Like the Hands of old Women
Bronislava Volková is a bilingual poet, semiotician, translator, collage artist, and Professor Emerita of Slavonic Studies at Indiana University. A Czech exile, she lived and taught in the U.S. for over forty years, publishing extensively in Czech and English. She continues to publish bilingual books of poetry, conducts international author readings, and participates in many international poetry festivals as guest of honor and medalist. She currently resides in Prague and is joining us today on Zoom.
Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romanyne Rubinas Dorsey. Bronislava, what poems have you brought for us today?
There is no intermediary
there is just
the openness of heaven
there is just
the oneness with the eye
there is just
the singing of the seeing
there is just
the silence of the sky
(English original)
There is no time - only water
between the ears drowses and flows.
It closes the door and the eyes
it perishes and wipes the dust of the lost roads
It rushes upwards
to the worlds that even in the dreams
we do not suspect
and the time is hovering like a helium
without a weight - without a stain
and it embraces us surprised
with its precious non-being.
There is a way of chestnut trees.
They have their roots in earth
they have their crown in heaven.
They have a juicy heart
and color on their arms.
They pronounce their aromatic tunes
wide.
In light they dance their invisible
dance.
There is a way of chestnut trees.
They have their roots in earth
they have their crown in heaven.
(English Original)
We are the orphans of the meadows and drink
water defenselessly like dreams...
Do not go home children, boys from the gates
go up to the sky like a legend
allured from the weight of the underworld
like the hind made in silence
like the hands of old women
like the heart softened by the meadow
like the thirst of the light
like the fate of the waters...
Dear Fufi,
I see you next to me, my furry one.
I feel your soft coat on my leg,
your expressive questioning eyes fixed on mine.
“Will you be taking me with you?”
“Will you give me what you are holding?”
“Will you pet me before I eat?”
“Before our walk?”
“Before our parting?”
Especially then – wait – that wasn’t yours,
that was my question –
unanswered, now lingering forever.
The deaf and dumb hand
leaves longing in the waist
when it touches:
The deaf
the unyielding
does not count with us
does not call or rest
does not have
a soul in the soul
and a sight in the eye.
It darkens as a cover
from black fallen-in ears.
They turned into coal one time
in the corner
of the heart before
it had time to wake up
and press the tone of being
into the eardrum
into the tongue...
You've been listening to the poetry of Bronislava Volkova on the Poets Weave. I'm Romanyne Rubinas Dorsey.
