6.30.2010
6.29.2010
Kenneth Patchen (1911 - 1972)
The Character of Love Seen as a Search for the Lost
You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world:
and each is the work of all.
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
the crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
over the walkers in the village; and there are
many beautiful arms about us and the things we know.
See how those stars tramp over heaven on their sticks
of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue
takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Caesar
and Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall,
look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.
You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search:
and each is the mission of all.
For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes
the built cart out; and where we go is reason.
But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling
of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.
How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love,
the grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow:
see how the great wooden eyes of the forest
stare upon the architecture of our innocence.
You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road:
and each is the work of all.
Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be
wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag...
We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late
for the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.
Have you wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's hand?
Do you want to acquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war?
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
the crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
over the walkers in the village; and there are
many beautiful arms about us and the things we know.
You, the woman; I, the man; this, the world:
and each is the work of all.
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
the crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
over the walkers in the village; and there are
many beautiful arms about us and the things we know.
See how those stars tramp over heaven on their sticks
of ancient light: with what simplicity that blue
takes eternity into the quiet cave of God, where Caesar
and Socrates, like primitive paintings on a wall,
look, with idiot eyes, on the world where we two are.
You, the sought for; I, the seeker; this, the search:
and each is the mission of all.
For greatness is only the drayhorse that coaxes
the built cart out; and where we go is reason.
But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling
of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.
How smoothly, like the sleep of a flower, love,
the grassy wind moves over night's tense meadow:
see how the great wooden eyes of the forest
stare upon the architecture of our innocence.
You, the village; I, the stranger; this, the road:
and each is the work of all.
Then, not that man do more, or stop pity; but that he be
wider in living; that all his cities fly a clean flag...
We have been alone too long, love; it is terribly late
for the pierced feet on the water and we must not die now.
Have you wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken?
Have you seen the homeless in the open grave of God's hand?
Do you want to acquaint the larks with the fatuous music of war?
There is the muffled step in the snow; the stranger;
the crippled wren; the nun; the dancer; the Jesus-wing
over the walkers in the village; and there are
many beautiful arms about us and the things we know.
6.22.2010
6.18.2010
Asklepiades of Samos (c. 280 B.C.)
Get drunk my boy, don't weep, you're
not the only prisoner
of love. Plenty of people
are stuck all over with the
barbed arrows of lust. Don't
grovel. You're still alive.
Drink your liquor straight. Drink. Time
is wasting. We may not be
here at bedtime. Drink. Soon
enough and long enough,
you'll find time for sleeping.
-----------------------------
It is sweet in summer to slake
your thirst with snow, and the spring breeze
is sweet to the sailors after
the stormy winter, but sweetest
of all when one blanket hides two
lovers at the worship of Kypris.
-----------------------------
Lysidike dedicates
to you, Kypris, her jockey's
spur, the golden prickle she
wore on her beautiful leg.
Upside down, she broke many
horses, yet her own bottom
was never reddened, she had
such a skillful seat that she
always came first in the race.
Now she hangs her weapon in
the midst of your golden gate.
-----------------------------
Playing once with facile
Hermoine, I found she wore
a flower embroidered girdle
and on it, in letters of gold,
"Love me, and never mind
if others had me before you."
translated from the Greek by Kenneth Rexroth
not the only prisoner
of love. Plenty of people
are stuck all over with the
barbed arrows of lust. Don't
grovel. You're still alive.
Drink your liquor straight. Drink. Time
is wasting. We may not be
here at bedtime. Drink. Soon
enough and long enough,
you'll find time for sleeping.
-----------------------------
It is sweet in summer to slake
your thirst with snow, and the spring breeze
is sweet to the sailors after
the stormy winter, but sweetest
of all when one blanket hides two
lovers at the worship of Kypris.
-----------------------------
Lysidike dedicates
to you, Kypris, her jockey's
spur, the golden prickle she
wore on her beautiful leg.
Upside down, she broke many
horses, yet her own bottom
was never reddened, she had
such a skillful seat that she
always came first in the race.
Now she hangs her weapon in
the midst of your golden gate.
-----------------------------
Playing once with facile
Hermoine, I found she wore
a flower embroidered girdle
and on it, in letters of gold,
"Love me, and never mind
if others had me before you."
translated from the Greek by Kenneth Rexroth
6.16.2010
6.15.2010
Hayden Carruth (1921 - 2008)
The Cows at Night
The moon was like a full cup tonight,
too heavy, and sank in the mist
soon after dark, leaving for light
faint stars and the silver leaves
of milkweed beside the road,
gleaming before my car.
Yet I like driving at night
in summer and in Vermont:
the brown road through the mist
of mountain-dark, among farms
so quiet, and the roadside willows
opening out where I saw
the cows. Always a shock
to remember them there, those
great breathings close in the dark.
I stopped, taking my flashlight
to the pasture fence. They turned
to me where they lay, sad
and beautiful faces in the dark,
and I counted them - forty
near and far in the pasture,
turning to me, sad and beautiful
like girls very long ago
who were innocent, and sad
because they were innocent,
and beautiful because they were
sad. I switched off my light.
But I did not want to go,
not yet, nor knew what to do
if I should stay, for how
in that great darkness could I explain
anything, anything at all.
I stood by the fence. And then
very gently it began to rain.
The moon was like a full cup tonight,
too heavy, and sank in the mist
soon after dark, leaving for light
faint stars and the silver leaves
of milkweed beside the road,
gleaming before my car.
Yet I like driving at night
in summer and in Vermont:
the brown road through the mist
of mountain-dark, among farms
so quiet, and the roadside willows
opening out where I saw
the cows. Always a shock
to remember them there, those
great breathings close in the dark.
I stopped, taking my flashlight
to the pasture fence. They turned
to me where they lay, sad
and beautiful faces in the dark,
and I counted them - forty
near and far in the pasture,
turning to me, sad and beautiful
like girls very long ago
who were innocent, and sad
because they were innocent,
and beautiful because they were
sad. I switched off my light.
But I did not want to go,
not yet, nor knew what to do
if I should stay, for how
in that great darkness could I explain
anything, anything at all.
I stood by the fence. And then
very gently it began to rain.
6.11.2010
5.29.2010
Denise Levertov (1923 - 1997)
The Secret
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don't know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even
what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can't find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don't know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even
what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can't find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
5.28.2010
Michael Korchonnoff
We are guarded spirits
Armored in labyrinths of words,
Shapes and shadows
Ever we flee from the light we see in each other's eyes
It is not the fear of confusion that comes between us
But rather the fear of being understood
Armored in labyrinths of words,
Shapes and shadows
Ever we flee from the light we see in each other's eyes
It is not the fear of confusion that comes between us
But rather the fear of being understood
5.27.2010
Roberto Juarroz (1921 - 1995)
Sometimes my hands wake me up.
They're making or taking apart something without me
while I'm asleep,
something terribly human,
concrete like the back or pocket of a man.
I hear them from inside my sleep,
working out there,
but when I open my eyes they're still.
Just the same
I've thought that maybe I'm a man
because of what they do
with their gestures and not mine,
with their God and not mine,
with their death, if they die too.
I don't know how to make a man.
Maybe my hands make one while I'm asleep
and when it's finished
they wake me up altogether
and show it to me.
-------------------
Solitude calls me by every name
except mine.
Solitude even calls me sometimes by your name.
But other times
solitude calls me by its own name.
Maybe one day
I will be able to call solitude by my name
and then surely
it will have to answer me.
translated from the spanish by W.S. Merwin
They're making or taking apart something without me
while I'm asleep,
something terribly human,
concrete like the back or pocket of a man.
I hear them from inside my sleep,
working out there,
but when I open my eyes they're still.
Just the same
I've thought that maybe I'm a man
because of what they do
with their gestures and not mine,
with their God and not mine,
with their death, if they die too.
I don't know how to make a man.
Maybe my hands make one while I'm asleep
and when it's finished
they wake me up altogether
and show it to me.
-------------------
Solitude calls me by every name
except mine.
Solitude even calls me sometimes by your name.
But other times
solitude calls me by its own name.
Maybe one day
I will be able to call solitude by my name
and then surely
it will have to answer me.
translated from the spanish by W.S. Merwin
5.25.2010
5.13.2010
Harvey Shapiro (1924 - present)
Through the boroughs
I hear the music from the street
every night. Sequestered at my desk,
my luminous hand finding the dark words.
Hard, very hard. And the music
from car radios is so effortless.
And so I strive to join my music
to that music. So that
the air will carry my voice down
the block, across the bridge,
through the boroughs where people I love
can hear my voice, saying to them
through the music that their lives
are speaking to them now, as mine to me.
Desk
After my death, my desk,
which is now so cluttered,
will be bare wood, simple and shining,
as I wanted it to be in my life,
as I wanted my life to be.
I hear the music from the street
every night. Sequestered at my desk,
my luminous hand finding the dark words.
Hard, very hard. And the music
from car radios is so effortless.
And so I strive to join my music
to that music. So that
the air will carry my voice down
the block, across the bridge,
through the boroughs where people I love
can hear my voice, saying to them
through the music that their lives
are speaking to them now, as mine to me.
Desk
After my death, my desk,
which is now so cluttered,
will be bare wood, simple and shining,
as I wanted it to be in my life,
as I wanted my life to be.
4.28.2010
4.22.2010
4.06.2010
Roland Penrose (1900-1984)
The Road is Wider Than Long (excerpt)
How imprudent of you to have died
Oh how we miss you
when your father comes home
you will not be there to hold his bicycle
why have you not kissed me for three days
why don't you smile
oh darling
how we missed you
You are going on a long journey
you will meet three green hunters at a gate
they will show you the way to your new home
Oh my darling how we miss you
how unkind of you to die
But should you try to come back
you will suffer more than us
the ropes that bind you are strong
the horse will lead us to your grave
the tree that dies with you
will be torn down
your heart will be filled with knives.
How imprudent of you to have died
Oh how we miss you
when your father comes home
you will not be there to hold his bicycle
why have you not kissed me for three days
why don't you smile
oh darling
how we missed you
You are going on a long journey
you will meet three green hunters at a gate
they will show you the way to your new home
Oh my darling how we miss you
how unkind of you to die
But should you try to come back
you will suffer more than us
the ropes that bind you are strong
the horse will lead us to your grave
the tree that dies with you
will be torn down
your heart will be filled with knives.
3.25.2010
3.11.2010
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
The Home
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset
was hiding its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness,
and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
A boy's shrill voice rose into the sky.
He walked the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song
across the hush of the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land,
beyond the sugar cane field, hidden among the shadows
of the banana and the slender areca palm, the coconut
and the green jack-fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight,
and saw spread before me the darkened earth
surrounding with her arms countless homes
furnished with cradles and beds,
mothers' hearts and evening lamps,
and young lives glad with a gladness
that knows nothing of its value for the world.
translated from the Bengalese by the author
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset
was hiding its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness,
and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
A boy's shrill voice rose into the sky.
He walked the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song
across the hush of the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land,
beyond the sugar cane field, hidden among the shadows
of the banana and the slender areca palm, the coconut
and the green jack-fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight,
and saw spread before me the darkened earth
surrounding with her arms countless homes
furnished with cradles and beds,
mothers' hearts and evening lamps,
and young lives glad with a gladness
that knows nothing of its value for the world.
translated from the Bengalese by the author
3.10.2010
3.09.2010
Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000)
To Speak About Changes Was to Speak Love
It's a long time since I have heard from you.
I have not received even a little piece of paper,
even like an official one from offices,
which have forgotten my name and my existence.
The generation machine is still sweet
between my thighs, but for a long time
I haven't felt the sweetness of a letter between my
eyes.
We did not stay long enough together
to put us up as a lovers' monument.
Now time comes in place of time.
Sadness is changing its people like clothes
and your serious face is slicing your life:
each slice with another man on it.
Once we were talking about changes.
To speak about changes was to speak love.
Letter
To sit on the veranda of a hotel in Jerusalem
and to write: sweetly pass the days
from desert to sea.
Time passes-like somebody who, on a telephone,
is laughing or weeping far away from me:
whatever I'm hearing I can't see.
And whatever I see I don't hear.
We were careful when we said "next year"
or "a month ago". These words are like
glass splinters, which you can hurt yourself with,
or cut veins. Those who do things like that.
But you were beautiful, like the interpretation
of ancient books.
Surplus of women in your far country
brought you to me, but
other statistics have taken you
away from me.
To live is to build a ship and a harbor
at the same time. And to complete the harbor
long after the ship was drowned.
And to finish: I remember only
that there was mist. And whoever
remembers only mist-
what does he remember?
Bird
There is a bird in the sky
which, perhaps, is singing now
a sweet song:
If only I were a human being,
a man with feet
on this great and heavy earth,
I would stand and stand and stand
and never move from there.
translated from the Hebrew by the author and Ted Hughes
It's a long time since I have heard from you.
I have not received even a little piece of paper,
even like an official one from offices,
which have forgotten my name and my existence.
The generation machine is still sweet
between my thighs, but for a long time
I haven't felt the sweetness of a letter between my
eyes.
We did not stay long enough together
to put us up as a lovers' monument.
Now time comes in place of time.
Sadness is changing its people like clothes
and your serious face is slicing your life:
each slice with another man on it.
Once we were talking about changes.
To speak about changes was to speak love.
Letter
To sit on the veranda of a hotel in Jerusalem
and to write: sweetly pass the days
from desert to sea.
Time passes-like somebody who, on a telephone,
is laughing or weeping far away from me:
whatever I'm hearing I can't see.
And whatever I see I don't hear.
We were careful when we said "next year"
or "a month ago". These words are like
glass splinters, which you can hurt yourself with,
or cut veins. Those who do things like that.
But you were beautiful, like the interpretation
of ancient books.
Surplus of women in your far country
brought you to me, but
other statistics have taken you
away from me.
To live is to build a ship and a harbor
at the same time. And to complete the harbor
long after the ship was drowned.
And to finish: I remember only
that there was mist. And whoever
remembers only mist-
what does he remember?
Bird
There is a bird in the sky
which, perhaps, is singing now
a sweet song:
If only I were a human being,
a man with feet
on this great and heavy earth,
I would stand and stand and stand
and never move from there.
translated from the Hebrew by the author and Ted Hughes
2.12.2010
Vasko Popa (1922 - 1991)
The Other World
My grandmother puts cupcakes
with lit candles on floating planks
Whispers to them messages
for the dead men and women of our blood
and sends them down the river Karas
The planks slide down the black water
the little candles struggle through the dusk
and disappear around the turn of the river
Grandmother announces
that they have happily reached
the other world
I have already been there once
to set traps for birds
I didn't know of course
it was my ancestors I was hunting
among the blossoming willows
Before the Game
Shut one eye then the other
peek into every corner of yourself
see that there are no nails no thieves
see that there are no cuckoo's eggs
Shut then the other eye
squat and jump
jump high high high
on top of yourself
Fall then with all your weight
fall for days on end deep deep deep
to the bottom of your abyss
Who doesn't break into pieces
who remains whole who gets up whole
plays
Wolf-Ancestry
Under the linden in Sands
my great grandfather
found two wolf-cubs
Sat them both
between a donkey's ears
and brought them to the farm
He fed them sheep's milk
and taught them to play
with lambs their own age
Then he took them back
to the same spot under the lindens
kissed them
and made the sign of the cross over them
Since earliest childhood
I've been waiting
for my years to equal
my great grandfather's
Just to ask him
which of those wolf-cubs
I was
translated from the Yugoslavian by Charles Simic
My grandmother puts cupcakes
with lit candles on floating planks
Whispers to them messages
for the dead men and women of our blood
and sends them down the river Karas
The planks slide down the black water
the little candles struggle through the dusk
and disappear around the turn of the river
Grandmother announces
that they have happily reached
the other world
I have already been there once
to set traps for birds
I didn't know of course
it was my ancestors I was hunting
among the blossoming willows
Before the Game
Shut one eye then the other
peek into every corner of yourself
see that there are no nails no thieves
see that there are no cuckoo's eggs
Shut then the other eye
squat and jump
jump high high high
on top of yourself
Fall then with all your weight
fall for days on end deep deep deep
to the bottom of your abyss
Who doesn't break into pieces
who remains whole who gets up whole
plays
Wolf-Ancestry
Under the linden in Sands
my great grandfather
found two wolf-cubs
Sat them both
between a donkey's ears
and brought them to the farm
He fed them sheep's milk
and taught them to play
with lambs their own age
Then he took them back
to the same spot under the lindens
kissed them
and made the sign of the cross over them
Since earliest childhood
I've been waiting
for my years to equal
my great grandfather's
Just to ask him
which of those wolf-cubs
I was
translated from the Yugoslavian by Charles Simic
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