PAVOL JANIK
Someone Like A
God
I,
You,
He
And someone else
…
- the fourth like
a dimension,
the fifth a
season in the year,
the sixth like a
sense,
the seventh like
a continent.
the eighth like a
day of the week,
the ninth like a
point of an octagon,
the tenth like
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,
the eleventh like
a commandment,
the twelfth like
a football player,
the thirteenth
like an apostle,
the fourteenth
like Friday the Thirteenth,
the fifteenth
like Louis Quattorze,
the sixteenth
like the fifteen,
the seventeenth
like a sixteenth,
the eighteenth
like the seventeenth century,
the twenty-second
like an eye,
the thirty first
like a thirty percent fall in bonds,
the thirty third
like a tooth,
the thirty fourth
like Christ’s year,
- the unending
like a god
and so just
sexless,
the powerless
like one who
makes love,
painless and
therefore senseless,
unrivalled like a
god
in the world who
has no other gods,
ungodly like a
god
who has neither a
god beside him
or over him,
bottomless like a
sky,
unrestrained like
the wind,
boundless like
thought,
immaterial like a
ghost,
nameless bearer
of an unknown name,
hopelessly
faultless,
aimless like a
perpetual runner,
childless like
the father
of a crucified
son,
unreasonable like
death
and so just
remorseless,
nationless like a
god
of all people
and beings
similar to them,
sightless and
faceless,
legless, handless
and wingless,
hairless and
toothless,
safe as a harbour
for immortal
wanderers,
without charge
like a promise,
unparalleled in
perfection,
derived in its
own home,
unmediated like
touch,
helpless like a
deed,
dreamless like a
night,
careless like a
bird,
inconsolable like
truth,
ungoverned as the
oldest citizen in the world,
implicit as love,
without
consequence like justice,
a creature
without colour,
taste
and smell.
He wanders in
space as if without soul,
a creator without
parents,
a being without
dwelling place,
a vagabond
without address,
from beyond
memory without work,
from time
immemorial without bread,
forever he
proceeds without footprints,
always thinks
without considering
and always the
same,
he breeds without
hesitation,
gives birth
without reason,
regardless of
anything or anyone,
kills without
dispensation
- everything and
everyone,
since the
beginning of the age of ages,
he abandons us
without regard
for race,
religion or conviction,
he always
triumphs without battle,
judges without
mercy,
punishes
continuously
and then weeps
without sorrow
over the spilt
mother’s milk
of the immaculate
virgin,
who bore him a
son
so he could give
him
deviously and thoroughly
to be crucified
at the hands of
his chosen people,
so he rules the
world without check,
an uncriticised
despot,
he acts
unceasingly without rest
and knows
everything without consciousness,
he prays to
himself without words,
he accepts
himself without reserve,
he grants himself
adoration without consideration,
he is blessedly
silent about himself,
so continuously
decides without witnesses,
without rhyme or
reason,
with no way out,
wholly without
himself,
headless,
heelless,
heartless,
with not a drop
of blood,
without anything.
Redeem him
while there’s
time.
Perhaps his fate
awaits us, too –
cruel
towards all
creatures
who have been
surpassed by their own works.
Kosovo
(for Jan
Tuzinsky)
A burning
paper Goethe
prays
in Serb
for four hundred
dead children
In Schiller’s
stone eye
gleams a tear of
mercury
There’s a Gypsy
weeping
for a little
Romany fairy
at the bottom of
the Adriatic
Blood
has an
irresistible color
of the bluish
dusk of the sky
from which falls
light and glitterings
like a gust of
May rain
to fertilize the
wounded earth.
New York
In a horizontal
mirror
of the
straightened bay
the points of an
angular city
stabbing directly
into the starry sky.
In the glittering
sea of lamps
flirtatious
flitting boats
tremble
marvelously
on your agitated
legs
swimming in the
lower deck
of a brocade
evening dress.
Suddenly we are
missing persons
like needles in a
labyrinth of tinfoil.
Some things we
take personally –
stretch
limousines,
moulting
squirrels in Central Park
and the metal
body of dead freedom.
In New York most
of all it’s getting dark.
The glittering
darkness lights up.
The
thousand-armed luster of the mega city
writes Einstein’s
message about the speed of light
every evening on
the gleaming surface of the water.
And again before
the dusk the silver screen
of the New York
sky floods
with hectoliters
of Hollywood blood.
Where does the
empire of glass and marble reach?
Where do the slim
rackets of the skyscrapers aim?
God buys a hot
dog
at the bottom of
a sixty-storey street.
God is a black
and loves the
grey color of concrete.
His son was born
from himself
in a paper box
from the newest
sort of slave.
PAVOL JANIK
Mgr. art. PAVOL JANIK, PhD., (magister artis et philosophiae doctor) was born in 1956 in Bratislava, where he also studied film and television dramaturgy and scriptwriting at the Drama Faculty of the Academy of Performing Arts (VSMU). He has worked at the Ministry of Culture (1983–1987), in the media and in advertising. President of the Slovak Writers’ Society (2003–2007), Secretary-General of the Slovak Writers’ Society (1998–2003, 2007–2013), Editor-in-Chief of the Slovak literary weekly Literarny tyzdennik (2010–2013). Honorary Member of the Union of Czech Writers (from 2000), Member of the Editorial Board of the weekly of the UCW Obrys-Kmen (2004–2014), Member of the Editorial Board of the weekly of the UCW Literatura – Umeni – Kultura (from 2014). Member of the Writers Club International (from 2004). Member of the Poetas del Mundo (from 2015). Member of the World Poets Society (from 2016). Director of the Writers Capital International Foundation for Slovakia and the Czech Republic (2016–2017). Chief Representative of the World Nation Writers’ Union in Slovakia (from 2016). Ambassador of the Worldwide Peace Organization (Organizacion Para la Paz Mundial) in Slovakia (from 2018). Member of the Board of the International Writers Association (IWA BOGDANI) (from 2019). He has received a number of awards for his literary and advertising work both in his own country and abroad. This virtuoso of Slovak literature, Pavol Janik, is a poet, dramatist, prose writer, translator, publicist and copywriter. His literary activities focus mainly on poetry. Even his first book of poems Unconfirmed Reports (1981) attracted the attention of the leading authorities in Slovak literary circles. He presented himself as a plain-spoken poet with a spontaneous manner of poetic expression and an inclination for irony directed not only at others, but also at himself. This style has become typical of all his work, which in spite of its critical character has also acquired a humorous, even bizarre dimension. His manner of expression is becoming terse to the point of being aphoristic. It is thus perfectly natural that Pavol Janik's literary interests should come to embrace aphorisms founded on a shift of meaning in the form of puns. In his work he is gradually raising some very disturbing questions and pointing to serious problems concerning the further development of humankind, while all the time widening his range of themes and styles. Literary experts liken Janik's poetic virtuosity to that in the work of Miroslav Valek, while in the opinion of the Russian poet, translator and literary critic, Natalia Shvedova, Valek is more profound and Janik more inventive. He has translated in poetic form several collections of poetry and written works of drama with elements of the style of the Theatre of the Absurd. Pavol Janik’s literary works have been published not only in Slovakia, but also in Albania, Argentina, Austria, Bangladesh, Belarus, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Canada, Chile, Croatia, the Czech Republic, France, Germany, Hungary, India, Israel, Italy, Jordan, Kazakhstan, Kosovo, Macedonia, Mexico, Moldova, Nepal, Pakistan, Poland, the People's Republic of China, the Republic of China (Taiwan), Romania, the Russian Federation, Serbia, Singapore, South Korea, Spain, Syria, Turkey, Ukraine, United Kingdom, the United States of America, Uzbekistan, Venezuela and Vietnam.
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