Issue 7: Keston Sutherland, Marx & Espitallier

Karl Marx

AN JENNY


The night is raimented in melodies,

The intact sky bound with shining wishes 

            Trickle from the heavens down

            To earth and envelop our limbs,

With contemplative fist I fabricate

Out of this raiment a coat of wings,

            To fly the blessed long expanse

            Of clouds spread out to Jenny,

And find all lust and longing ended there

Where whispers drip from the sweetliest lips,

            The modicum a heart conceals

            Our gods pick to take root in,

And all her words become the universe

Of melodies to silence my heart in.

            “But when your breast beats louder,

            When sorrows fill the air

Or trauma, when too formidable love

Glisters in too enormous tears, and when

            Blood reds your unwilling cheek,

            Or heaven’s set forth in your eyes,

When all your inset deepest life itself

Entirely gives itself in and is lost there,

            The burden will not hold, shakes

            And tears its shackle, turned upon

Its head in the sway of dark appetite,

Drained overlong by wanting and heaving,

            When in the noble guise of dark

            Art transfigured by the force

of misery…” Then I like to fall down,

To put an enterprising word to you,

            That only I recognised you,

            Only I broke out in the same

Feverish fire, purblind deconvolution,

In a more despairing high arrangement

            The same force is pressed from my breast

            That melts you in delicious tears.

It was thus greatly written up as fate

By precursors by deeds and by our love,

            That profound sorrow disappears

            When it in the flame of oneness

Stands above us. Then I would like to pause

Dividing up the soul and breath with you,

            I would like to deliquesce on

            Your breast and turbulently sink

Into your soul in blessed unconsciousness,

To die with you and sigh my last air there.

Jean-Michel Espitallier

History of Amorous Discourse

—I love you.

—Me too.

—I know.

—I know that you know.

—I know that you know that I know that you know.

—And for my part I know that you know that I love you.

—I know that you know and you know that I know that you know that I know, and you know that I know that you know that I love you.

—I know that you know and you know that I know that you know that I know that you know that I love you, and I know that you know that I know that you know that I know that you know.

—And do you love it that I know?

—Yes, I love knowing that you know, I love it that you know that I know that you love me, I love knowing that you love me and I love knowing that you know.

—And for my part I love knowing that you know that I know that you love knowing that I love you.

—I know and I love loving knowing that you love knowing that you know that I know that you know that I love loving knowing that you know that I love it that you love me.

—I love knowing to love you.

—I love loving knowing that you know to love it that I know to love you.

—I love knowing that you love knowing that I know.

—And for my part I love loving that you love to know.

—I know that you love me and I love knowing that you know that I know.

—I love you.

—I know.

—I knew it.

  Here and There

      A translation of ‘Ici là-bas’

Keston Sutherland is the author of Hot White Andy, Stress Position, The Stats on Infinity and other books of poetry, and of Stupefaction: a radical anatomy of phantoms (London: Seagull, 2011), a study of the use of idiots in the work of Karl Marx and in English poetry. He lives in Brighton and teaches English at the University of Sussex.