3.03.2012
2.21.2012
1.17.2012
Zak Byrd (born 1981)
At these times outside myself I flick back to the time I was thirteen and felt a surging conviction that I liked the idea of life. My future was going to be my own modern revolution, afresh by the unfenced feeling that it is morning, that behind the curtains the Moral is what you look for, and that relationships you start to design appear fully-grown in the brain—the brain, bigger than the skies in Holland. For some reason, cartoons by Daumier are more real than you thought.
Having time to stand and stare—from up here to the sprawl behind me rolled over the snow-covered sunshine—has the endless living emptiness which filled me utterly, that is, until I had graduated to unemployment: a stepping-stone to real ambition.
But everything switched in a flash when I stepped into my mercurial new concept of self as a machine of solid dream that could create solely with words and laugh instructions onto the stage while avoiding the rising Moral of the picture which can trigger a stock response and direct a man of passion to cloak that tender verb, “to interpret.”
Like all cartoons, I couldn’t help remember the light-hearted game life used to be. Now came bottles, medicine, arms hung limply, eyes the most hellish I’ve ever had.
Come over here. Just look. Touch this slobbering disaster. I often listen, cold, wet, to the steady blub-blub-blub of dying emptiness while weeks pass with alarming speed into a battle with the odds.
Enough of that. This is beyond nothing nor anyone, tucked away elsewhere.
Having time to stand and stare—from up here to the sprawl behind me rolled over the snow-covered sunshine—has the endless living emptiness which filled me utterly, that is, until I had graduated to unemployment: a stepping-stone to real ambition.
But everything switched in a flash when I stepped into my mercurial new concept of self as a machine of solid dream that could create solely with words and laugh instructions onto the stage while avoiding the rising Moral of the picture which can trigger a stock response and direct a man of passion to cloak that tender verb, “to interpret.”
Like all cartoons, I couldn’t help remember the light-hearted game life used to be. Now came bottles, medicine, arms hung limply, eyes the most hellish I’ve ever had.
Come over here. Just look. Touch this slobbering disaster. I often listen, cold, wet, to the steady blub-blub-blub of dying emptiness while weeks pass with alarming speed into a battle with the odds.
Enough of that. This is beyond nothing nor anyone, tucked away elsewhere.
1.08.2012
12.17.2011
Barry Gifford (born 1946)
We passed one afternoon
in pleasant conversation
before parting
she to the East
I to remain
How differently
I would have behaved
had I known
our separation
would be for ever.
-----------
Watching you wash
your pants out
standing at the sink
towel wrapped around
like a little skirt
I wish we were
really young
and love was
as uncomplicated
as lust.
-----------
Startled by a bird
I clutch my heart
as if you'd flown
out from it.
in pleasant conversation
before parting
she to the East
I to remain
How differently
I would have behaved
had I known
our separation
would be for ever.
-----------
Watching you wash
your pants out
standing at the sink
towel wrapped around
like a little skirt
I wish we were
really young
and love was
as uncomplicated
as lust.
-----------
Startled by a bird
I clutch my heart
as if you'd flown
out from it.
12.04.2011
11.10.2011
Alfonsina Storni (1892 - 1938)
They've Come
Today my mother and sisters
came to see me.
I had been alone a long time
with my poems, my pride ...almost nothing.
My sister-the oldest-is grown up,
is blondish. An elemental dream
goes through her eyes: I told the youngest
"Life is sweet. Everything bad comes to an end."
My mother smiled as those who understand souls
tend to do;
She placed two hands on my shoulders.
She's staring at me...
and tears spring from my eyes.
We ate together in the warmest room
of the house.
Spring sky ...to see it
all the windows were opened.
And while we talked together quietly
of so much that is old and forgotten,
My sister-the youngest-interrupts:
"The swallows are flying by us."
translated from the Spanish by Aliki Barnstone and Willis Barnstone
Today my mother and sisters
came to see me.
I had been alone a long time
with my poems, my pride ...almost nothing.
My sister-the oldest-is grown up,
is blondish. An elemental dream
goes through her eyes: I told the youngest
"Life is sweet. Everything bad comes to an end."
My mother smiled as those who understand souls
tend to do;
She placed two hands on my shoulders.
She's staring at me...
and tears spring from my eyes.
We ate together in the warmest room
of the house.
Spring sky ...to see it
all the windows were opened.
And while we talked together quietly
of so much that is old and forgotten,
My sister-the youngest-interrupts:
"The swallows are flying by us."
translated from the Spanish by Aliki Barnstone and Willis Barnstone
11.06.2011
10.30.2011
Emanuel Carnevali (1897 - 1942)
Queer Things
One nostril means latin,
the other means greek.
My legs will be
little steel rods,
which will continue
trotting after
I am dead.
My arms are
two useless limbs
when I stand on my head,
(Which I never do).
My mouth, too often open,
will be my despair -
clogged and sputtering
and drivelling, -
when I'll be very old (Which
will never be).
I hate my head
My rotting head
which will never fall of itself
like any decent pear.
It has the intention
of flying up to the sky,
but it will always trail in the dust:
eating grime and dirt,
screaming erotic songs,
begging all the world
to enter in it.
One nostril means latin,
the other means greek.
My legs will be
little steel rods,
which will continue
trotting after
I am dead.
My arms are
two useless limbs
when I stand on my head,
(Which I never do).
My mouth, too often open,
will be my despair -
clogged and sputtering
and drivelling, -
when I'll be very old (Which
will never be).
I hate my head
My rotting head
which will never fall of itself
like any decent pear.
It has the intention
of flying up to the sky,
but it will always trail in the dust:
eating grime and dirt,
screaming erotic songs,
begging all the world
to enter in it.
10.09.2011
9.27.2011
Eugenio de Andrade (1923 - 2005)
I do not sing because I dream
I do not sing because I dream.
I simply sing because you're real.
I sing your ripened gaze,
your purest smile,
your animal grace.
I sing because I am a man.
And if I didn't sing I'd be
just a brute, bursting with health, blind
drunk and dizzy with delight
there in your vineyard without wine.
I sing because love wishes it.
Because hay ripens
in your arms, glistening wet.
Because my body tightens
facing them, bare and bathed in sweat.
On the path
Nothing
not the white flame of wheat
nor the needles nailed to the pupils of birds
will tell you the word
Do not question do not ask
between reason and the turbulence of snow
there is no difference
Don't gather slops your destiny is you
Take your clothes off
there is no other path
translated from the Portuguese by Alexis Levitin
I do not sing because I dream.
I simply sing because you're real.
I sing your ripened gaze,
your purest smile,
your animal grace.
I sing because I am a man.
And if I didn't sing I'd be
just a brute, bursting with health, blind
drunk and dizzy with delight
there in your vineyard without wine.
I sing because love wishes it.
Because hay ripens
in your arms, glistening wet.
Because my body tightens
facing them, bare and bathed in sweat.
On the path
Nothing
not the white flame of wheat
nor the needles nailed to the pupils of birds
will tell you the word
Do not question do not ask
between reason and the turbulence of snow
there is no difference
Don't gather slops your destiny is you
Take your clothes off
there is no other path
translated from the Portuguese by Alexis Levitin
9.24.2011
9.08.2011
Kenneth Koch (1925 - 2002)
Our Hearts
1
All hearts should beat when Cho Fu's orchestra plays "Love"
and then all feet should start to move in the dance.
The dancing should be very quick and all step lightly.
Everyone should be moving around, all hearts beating-
Tip tap tip tap. The heart is actually beating all the time
and with almost the same intensity. The difference is not in
our hearing
which is also almost always the same. The difference must be
really
then in our consciousness, which they say is variegated.
Black-and-white shoes, red dress, an eye of flame,
a teeth of pearl, a hose of true, a life of seethings. Would
you like to dance? The excitement, it is there all the time.
Is human genius there all the time? With the analogy of dreams,
which supposedly we have every night, one is tempted
to say, the seething is always there, and with it the possibility
for great art.
4
What do you think it is really all explainable by, this
mystery that has been built up by a natural process
and how much of it do we need? The foot of everyone is
advancing
and the knees of everyone should be flexing, legs dancing
and lips moving gaily up over the teeth
for the speaking, and hands driven into pockets, eyes
shining, stub-
bed toes forgotten as we walk down the somewhere else
saying God Damn
it's good to see you. But what shall we do? The greatest plan
is participate, aid, and understand. Every dog should be at the
foot
of every man. What evidence this past give us! Examples
with which we impregnate today. But the shirt should fit
over the chest, the light silk panties over the rear.
The sky is shining. The sun is a basket of wash
let down for our skin, and germs are all around us like cash.
9
To be a back, which doesn't break, and to hate what is
mysterious
that doesn't need to be, grant me O Athena
of the roses and the gamma globulin-however, prayer
is nothing I can ever be serious about (I think).
The answer is elusive and the work about it goes on
a long time and so we want our lives to go on
among other things in hope to find an answer. Though we
know
that the answer of eighty will not be the answer of eighteen.
En route we give titles to things, we further
complicate our own situation and that of other persons
and we get wiser, sometimes, and kinder, and probably less
exciting
(certainly so), and grow out of our illusions (sometimes)
and so
can look around and say, Oh! So! but usually without the
time
or power to change anything (sometimes-maybe a fraction-
if so, it's amazing!) then off we go.
1
All hearts should beat when Cho Fu's orchestra plays "Love"
and then all feet should start to move in the dance.
The dancing should be very quick and all step lightly.
Everyone should be moving around, all hearts beating-
Tip tap tip tap. The heart is actually beating all the time
and with almost the same intensity. The difference is not in
our hearing
which is also almost always the same. The difference must be
really
then in our consciousness, which they say is variegated.
Black-and-white shoes, red dress, an eye of flame,
a teeth of pearl, a hose of true, a life of seethings. Would
you like to dance? The excitement, it is there all the time.
Is human genius there all the time? With the analogy of dreams,
which supposedly we have every night, one is tempted
to say, the seething is always there, and with it the possibility
for great art.
4
What do you think it is really all explainable by, this
mystery that has been built up by a natural process
and how much of it do we need? The foot of everyone is
advancing
and the knees of everyone should be flexing, legs dancing
and lips moving gaily up over the teeth
for the speaking, and hands driven into pockets, eyes
shining, stub-
bed toes forgotten as we walk down the somewhere else
saying God Damn
it's good to see you. But what shall we do? The greatest plan
is participate, aid, and understand. Every dog should be at the
foot
of every man. What evidence this past give us! Examples
with which we impregnate today. But the shirt should fit
over the chest, the light silk panties over the rear.
The sky is shining. The sun is a basket of wash
let down for our skin, and germs are all around us like cash.
9
To be a back, which doesn't break, and to hate what is
mysterious
that doesn't need to be, grant me O Athena
of the roses and the gamma globulin-however, prayer
is nothing I can ever be serious about (I think).
The answer is elusive and the work about it goes on
a long time and so we want our lives to go on
among other things in hope to find an answer. Though we
know
that the answer of eighty will not be the answer of eighteen.
En route we give titles to things, we further
complicate our own situation and that of other persons
and we get wiser, sometimes, and kinder, and probably less
exciting
(certainly so), and grow out of our illusions (sometimes)
and so
can look around and say, Oh! So! but usually without the
time
or power to change anything (sometimes-maybe a fraction-
if so, it's amazing!) then off we go.
7.18.2011
7.14.2011
Herman Melville (1819 - 1891) from his novel Moby Dick
excerpt from chapter 11
...truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
...truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.
7.05.2011
6.26.2011
Traditional Yoruba (Nigerian) folksong
Three Friends
I had three friends.
One asked me to sleep on the mat.
One asked me to sleep on the ground.
One asked me to sleep on his breast.
I decided to sleep on his breast.
I saw myself carried on a river.
I saw the king of the river and the king of the sun.
There in that country I saw palm trees
so weighed down with fruit
that the trees bent under the fruit,
and the fruit killed it.
translated from the 'Standard Yoruba' by Ulli Beier
I had three friends.
One asked me to sleep on the mat.
One asked me to sleep on the ground.
One asked me to sleep on his breast.
I decided to sleep on his breast.
I saw myself carried on a river.
I saw the king of the river and the king of the sun.
There in that country I saw palm trees
so weighed down with fruit
that the trees bent under the fruit,
and the fruit killed it.
translated from the 'Standard Yoruba' by Ulli Beier
6.19.2011
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