:: Poem and Picture ::
Ron Winkler :: Ivan Ivanovski
complete text that was presented at the Biennial of contemporary arts :: SlovoKult :: literARTour 2020 in Berlin
(link to the video from the multimedia reading in German below)
translated from the German by :: Lisa Robertson with Bradley Schmidt
go through the ravine, where also waves break
clear white like burning magnesium, slices of Macintosh
consequence of China
gravely to the corners of a form of smile
which, pressure-drop, almost corresponds to the line
of a coral-reef.
down there where the slide of scree becomes a secret you expressed
in twosome like Crusoe.
trust your tongue, spiracle above the glacier
so the wild animals can get used to you early in the season.
tree-trunks with something like beaver-fur coating them
tree-trunks of something.
in the valley, it seems that settlement (as if I understand its worth)
must take place in opacity. now it has to be released from the inner organs.
dragonflies, plummeted so many meters away from the truth
such was your interiority.
or the crickets, not shining from the city.
like the resin scent chirps, like a rockface confronts you with its tundra.
the wonderful barcode of firneedles
(spruce, pine, hemlock, larch).
if neonicotinoids also from carnivores are found in that creek’s brine,
study, with various Mirabelle plums, the developing fog
set aside a mountain: market it
as “to-be-weighed” start-up-marginalization:
through the whole panorama all the way to the illuminative hospital
where your act is flattened by the century’s best dandelion
your mind in gorge moraines, corn-snow kettle, climbing tide-flat-clutter. your mind
in poison venation marsh on the edges withal polyethylene ferment.
your mind in non-site snow-crust. in high-forest, also high-asphalt.
your mind in hip-cloudage, scent-crunch. high-melt.
your mind in “dissolving”, abraded as still frost-room,
road-kill, still grumbling, after the explosions in your mind
in sun-domes, in “going through gorges head-on”
where sphinxes hatch again.
potential meteorological spent-beginning.
finding respite on the designated drops.
this is the beginning I dance to, where Sherpas wander
to distort Eden. to refuel.
three horses is the park.
heightened to emotion a field with great snow brought over land and hand.
representative for all, who saw this.
go through the ravine, an enclave in extracellular space
and scream, scream-time, scream at time with the forest.
I stay. I stay conceptual. I stay conceptually unattached.
molecularly composed solitude.
scare away the hurricanes, the contrails
and gloss over several flight-thoughts
on their insides, so that they are twenty-three kinds of animal.
take the horizon onto
yourself, and give the ravens some
(and growth-noise qua the transhumant alpine pastures of this year’s hay-coloured plateaus.)
how should we proceed? river-course, hoarfrost, glowing-temples?
I think it’s okay when things become mountains at some point
when leaves and forward motion totally lose their alphabet to you.
that way you can say we fought all the time
to dab at the newly bestowed wasteland.
sod, rockslide shimmer, dispersion of the abyss, daisy-forget-me-nots,
the pleasant rage alongside distracting plants.
step to step the up-to-date illumination of the central star
in morning, phoenix-moment like the biotope baring itself deep inside you.
is the earth hollow, the ground? or is magma inside things?
in the squirrels who have left the path?
is magma in the new-moon-nights that spill over the pass?
in the paint-peeling shrine corners. such magma, does it reside
in gentian? in rope-teams, which mark the perhaps-hollow edges of oceans?
it turned out that every ridge was as if freshly poured.
that your paths formed inhumed landscape – arcadias neither for just some one
man nor femme
to reach the summit: your spontaneous mutation,
attracting lightning bolts.
water off-take is necessary, and devil’s claws in Diana’s Tree vale,
silver-sheep’s-burr-pillow-growth full of widow-flowers,
rock jasmine (for lovers of trough culture). was that your rough combe
in the thorn tower? does your Sahel zone have build-up in it?
the fields were whispered: meadowsweet and over the years softly stabilized.
they were joined by a glistening twittering, crossed off as repeatedly lasting.
but above them the sky of the grueling fruits the broadcasting tower
for all quotidian dolphins. you can train off the fins for me there,
spot the dodos removed from existence.
I have the recipe for this new glacial district. oil-soaked and alkaline.
it too should be contained in the interference:
under snow of the four-hundred-point font.
under all manifestations, are said to be cryptogam femto-organisms
or reverse primatized beings.
under currents, even pearl. preying on your mind.
under those which you should approach from below,
in accordance with the exile instructions.
under a deluge of the areas you highlighted yourself.
under all the signs that we provoked under us,
to say to you: we are not so free as to leaf it like that.
so you don’t step onto the protected areas.
with the quiet murmur, with your bare soles in the float-grit.
the grit of everything, which can be found there.
was ever found.