Strawberry–Cushioned Button–Lady
Pacing on top of his bubbling fountain
his feet get wet from his own come.
Strictly! – with arms folded behind his back
– is how he prefers to give me his lecture.
So as I float through my upholstered universe
of oohing strawberries and plushy–lush gas–pedals
fanned by a retinue of turtle– and dolphin–fans
few of his flung words get lured in my ear trap
Fantasizing
Faking
Fastidious
Frigid
Fascinated by fasciculation
Far from finding out about his fantastic tempo, fatness and
sleaze density
And whilst I drift away benumbed, carried on the back of the scent of his neck,
clad in his saliva's lukewarm cocoon
and – to the point of elevation – exulted by the particularities of his armpits
his words (formulated for my sole sake) stroke me
as THE perfect lullaby
to my upholstered romance
My little button has risen up
(doesn't exist in Czech)
A Russian–Style One
Horseshoes crunchily penetrate the snow's stillness.
A little green man wearing a bark vest sharpens his talon in the thicket.
Infatuated birches blindly undo themselves for the sake of the frost
while a soon–to–be duchess is carried to wedding in the village of Whitehall.
Yet every hoof crack in the snow's skin is a pestering reminder of the upcoming night
– o, how maliciously insists the wood vermin on reconfirming her ominous suspicion:
That dying of love body–bared in the frost's chilly embrace in fact far triumphs
over having one's petals lappingly pulled apart for a field behind their parish.
Ruská
Podkovy koní se křupavĕ propadají do ticha snĕhu.
Zelený mužíček v kůrové kazajce si v mlází brousí svůj
pařátek.
Zamilované břízy se slepĕ rozepínají v ústrety mrazu;
zatímco lesem do Bílé hory na svatbu míří budoucí
knĕžna.
Každičké puknutí kůžičky snĕhu pod kopytem však dotírá vidinou
budoucí noci
– ó, jak potmĕšile ji ta lesní pakáž utvrzuje v tom, co ona už neblaze
tuší:
že lepší je nahý láskou zmírat v ledovém sevření
bĕlostné náruče chladu,
než si dát pro pole za farou chlemtavĕ rozhrnout své okvĕtní plátky...
Waiting for a War
Patiently,
I try to wait for a war
to break out around us
and then, hopefully, anticipate the victory
that would extinguish it
so that I could, as soon as that moment arises,
ecstatically jump over the doorstone out into the street
and like a loony charge scot–free at the very first group,
– along with the others to gird the solders with gratitude and the sinewy twines of our arms –
then yank and finally disappear under one tumbling, musk–reeking stranger.
And next – as I wish and will –
keep pulling him into my lily–white embrace and cleavage again and again,
making those dirty strange masculine hands plunge deep
until they gulp and guzzle! – till the arms get thoroughly drenched!
Men. Men constrained by their fatigue, cravings, but PRIMARILY
by the parched female lust.
In this unique moment, pieces of clothing explode, men gulpingly choke while the women sink their
claws into their bodies, only to gratify them the very next moment with a chain of kisses round their
pelvis and an ardent invitation to their cosy, warm ruby chamber,
where one can rave, mollify and even grow languid.
Life doesn't abound in such moments.
How on earth can I be this terribly eager?
– Oh, stuff your astonishment and better start moving –
(do cut it out, your excitement's already showing!)
Hurry!
Find your husbands and at once start plotting that war...
ČEkání Na Válku
Trpĕlivĕ
se snažím čekat na válku,
až se okolo rozhoří,
a pak zas vyčkávám vítĕzství,
které ji – jak doufám – uhasí,
abych hned, jen co ta chvíle nastane,
mohla extaticky vyskočit přes zápraží do ulice
a jak šílenec se beztrestnĕ vrhnout na nejbližší, první skupinku:
spolu s ostatními ženami opásat vojáky vdĕčností a
šlachovitými provázky našich paží
a potom už na sebe strhnout jednoho jediného špinavého, chlapsky
čpícího cizince.
A pak – jak se mi zlíbí –
si ho do bĕlostné náruče a dekoltu strhávat znovu a znovu a znovu,
nořit si tam ty cizí špinavé mužské ruce:
at se nalokají! – at se tam klidnĕ celé vymáchají!
Muži. Muži v zajetí své únavy, choutek, ale PŘEDEVšÍM
vyprahlého ženského chtíče.
V téhle jedinečné chvíli explodují kusy odĕvů, muži se lokavĕ
dusí a ženy do nich zadírají drápy, aby je v dalším okamžiku
obštastnily řetízkem hubiček kolem pánevní kosti a vřelým
pozváním k sobĕ do vyhřátého, útulného, rudĕ
zařízeného chambre,
kde se dá ve dvou třeštit, nĕžnĕt i zemdlévat.
Takových momentů v životĕ nebývá mnoho.
Tak co tu ještĕ stojíte a tolik se divíte: Jak že se může tak zvrhle tĕšit?
(Vždyt se už samy tĕšíte... dobře to na vás vidím!)
No honem!
Pobĕžte za manžely – rychle spunktovat tu válku...
A Small Futuristic One
Striding down štĕpánská
a cyclist dashes by
– whizz –
I'm closing my eyes
inside suddenly perfectly taut:
Tearing through the night
in his skin–tight shorts
he feels to have managed
– in less than a jiffy –
to slide all the way in me
and next be gone
Malá Futuristická
Kráčím štĕpánskou
kolem se mihne cyklista
– frrr –
Zavírám oči
ve mnĕ se to sevře
jako by mne celou
takhle zkraje noci
v tĕch svých tĕsných šortkách
tryskem vyplnil
Ekleksographia:
Wave Two
March, 2010
Poetry
Vera Chase
Vera Chase, born in Prague, graduated from Charles University and continues to live in the Czech capital. Her half dozen books include the short–story collection Maso a pomeranče (Meat and Oranges, Mladá fronta, 2007), the bi–lingual poetry collection Eyeberries/Bobule (Sanskriti Prathisthan, 1999), and the novel Vasen pro broskve (Passion for Peaches, Knizni klub, 1998), which won the 1997 Knizni klub Book Award. For over 2 years she edited and co–published Jednim okem/One Eye Open, a bilingual literary magazine dealing with women's issues.