brow.
A pole human faces turn to.
The ruler of time.

A night creature with the attributes of a god.

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XXXIX

A creature with the attributes of a god,


the Age — a goddess,
A being leading man
into the shadows of resignation.

A cynical creature delighting


in moments protracted
to unbearable infinity,
in a time of prolonged selection,
in smoke rising to heaven,
forming its own embrace.

A creature whispering inaudible words


into the ears
of abandoned children.

A creature rejoicing in pain,


a creature in a changing uniform
of elegant cuts,
of bright colors
reflecting nocturnal fires
and sun-splashed squares.

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XXXX

A creature fond of the squares flooded with sun.


The town squares
whose names it’s appropriated.

A cosmopolitan creature.
A creature from the town Love,
where dust fills the streets
and the people living there,
in uttering this name,
involuntarily form their mouths into a smile,
exposing their teeth,
and embrace one another,
so large is this Love,
with many millions of inhabitants.

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XXXXI

A metropolis named Love,


with fine districts.
Here one finds blithe places,
Brčko and Treblinka.

And the creature smiles,


strokes his beard,
purrs:
“Sit in your cellars,
be in your ghettos.
The way up is as arduous
as the way down.
The park has the same ceiling
as the house.
Bombers speak in the same tongue
as the violoncello.
The obituary is a literature of beauty.
Enjoy your ghetto.”

“I am in my ghetto,”
he thought,
and he was in a ghetto.

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