photography by Robert Byron
5.29.2010
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
2.11.2010
2.10.2010
Anonymous Chippewa (Ojibwe) Native
Sometimes I go about pitying myself,
and all the time
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.
translated from the Chippewa by Frances Densmore
and all the time
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.
translated from the Chippewa by Frances Densmore
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