When I ride naked,
bareback on the cloven hoofed beasts,
with spit dripping from my pursed lips,
swearing by the gods who thunder
across the boundless heavens over the steppe,
I become Slavonic.
No reins, no ropes for me.
No girdles, no belts.
No yoke on my back
No bridle in my mouth, no cage for my thoughts.
Harnessed by my command
I restrain fifty beasts,
with their cloven hoof
drumming on earth’s womb,
Five hundred, five thousand,
Unleashed, unchecked, wide-open eyed,
reflecting a myriad stars.
Drum skins burst –
maidens deflowered,
I become Slavonic.
I flutter with the terrified banners
which flagpoles expose to the winds,
that emit flames with parted tongues.
I become Slavonik!
I re-enter my mother’s womb
and am spat out crumpled … to become Slavonik.
from the spiral alley shredding me
with martyr love
that dies for love’s ideal.
This is not a dark stifled nocturne …
not the feeble bleat of lambs being born …
not opalescent dust of butterflies
sun-drenched with blue mercury,
not the sigh of shriven troughs
reflecting the lunar shadows.
A storm of passions,
back-cracking whiplash
to seize its birthright.
Hoarse groan of crowds
from gods turned to beasts
and simultaneously from crazed beasts
raised to godhead.
Greed of the sweaty arm
besmirching the honour of virtuous womanhood.
The savage plague that splits open
a path without compass,
driven by ice and desert thirst.
Once under the bearskin tent
I ended my fast by eating roots
and in rocky puddles gargled my tongue,
on becoming Slavonic … Slavonic.
I don’t know whether a she-wolf suckled me with milk
smelling of vodka and tears.
Handgrip
of flaming torches
reduce forests to ash,
farmsteads and wheat lands.
Cannon mouth puffing out
the sarcastic laughter
pursued by the wolfish troops.
Wound fast followed with scorched crust
oozing innocent blood suffered
when I was Slavonik.
Nerves strung
like balalaikas,
crucified then head downwards,
blood oozing in burning lava streams.
Russian streams,
Ukrainian,
Polish streams,
Slovenian and Slovak,
Czech and Serbian streams,
Cossack.
Bulgarian, Rumanian and Croatian streams.
I don’t know whether a she-wolf suckled me with milk
smelling of vodka and tears
when I was Slavonic,
Slavonic.