Translated Poems Werther Damien Sevahc

I know the page looks like crap but I'm too change to drunk it. -- webmistress Stacie in Werther's spirit

Werther Damien Sevahc — Marginal and Urban-Depressive poet —


A few translated poems from Werther Damien Sevahc. There is not one single mistranslation. If one feels some of them lose their original flow due to incompatible idiomatic structures, one should know the poet had a somewhat neo-surrealist style very hard to decode, plus, he was often drunk when he wrote them.

@ All rights reserved. Werther Damien Sevahc By copying and displaying any poem you agree to identify the author along with any and every part of his intelectual property. These poems may contain language which might be considered offensive.



Pseudo Poetry
Depersonalization A dog laid under the sun After us 180 birds You draw me in waves Our dawns Oh the empty ones Redefining Remembering gone friends There are ghosts in this house Today only Nick Cave Leather Gloves When will you go silent? This is my catharsis Intelectualoids Memory The yellow path between the trees Words are like boats No anchor What happens today is a future memory of the past	My dispropertyness The colour of my madness Failed ambition Lullaby The acidity of the wait Millstone I'll leave on that train What will we leave behind? About to break-down I don't know any other way Ebb-tide hands
De-per-son-a-li-za-tion I feel so many of me and yet do not know if I identify any in the reflection of the mirrors or in any shop window of this city. It is a strange process when rationally we perceive we confusedly go about not knowing which of us is which establishing no priority system to liberate any of us nor a will that overcomes the will to leave myself. Perhaps I birth and die in you. The substantive gains dimension and though diffuse the theory gains form and substance and matter grow strong in the shape of startle, still, web, paper.
A dog laid under the sun If my step stops dig a tunnel from my heart to yours. It’s there that my neurons quite often get lost blocked and stupid with tequila and benzodiazepines and martini margaritas in a parade of numbness of a dog laid under the Sun, in summers that never return.
After us After us, may all rivers overflow and all earthquakes come to ground. May the earth shudder hard may all buildings shake and all bridges tremble. After us, may all sirens sound and cry and all cannons fire away spreading chaos north and south. May all statues lose their limbs and all temples turn to ruins with three pillars not more [not even ceilings] because after us only a river’s roar can muffle the opaque sound of a stubborn systole that insists and keeps on beating slowly, mournfully and heavily in your name and after us.	"Scène de déluge" de Géricault (Louvre)
180 birds Finally verifying we coordinate efforts I see colours. On this or any other dimension you want and feel you’ll always be mine, you make the grey that hovers upon all things disappear. 180 birds fly around me and drive me towards you. Not all is sad on the abandoned path and a black flower gains tone unnervingly drinking serenity on the fountain of your gestures.
You draw me in waves You draw me in waves as a jay lands on the wall. We’re blue fruits in orange worlds, seeing white bats on wondering trees. In the shading sun we spread the summer in gusts of green through two months walked slowly on lowlands of peace.
Our dawns When you say your dawns are sad and tedious I hear myself and see the Winter sea that slowly calls at our door and which into we do not go since it’s so cold and appealing we deny it our body but not our mind. And you know, our dawns are not that different. We let Chopin flow the air we trap hip-hop in a drawer until the morning breaks and our masks cover our faces once more or by mistake change our feel and the fake living outside the gloom that consumes our being and existing. Those dawns, since different are not as equal and never the same. The angel on your shoulder deserves the body on which it is carried.
Oh the empty ones You’re so high above me you live life so pragmatically but what do you feed on? On social approval from your fellow parasites. Oh the narrow-minded... What do you feed on? What are you trying to prove? What are you trying to prove to them? Where’s your self? Bigots, what do you feed on? I am not from your family, I’m just a black sheep. So your bigotry is useless. I feed on the hearts on the colours of empty fields and unknown faces in crowded streets. I feel your inner stench no matter how you don’t and that makes me glad to be the ugly duckling the black sheep the weird one honoured not to be your peer. Oh the empty ones What do you feed on?
Redefining I will redefine my outlines and dilute them in large chromatic differences, more pure, step by step. I will rebuild me again away from your marks on this house away from this place lost between dimensions without solid ground and open my windows hither and thither facing the sun.
Remembering gone friends We remember friends gone in gone summers at the sake of knives, pills or pedals, resting for moments under useless symbols unasked for nor worshiped. We remember the smiles of gone friends knowing them now on every tree grass and each fruit and their smiles through the fields giving the soil its colour and not the stone, their laughter of fresh water into our eyes that sadly invoke them. We remember gone friends and their honest touch unreturned justifies the alcohol, but the green all around upon the stones and every wall a screaming green runs over dead matter in silent vocatives. We remember gone friends still alive on the neurons and arteries of this emptier city and with each arm on every tree outside it we kill the missing gap left from their absence. We love alive friends with the example of the gone that breathe on fertile soil and through the leaves, on their veins, we draw upon them all their names.
There are ghosts in this house There are ghosts in this house, I feel them there in the shadows, on that claw beneath the bed that can draw out any second and freeze us in the night for hours holding the bladder feeling scared of taking a small step in the dark. We’re at 30 just the child staring at the closet that’s yet to creak. At 30 we throw up 6 meters of brown locks that you pull in despair for feeling me suffocating in an unexplained nightmare, and through an awaken sweat, an anchor at dawn, reaches out it’s new maternal hand that lullabies me with new winds winds of calm, calm winds.
Today only Nick Cave Today no career problems or untrusting sayings in cretin meetings. No blue nor grey, idiots, imbeciles none from others and their stupid lives, legit, yet stupid. Today, no colours. Today, no politics. None of this current education paradigm idiot, insensitive, cretin. I’ve made my own referendum: today nothing of nothing, nothing of all. Today, nothing. Today, all. Tonight the boatman calls for me. Today just Cave and his weird strange faith on a poetry piano that reminds me of you when you are not here, as of a growing cynicism in all and each. Tonight the night is post-gothic, after all, like almost no other among those just the same.
Leather gloves I find myself floating above me scanning my memories to find enough coherence to assemble me some kind of unity Is it that my body hasn’t found my soul? I gave shelter to you all I need cover too a landing lane a tree branch I need to land on me if I could turn my heart into a limb without a leather glove.
When will you go silent? Your words irritate me I grab my hair in anger metaphorically and not. I shut my eyes trying to shut my ears when will you go silent? Close your mouths just close your mouths Your futile conversations are driving me crazy shut your mouths I shut my eyes I will go silent I will not scream I will not scream Your daily lives are worst than mine When will you go silent?
This is my catharsis This is my catharsis this is what prevents me from blowing up in front of her and you this is what allows me to go on unveiled socially this is what hides beneath my uncoloured mask these are my colours grey blue and green this is my shade my tree this is my catharsis this is me.
Intelectualoids Intelectualoids intellectualise the unintelectualisable which by itself is redundant and an exercise of futility. And my cynic mind, irritated, (un)intelectualises the heard speech very quickly ‘cause the risk of becoming stupid is very BIG and small-minded we go about threading this path leaping and hopping with nothing to cling to while a goose honks at our window and a button remains unpressed. Socrates was a goose and appears to be one still. Shit painted china is still china but nevertheless it remains being shit.
Memory I’ll walk these city streets again fading slowly like the steps of a worn out staircase. Between the iron and the concrete a piece of green beneath the blue. That little miracle is you.
The yellow path between the trees The sense that flows through every limb between the forest and the lake makes things converge to your embrace in a shiver of lightness. I enfold this shake of completeness, and we become the sight they think they see. Thus when the shadow falls on us we can deceive them, pretend dead: through a green yell we’ll live again as the yellow path between the trees.
No anchor I saw in your eyes the same inevitability you saw in mine: exactly 12 days from now we’ll arrange to meet somewhere so we can fuck until this anguish fades away. It will start slowly and end manically, always beautifully, fatefully joyfully metamorphically cryfully until our bodies rest and you taste the scent of your sex in my lips. Then we’ll meet three or four times in three or four weeks until the heaviness of hundreds of years of guilt and hypocrisy falls upon you and your long black hair, sending you away. That’s why I’ll be smelling another neck and comparing hair to gold exactly 13 days from now.
Words are like boats I’m going to build myself an island. Words are like boats A child drinks a life form This tree is tall I’m next to its roots. I’m going to build myself a boat. Words are like islands. A tree drinks blue water The child is next to its roots. I’m going to build myself a tree. Words are like roots.
What happens today is a future memory of the past You exist every day so I can have my name as a place to hide. So every time I’m lost in space I pronounce these few sounds in one piece and the thought of you comes singing in through each letter where you hide.
My dispropertyness Maybe if at a glance when the dust settles behind you and everything else is motionless you will find me gazing at some wall underneath a broken street light, with eyes tight shut over my heart. You should know I lose myself on the streets to balance my dispropertyness. Maybe someone who knows about my fate will tell you how very far away from you I’ve been as distant as five steps behind can be. The unseen shadow underneath your window knows your eyes are tight shut over one life. I delineate myself on the book that I write through this city streets, step by step everyday at each step we take three street lamps apart, but I’m a strange language left unspoken and all your words seem to be written in white. I am the picture of myself gazing at me from the wall. Which colour am I?
The colour of my madness Although this house is not empty all windows are wide open. This draught should be blowing the curtains inside. Are they biding you farewell? Are they keeping us inside? I’ll paint these walls white, It’s the colour of my madness. I’ll build us a fence to trap us in. I’ll brick me up. I’ll leave an opening for the echoes of the children’s laughter, Its ringing brings me back down again. White is the colour of the absence. My absence, I’m here, isn’t space a strange dimension? You said the earth moves slowly but these clouds state otherwise. They’re white. It’s the colour of my madness. My absence is white. My absence is my madness.
Failed ambition You say all things we have are mutually owned but what’s yours can’t be mine since I am yours and not my own.
Lullaby Tomorrow, if your sleep breaks as mine always does I will tell you about gone days when everything was justified, when sap ran over all places and the acid was neutral. And if my limbs were to be cut by treason those wounds would give birth to crawling roots which by opening way through an interlaced fusion would say goodbye to you so gently.
The acidity of the wait Time seems to stop when you’re not around. A cigarette burns my fingers like a muffled sighed forced silence. The ash grows willinglessly, unavoidably, but the smoke rises free. I should go with the smoke, let the breeze draw me to you so I could neutralise the acidity of the wait in your scent of sweet apples and Spring.
Millstone Back in those days I was like a shadow where you took shelter from the sun. Hidden in silence our bodies rested. There was a mill in the distance. Your heart was my own. My heart was my millstone.
I'll leave on that train I’ll leave on that train heading nowhere. There’s a crow shouting never more. No more disencounters and unfulfilled longings. No more waiting for you to stop waiting for me. This is farewell to us and the path that we’ve thread. I’ll leave on that train and I’ll head anywhere.
What will we leave behind? What will we leave behind? When we sleep with eyes wide open When we live with eyes tight shut Will we ever realise Will we ever even grasp That the path we thread is narrow And our footprints never last? Will we look over our shoulders To what we have left behind Thinking all we’ve lived was true But the truth is but a lie?
About to break-down My brain is slowly drifting away, through the past and the future and first blood remains. Erasing the sight of unmarked paths I feel the earth blue I see the red stains. I’m going insane with this fear for the emptiness that invades my mind and brakes through my conscience. About to break-down ... About to break-down ...
I don’t know any other way I don’t know any other way. I close my eyes to the crowds, their eyes of derision and putridness. I’ll hold this flower no matter what, under any censuring bitch’s glance I’ll plant a garden around here somewhere and in the middle of the city this flower will thrive as long as in me its roots find lap. Even if they try to take away all the water the light, the air and time to give, it will feed from the iron kept impregnated on old rusted buildings. And all minerals that on our bodies ricochet will gain identity and a hidden rout within that strange and absolute word they call Love.
Ebb tide hands Your eyes used to shine when the days were young and promising and your slim hands would lounge as slowly as the summer waves being born at daybreak. Today your eyes deviate from the digits that awaken you with the impatience and the preannounced harshness of another day. We have lost taste we have earned our calluses and worn out your charles in our many routined causeways. Today you have ebb tide hands.

Curious note: Werther Damien Sevahc invented the word dispropertyness .

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