What follows is an excerpt from my book Autistic God [Αυτιστικός Θεός], published in 2020. It's a self-translation, but due to the untranslatability of many passages it often is more similar to a reconstruction rather a translation. Autistic God is a poem in five parts presented as written by Adam (biblical Adam) and discovered in the form of an ancient codex. It follows Adams's life through the lyrical I: his birth, his relationship with his mother (who in this analogy is the biblical God) and her death, his struggle to find meaning in life and in poetry, the appearance of Eve, their relationship and his Vita Nuova (Part III) thanks to her, her eventual death, his sorrow.
Dimitris Mavros is presented as the translator of the poem, but in his introduction he states that he had to reconstruct and modernize a big portion of the source poem. The supposed restoration of the ancient codex is marked in the following text through different text colours (in red are the relatively uncertain changes/additions, while in blue are the completely speculative and possibly misleading interpretations). I also accompany Adam's text with "explanatory" notes that follow each part (without actually explaining anything), except the fifth one. What you're about to read is therefore a reconstruction of a reconstruction, which serves and explores further the original concept of the poem.
So far, I've reconstructed the first part and half of the second one (which are present below). I intend to first complete the "new" poem and then translate all the metatextual parts (Introduction and Annotations I - IV ) which don't have to be and shouldn't be reconstructed. For now, my sole purpose is to see what the poem could look like in English. I have no connections to publishers overseas and no idea if it will ever end up being published as a book in the UK or US — although that is something I would like.
Dimitris Mavros
AUTISTIC GOD
I.
THE ADAM EQUATION
In the beginning was the Mother, and Mother was with child,
and the child’s Tongue is Father.
And Tongue was the fine print which I deified
barging brashly in this world.
And Mother said, let there be light; and there was. And Mother
Saw that the light had spikes; and thus she learned
The gift of birth.
Then Mother said that I was the light; and I stood
A statue in the sands of time. And so I’d build
Small castles whilst hearing the ripple. And sea
Would plunder, ripping them asunder, crippling them.
ἜΣΣΕΤΑΙ ἮΜΑΡ
And we grew up with ruins in our chest; and a nice Chianti.
Never with a friend for dinner; just the two of us,
Always amongst ourselves.
[: Perche mi schiante?
: Νόστιμον ἦπαρ.]
Along my burnèd earth I’d lie thusly:
I spent the day doing angels in the ashes,
At night I lulled myself to the crackle of their bones.
I cannot count on the sheep;
So many deadlines I must keep,
And I’m in Mother’s sinking ship,
And I am Mother’s sinking ship.
ἜΣΣΕΤΑΙ ἮΜΑΡ
Her tent rustles with people
Only when the foliage shadows convulse
Under the morning lights.
But there are no trees. Inside her tent are dripping shadows
Of a melting set of wings. And the people
Have forsaken us like a broken vase.
ἜΣΣΕΤΑΙ ἮΜΑΡ
She wonders why; it wasn’t me. I am simply in
the was. My alibi lies within my lullaby. And, yeah, I’m sick
Of soothsaying our tomorrow’s yesterday.
Ausculta fili, hear me out son. Give up
Them books and scribbles, there’s nothing in them. Cameras around,
Panorama of the skull, skull’s hill and exile. Good morning, and if I never
See you again, good afternoon good evening and good night.
ME OUT
Today mother died. Or maybe yesterday, can’t be sure;
For quite a while I’ve been sleeping early. Mersault, Marcel, the rooster
Spoke thrice, it’s dawn, please leave, no more.
Merci por those lines, but let me be me.
I hate you, wait, where are you going? If I’m to live love
I should be you.
So many years down the drain. What am I to do with Eve?
Come on, speak, or forever hold the peace.
Oh go on then, fuck off. But writhe soon.
I need Divided Nations.
I just sent a divination;
From: mersault@coldmail.fr
To: eve@hotmail.ed
Subject: Fractions
Tonight lovely lady
Your mother’s son in law
Will come all fractious
In part both friend and foe.
I was sent as divination;
From: adam@somelikeitcoldmail.ed
To: eve@hotmail.ed
RE: Fraction, Subject: ... - - - ...ιμον ἦμαρ
Adam = (Abel + Cain)x
Now, you either now.
II.
CITIZEN CAIN – IN THE WORKS, DAYS
My body is a bag of wrinkling wretched dirt,
a bondless heart amongst your boundless lands,
a broken code, barefoot on fresh tar,
a shadow’s lost replica on a flat, scorched earth,
forever staggering beneath the morning lights
an effigy washed ashore, orphaned marble what seas what shores quae mundi plaga, in the spiral of my ears there’s a voice that drifts, discordant echo, can you sing the syntax of My eyes, can you withstand the taxes of the suns?
like this, mother, father, my love, my boy? :
(sea + wave) – light = pulsating stars
like this, figlia del tuo figlio? :
through mirror fractions, multigendered reflections of sunlight?
no
not like this, no you moron, fucking robocop of language,
no it’s not enough, no, no, you’re never enough,
nah, no, no
***
There are moments I witness in the mirror a transient supernova, [CUT TO:], a few manuscripts later, time measurement SI, I might collapse under my own weight, or maybe I’ll find a self giving birth to a ballerina-star, or one strangled by the umbilical cord, it’s a gamble,
A sickness, the one you cannot see, the inside stuff, [rubs his chest],
A fate and a bait, the wait for a date in samara with godot, that I know,
My body is a handful of stardust from a decomposed astronaut with a lightning on his forhead, harry potter? I don’t know, will I ever learn, I waltzed into my own event horizon, electing marble over— whatever, you brought a life to a punfight, je est un auteur, and other unreturnables and I gasped
ὤλετο, ὤλετο μοι νόστος,
like a seventy-five y/o man who betted his whole pension on a horse, trojan its name, around this time last year, when his son gave ne’er ending birth, [krasis, syncope], without bearing in mind that the done deals are the first to bite the dust and the underdogs, [BOOM],
pop up from within the ground as gods,
like a twenty-four y/o man, random age, who escaped into the wine-dark sea,
with as much oxygen as can be measured on his fingertips,
the slowest asphyxiation is holding my hand, my hand is bad,
fold
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