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    Ars Poetica - Valzhyna Mort

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    Zeynep Kocaadam
    The poem Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort explores themes of memory, imagination, and the poet's relationship to the past through vivid imagery of streets, archives, and personal objects. The speaker builds a room within themselves populated by 'Calibans' and remembers chocolates hidden by their grandmother in a purse that withstood seven wars. The poem circles back to these images and ideas, questioning the role of memory and imagination.

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    Ars Poetica - Valzhyna Mort

    Uploaded by

    Zeynep Kocaadam
    87 views2 pages
    The poem Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort explores themes of memory, imagination, and the poet's relationship to the past through vivid imagery of streets, archives, and personal objects. The speaker builds a room within themselves populated by 'Calibans' and remembers chocolates hidden by their grandmother in a purse that withstood seven wars. The poem circles back to these images and ideas, questioning the role of memory and imagination.

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    Ars Poetica – Valzhyna Mort

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    The poem Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort explores themes of memory, imagination, and the poet's relationship to the past through vivid imagery of streets, archives, and personal objects. The speaker builds a room within themselves populated by 'Calibans' and remembers chocolates hidden by their grandmother in a purse that withstood seven wars. The poem circles back to these images and ideas, questioning the role of memory and imagination.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    87 views2 pages

    Ars Poetica - Valzhyna Mort

    Uploaded by

    Zeynep Kocaadam
    The poem Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort explores themes of memory, imagination, and the poet's relationship to the past through vivid imagery of streets, archives, and personal objects. The speaker builds a room within themselves populated by 'Calibans' and remembers chocolates hidden by their grandmother in a purse that withstood seven wars. The poem circles back to these images and ideas, questioning the role of memory and imagination.

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    1/25/2021 Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort | Poetry Magazine

    Ars Poetica

    BY VA L Z H Y N A M O R T

    Not books, but


    a street opened my mouth like a doctor’s spatula.
    One by one, streets introduced themselves
    with the names of national
    murderers.
    In the State Archives, covers
    hardened like scabs
    over the ledgers.

    Inside a tiny apartment


    I built myself
    into a separate room,
    peopled it
    with the Calibans
    of plans for the future.

    Future that runs on the schedule of public buses,


    from the zoo to the circus, what future;
    what is your alibi for these ledgers, these streets, this apartment, this future?

    In the purse which held—


    through seven wars—
    the birth certificates
    of the dead, my grandmother
    hid—from me—
    chocolates. The purse opened like a screaming mouth.
    Its two shiny buckles watched me
    through doors, through walls, through jazz.

    Who has taught you to be a frightening face, purse?


    I kiss your buckles, I swear myself your subject.

    August. Apples. I have nobody.


    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/151145/ars-poetica-5d8d0d0245370 1/3
    1/25/2021 Ars Poetica by Valzhyna Mort | Poetry Magazine

    August. For me, a ripe apple is a little brother.

    For me, a four-legged table is a pet.

    In the temple of Supermarket


    I stand
    like a candle

    in the line to the priestesses who preserve


    the knowledge of sausage prices, the virginity
    of milk cartons. My future, small
    change after buying necessities.

    Future that runs on the schedule of public buses,


    streets introduced themselves with the names
    of national murderers. I build myself
    into a separate room, where memory—
    the illegal migrant in time—cleans up
    after imagination.

    In a room where memory strips the beds—


    linens that hardened like scabs
    on the mattresses—I kiss

    little apples—my brothers—I kiss the buckles


    that watch us through walls, through years, through jazz;
    chocolates from a purse that held—through seven wars—
    birth certificates of the dead!

    Hold me, brother-apple.

    Source: Poetry (November 2019)

    C O N TA C T U S

    N E WS L E T T E R S

    PRESS

    P R I VA C Y P O L I C Y

    POLICIES

    TERMS OF USE

    https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/151145/ars-poetica-5d8d0d0245370 2/3

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