After Half a Life by Deniz Utlu - Words Without Borders

1

After half a life: selva oscura. The dog that I was.

Jesus-mittens nailed onto treetips—the Lord had large hands.

Blooms made of ejaculate. I walked on. Deeper into the woods.

2

King of the beasts: a bird walking with a broken nose; wings, a comet tail, never worn. Pride after the fall.

Carnal desire: a puffy octopus from the class of unsuitable cephalopods, floating in the sky in place of a moon. Staring at the transwoman I cannot be. Call me Beatrice, she says. I wasn’t sent by any god.

Avarice tamed.

Lechery blocked.

I walked on. Cheshire cat help me: the dog that I was.

Without a figurehead. Upstream in a leaky boat. Encompassed by obsessive brush. In the obscurant woods. Still under the delusion that the darkness had a heart. Me, a Kangal in a cat mask. So easy to expose.

3

Meanwhile in the birch forest: Every coachman is a poet. Every horse scrambles. Every rocket dreams. Even the foxes are searching for me. Where are you, friend? Who hounded you, who deserted you, who sliced such suspicion into your gaze? Which pickpocket pecked the calm from your fingers, abused you clear out of paradise for a fistful of cheap gold teeth?

Meanwhile in Amsterdam: All the captains are smirking—with the chimneys of their houseboats smoke-signaling good cheer—they page me over, say: If you come now, you’ll live it up a bit. We’ll stroke cards, pray accordion tunes, have a hoot. We’re tying up. The softest rope-toss is all yours—if you come now.

I’m not there.

The dog that I was.

4
Me, a black-clouded beetle. Crept out of myself. Staring in the face of my ugliness, I couldn’t hate me. My cat-ification was complete. Perhaps—without knowing it—I’d been one all along. I don my ushanka cap. Say good-bye to the bug. I am ready for my homecoming. Which, as I know full well, is never one at all.

1

After half a life: selva oscura. The dog that I was.

Jesus-mittens nailed onto treetips—the Lord had large hands.

Blooms made of ejaculate. I walked on. Deeper into the woods.

2

King of the beasts: a bird walking with a broken nose; wings, a comet tail, never worn. Pride after the fall.

Carnal desire: a puffy octopus from the class of unsuitable cephalopods, floating in the sky in place of a moon. Staring at the transwoman I cannot be. Call me Beatrice, she says. I wasn’t sent by any god.

Avarice tamed.

Lechery blocked.

I walked on. Cheshire cat help me: the dog that I was.

Without a figurehead. Upstream in a leaky boat. Encompassed by obsessive brush. In the obscurant woods. Still under the delusion that the darkness had a heart. Me, a Kangal in a cat mask. So easy to expose.

3

Meanwhile in the birch forest: Every coachman is a poet. Every horse scrambles. Every rocket dreams. Even the foxes are searching for me. Where are you, friend? Who hounded you, who deserted you, who sliced such suspicion into your gaze? Which pickpocket pecked the calm from your fingers, abused you clear out of paradise for a fistful of cheap gold teeth?

Meanwhile in Amsterdam: All the captains are smirking—with the chimneys of their houseboats smoke-signaling good cheer—they page me over, say: If you come now, you’ll live it up a bit. We’ll stroke cards, pray accordion tunes, have a hoot. We’re tying up. The softest rope-toss is all yours—if you come now.

I’m not there.

The dog that I was.

4
Me, a black-clouded beetle. Crept out of myself. Staring in the face of my ugliness, I couldn’t hate me. My cat-ification was complete. Perhaps—without knowing it—I’d been one all along. I don my ushanka cap. Say good-bye to the bug. I am ready for my homecoming. Which, as I know full well, is never one at all.

Nach halbem Leben

1

Nach halbem Leben: Selva Oscura. Der Hund, der ich war.

Jesusfäustlinge auf Baumzipfel genageltder Herr hatte große Hände.

Blüten aus Ejakulat. Ich lief weiter. Tiefer in den Wald.

2

König der Tiere: ein laufender Vogel mit gebrochener Nase; die Flügel, ein Schweif, ungetragen. Hochmut nach dem Fall.

Ein aufgedunsener Oktopus aus der Gattung untauglicher Kraken schwimmt im Himmel anstelle eines Mondes. Starrt auf die Transfrau, die ich nicht sein kann. Sie sagt: Nenn mich Beatrice. Kein Gott hat mich geschickt.

Gezähmte Habgier.

Versperrte Geilheit.

Ich lief weiter. Cheshire-Cat hilf mir: dem Hund, der ich war.

Ohne Galionsfigur. Flussaufwärts im leckenden Boot. Umgeben von besessenem Gewächs. Im Obskurantenwald. Immer noch im Irrglauben, die Finsternis hätte ein Herz. Ich, ein Kangal mit Katzenmaske. So leicht enttarnt.

3

Derweil im Birkenwald: Alle Kutscher sind Dichter. Alle Pferde hetzen. Alle Raketen träumen. Sogar die Füchse suchen nach mir. Wo bist du, Freund? Wer hat dich so getrieben, wer hat dich so verlassen, wer hat dir Misstrauen so in den Blick geschnitten? Welcher Taschendieb hat dir die Ruhe von den Fingern gehackt? Für eine Handvoll billigen Zahngolds aus dem Paradies geprügelt?

Derweil in Amsterdam: Alle Kapitäne grinsen—auf ihren Hausbooten rauchige Schornsteine, die Geselligkeit verkünden—, sie rufen mich aus, sagen: Wenn du jetzt kommst, hast du ein bisschen Leben. Streicheln wir Karten, beten zum Akkordeon, johlen. Wir legen an, der sanfteste Tauwurf ist dein—wenn du jetzt kommst.

Ich bin nicht da.

Der Hund, der ich war.

4

Ich, ein Nebelfleckbock. Kroch aus mir heraus. Im Angesicht meiner Hässlichkeit konnte ich mich nicht hassen. Meine Katzenwerdung war vollbracht. Vielleicht war ich—ohne es zu wissen—von Anfang an eine gewesen. Ich setze meine Uschanka auf. Nehme Abschied von dem Käfer. Ich bin bereit für die Heimkehr. Die, das weiß ich wohl, nie eine ist.