Vahur Afanasjev's Blog, page 3

In dividio

Indiviid. In dividio. Jagamatu.Kui palju olen püüdnud endast anda,teenimaks äraterviklikku säramist?
Puude vahelt paistab sihvakas kirikutorn.See on kuusk.
Kõnnin, kollane prügiämber näpuskrundi tagumisse ossa,sinna, kust kitsed ja külakoeradleiavad leiba ja kalarappeid,mädanenud banaane, meretagust eksootikat,tuhka ja teemante.
Aastate kaupapüüdsin jagada sulleparimaid paluiseenesest,küsimata kunagi,mis sulle päriselt maitseb,leib või kalarapped,luuletused või kõrvarõngad,õhtusöögid või massaaž.
Indiviid. In dividio. Jagamatu.Kuskil on üks ilus õun,aga need, kes hammustavad selleston tühised ussikesed.
Toetan kollase ämbrikaevu betoonist kaanele.Kohe see kukub, rabatud maailma hingamisest.Järv teisel pool tänavatpüüab murda enesest välja,kasvada mereks.Järv on täna mu enese moodi --trots lainetab hallikas veres.
Indiviid. In dividio. Jagamatu.Alatine rahutus rahu leidmiseks.Niiviisi polegi võimaliksüüdata lõkkeidvõõrastes akendes.Niiviisi polegi võimalikteenida äratuulevaikseid aastaid.
Alles siis,kui tuled kui nugamu kuivade soomuste vastu,vabaneb killuke minustsu soolasel keelel.

Tulime tühjusest

Tulime tühjusest.Petame endid lootusegajõuda kuhugi. Valgusse.
Ma proovisin ehitadailusaid kodusid.Kulutasin uneeelseid aeguvalides värve,mis annaksid tuulevaikse lapsepõlveneile, kes magavad tubades.
Tõusin keset öödja läksin mere äärde.See polegi meri, vaid järv.Ka mina pole seeja ma ei tea, kes ma olen.
Rajades paradiisi, ehitasin põrgu.Pisarad minu tegudestkergitasid veepiiri,aga kõrkjad olid eesja nendel nägin veiklevat varju.See olin ma ise.
Ema ja isa leidsid mind tühjusest.Otsisin vastuseid, alati aplaltneelates heljuvaid hetkinagu tindiparv ähmases valguses,mis puudutab läbi vee –ainult päike teab oma suunda.
Isa on surnud ja tema ei vasta.Ema on elus ja temalt ei küsi.Ise ei mõista, kuni on ööja hommik on alati uusja eelmiste päevade valuon võimatu röövida nendelt,kes väärisid paremaid kinke.
Ma ei tea, kes ma olen, kuid sinaoled soojus, mida kiirgavad köetud majad.Oled õhtud, mida liigendavad helidikka veel ostmata klaverilt.Oled see, kes kunagi andestab.Võibolla siis, kui mind enam pole.
Seisan keset päevaseal kus eelmisel aastaloli liivane kallas, kõrkjatest kaetud.
Sina vist olidki koduvõi lootus kodulenagu varahommiku päikejärve rahutus peeglis.
Nüüd on aeg, mil otsustavad teised.Otsustad sina, mitte mu aplus ja väikeste kalade hirm.Otsustab järv, kellele andaja keda võtta – tagasi tühjusse.
Tulime tühjusest.Tulime emast ja isast.Pole põrgut ja paradiisi.Elame esimest korda.

Üksainus näide

Mida teab laine ülejäänud järvest?Mida teab vihmapiisktumedatest pilvedest?
Tuuleiilid kaovad,millekski vajalikud,kerged kui õhk.
Iga liivatera saaks tunda vaid ennast.
Iga luik roostiku vahelimetleb kaaslast,julgemata muud kui läheneda.Midagi arvamata. Midagi küsimata.
Ometi öeldakse,tuttav nagu omaenda peopesa.
Vaatan kätt ja kõik on võõras.Need jooned on kirjutatudtundmatus tähestikus.
Autol pole aimugi numbrimärgist,liisingust, hooldustest, õlist.
Kõik on vaid ise.Ise, millegi meelevallas,kobades valguses,leides kodu suurlinna öösvõi uinuvas külas.
Kirjutan õpikut,kasutades ühte näidet.See pole ülbus ja hoolimatus.
Kirjutan endast, aga mõtlen inimestest.Mul on üksainus mudel.Teised on omamoodi.

"Tartu laul"

The Masters

In the Governorate of Estonia, serfdom was abolished in 1816 (in comparison, in the whole Russian Empire it was abolished in 1861), however the land was not redistributed among the peasants and the corvée labor was preserved (until 1876). The American Civil was fought from 1861 to 1865, with slavery abolished by the Thirteenth Amendment in 1865. The poems if about the changing face of the colonialism.
We were the good masters,taking Christ and glass beadsto uneducated savages.Their lords became our henchmen.
The hostile tribesfelt the impotenceor hatchets and clubs.Back crooked, they waiting for usas if for hail, a thunderthey have never experienced.
We gave them cold,as cold is good.We taught them to readBible and count money,because these are good as well.We forced them to build houses,until cities sprouted.Plaza de Armas, Central Square –the castles and fortressesshowed our powerand the savages understoodthat these are good.
Their little castlesof palm leaves, earth and dung,thick logs, rocks and corrogated iron,modern blocks, aluminum, glass,roof tiles and drywallabsorbed our power.
The savages learned to write poetry.They used our alphabet to compose their epics.They too religion from us, and it was good.They took our habits and way of life,made wigs of Samson’s hairand held country fairs.
We, the masters, retreated.Our parachute menrose to Algerians sky and flew away.Dandellions had floweredand a rotting couch stood on the porch.
The the cicada could fiddleon their miserable folk instruments.A festival tramped on the memoryof our power.“Come back!” a Little Master called,and we went,leaving the chapels for bush and grass.
We ceased to livebut didn’t die.As an ivy we sucked the last strenghtfrom the old walls.In our stables they built restaurantsand the tribes fought as in the olden days.
We were the good masters,but the goodness did not maintain our power.We are tired,but we cannot leave.
We cannot call us the good ones,because savages are not bad any more.The peculiar pagan faithsare honored again.
So we hide the stuffed pygmysto the restricted collections of ethnographical museums.We send apologies to Central Africa.We bow our head in mouringsfor the Iranian nuclear scientists.We celebrate holocaust dayand demand Israel to recognise Palestine.We talk of xenophobia and privay policy.
Great American companieshonestly hintthe they are guilty of eating the bees.The tongue of Rolling Stonesis still swollenafter licking the honeyof the developing countries.
We call ourselver Westand West, it’s the light coloured people.Never trust a blonde.The blaze of evil blue eyesrises over Davos.
Our skiis have the powerwhen we slide down the hills.White hell, white kingdom.If we cannot be the masters of good,we are the masters of evil.
We tramp to the mudeverybody who tellsthat our Hitler was less or a bastardthan Stalin or Mao.We’re antifa just to maintainthe power of fascism.We buy canned foodfrom biomarketsand take an airplane to converenceto discuss climate change,caused by technology –technology, it’s us.
We are the bad masters,but we rule the world.We are tired,but not ready to leave.
The bigger our guilt,the more powerful we are.
No need for dumbbellsand educationto be a sexist pig.Your ancestry is enoughto be evil and strong.
The white master, walking on tiptoes –your flat musclesconceal an amazing power.Oh, white lady, prophessing trouble,a girl with history,you have seven billion children,who must obey to your wisdom.
It’s you who knows how to live.You’re old.Your the lady of the house.Your man is the master.Lips sticky with apple juiceyou talk of your guilt,bigger that the others have.
Plaza de Armas, Central Square –with alphabets learned from the mastersthe savages paint slogans there.
Plaza de Armas, Central Square –you, the savages, gulp the guilt of your masterslike stolen honey.Your tongues get swollen,but your chest if puffy of bride.You’re young,and you are not leaving.
You have seven billion children.

My soul, where do you flow?

My soul, where do you flow?Down!Down to the river and hill,by the road of nameless sorrow.
My soul, where do you flow?Up!Through the bitter throat of a dandellion,to blow myself into the wind.
My soul, where do you flow?Down!By the mirror smoothpubic glaciers or London girls.
My soul, where do you flow?Up!In the thick bush of network cableslooking for oblivion.
My soul, where do you flow?In narrow old trenches,down,through the bog to Australia!
My soul, where do you flow?In the spring of headless hensup!Knocking on the sky.

In dividio

Individual. In dividio. Indivisible.How much have I tryed to giveto earn from yourindivisible radiance?
I see a slender towerof a distant churchpartially hidden by trees.It’s a tall spruce.
I walk, a yellow garbage bin in my handto the back of the plot of my country house,where deer and village dogslook for bread and fish scraps,rotten bananas,exotics from overseas,ashes and diamonds.
Through the yearsI tryed to provide youwith best pieces of myself,never askingif you prefer bread of fish scraps,poetry or earrings,dinners or a shoulder rub.
Individual. In dividio. Indivisible.Somewhere there’s a beautiful apple,but those who bite on itare just random worms.
I put the yellow binon the concrete cover of the well.Now empty, it is blowns awayoverwhelmed by the breath of the world.
The lake across the streetis trying to break out of itself,to grow into a sea.
The lake resembles me today –defiance in it’s gray blood.
Individual. In dividio. Indivisible.Constantly distressed to find piece.And soit’s impossible to light bonfiresin the windows of strangers.And soit’s not possible to earnwindless years.
Only thenwhen you come as knifeagainst my scales,against my dry fish skin,a piece of my is releasedon your salty tongue.

The Hole of Rock’n’roll

Same socks for the fouth day,lips red as settings sun,tale so free and puffy,hand holding a coffee cup with beer –so I stand on the planet.
The last gurgles of a male choir.A tradition if fullfilled,and there is no more to come.
The last song festival or Oktoberfest,the last Canterbury festival,the last summe solstice,the last war in Afganistan.
There are moment I have no ideawhich handle to pull.How to influence the world machineso it won’t crush me?
A toothbrush it the only itemconnecting me and humanity.I spit the deep thoughtsinto the sinkand get myselft ready.
It’s almost evening when they drive us somewhere.It’s almost empty, the community hallwhere the native are showna poet,who’s on an unpaid leavefor the fifth year in row,needed by everybody,invited to events –like a big black butterflyit the ceiling of it’s own room.
And then it’s overas is never to repeat itself.The buttles shed their hatsto honour the youth.And there you stand,just by the counter,young and hotlike a iron in gas state.
Now there’s no shameto be famous,to laugh and swagger,make fool of myselfand then sport profoundness,to the be first fish to grow legs,to stands of a bar tableand after thatjust tell her: “Let’s leave this place”.
The coolness rises from the dark riverthrought thin branches.It’s not summer yet, but the juices are flowing.You get nakedto the pleasure of all anglers.And I choose the pathback to nature.
The people are are in the bus again,the fallen friends and laughed about.All of the rise from the dead –an army of zombies takes the stage.
The girl looks as ifshe carries a pussycat in her purse.Somewhat shy,somewhat confident.
This journey is forever.The yellow gold of late summerflowing by the windowsand I am not awareif it’s this or the next autumn on the way.
Three rows to the frontsits a crestfallen Icaros,looking at me as if to say:
“You ain’t gonna catch that sun.”
All lifetime with the same pair of socks,wings flutteringlike an impotent Pegasus.The rich tits of the worldforce into the submissive face –still I manage to get upand escape to the wilderness.
Where could I find a paper so cleanthat all the words wouldn’t seem dirty?How awry must the park bench beso that the humanswould drop from it?Whoops and whoopslike candies in a factory.
Honest questions pulsate in my head.I take a mouth full of moonshineand forget it all.
Now it’s time.Now I’m really here.Right here in this moment,directly and knowing nothings.
I’m surrounded by snowdriftand dandellions,rosehips are in bloomand the lindend trees shed gold,as if they don’t pitythe yellow billowing rye fields.
And I feel –I just have to take one stepto cross this green hilland there, in front meit opens –the hole of rock’n’roll.

Voices

Voices getting dull and mutein the buzzing of oveloaded batteriesof a child.
Voices we even don’t noticewhen we make those.
Loud musicflowing out of open poresas the sweat of young hearts.
Monotonous voicesforming the light-footed cardiogramof our days.
And right then these are the brightestwhen we have no timeto listen –and when we finally do itit’s all too loud.
The buzzing of pubsin the middle of wallsof the old town.The humming of cars or freeways.The shrieks and shoutsfrom the playgrounds,forgotten meaning of these,forgotten by the oneswho are scared to become children again.
Voices getting dull and mutein the ears, deafened by years.
Too much wisdom.To many experiences.
If only we could life forever –I guess the the moment would arisewhen we remember all of it at onceand then reallystretch over the ocean of time.
If only it would be possibleto live forever –until now I didn’t getwhy we need it so much.
The buzzing of pubsin the middle of wallsof the old town.The hungry smack on the water,a pike ready to spawnin the river of the very old town.
Loud pumping musicin the shopping windowof a very young personpacing by.Go ahead, you can see it all,you can recogniseyour own ears, hungry for sounds,sincere and shameless.
Voices.Voices becoming silence.
But not now.Not just yet.You can listen now.
Any voice, any soundis better then silence.

Jõeäärsed tapatalgud

Vaata, nurgas rahvakunstnik
segab suus kokteili.
Pepsit Coca-Colaga.
Teised joovad veini.

Kell on võrdlemisi palju,
pilk on süütu, looriga.
Naljakas ei ole, siiski
õhtu imet sooritab.

Švipsis neiud saavad naisteks,
kõigil tarvis tantsida,
kõigile on elult vaja
üllatusi santida.

Saba lühem olla võiks ja
peldik värskelt kasitud.
Vanaema surres oli
elamisest väsinud.

Anoreksia, askeetlus –
terve ilm on häiritud.
Nälgind vaimus tõuseb veetlus,
kui beljaš on näritud.

Kuidas tunda ära, millist
unistust peab teostama?
Tühisus on liiga mõnus,
kipub elu reostama.

Kuidas teha nii, et iga
hetk võiks olla pühalik?
Vaid sandaalid jalas valgel
väljal seista üha siis,

kui on vaikind viimne tehas,
ajalugu lõppenud.
Kuidas elus nõnda teha,
et näeks surmas sõpra uut?

Midagi sa ära karda,
koidab lõpu hakatus.
Seal, kus jõgi tasa voolab,
ees on tapatalgud ju.