THE RAMPAGE
—Miroslav Holub
The last time
there was a genuine rampage,
herds stampeding
with the zest of hurricanes,
with the pulsations of a storm,
and the force of destiny,
when the roar went up
against the villous ceiling,
when the stronger ones
pushed forward to the cruel
thunder of whips while the zombies
fell back into permanent darkness,
the last time
when the cavalry charged
across the whole width of the enemy line
into the gap between life and death,
and not even one single droplet of misery
drizzled,
the last time
something really won
and the rest turned into compost
that was when the sperm
make the journey
up the oviduct.
That was a run for the money.
Since that time we've been tottering round
with the embarrassment of softening skeletons,
with the wistful caution
of mountain gorillas in the rain;
we keep hoping for the time-lapse soul,
we are secreting
marital problems and
a stationary home metaphysics,
against which
the adenoisine triphosphate of every fucked-up cell
is like the explosion of a star
in a chicken coop.
(Translated from the Czech by Miroslav Holub and David Young)
_____________________
—Medusa
Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their POETRY, PHOTOS and ART, as well as announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com (or snail ‘em to P.O. Box 762, Pollock Pines, CA 95726) for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)
