8.23.2010
8.09.2010
Mary Oliver (1935 - present)
Sleeping in the Forest
I thought the earth
remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
I thought the earth
remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
8.07.2010
7.13.2010
Cesar Vallejo (1892 - 1938)
-------
Today I like life much less,
but I like to live anyway: I have often said it.
I almost touched the part of my whole and restrained myself
with a shot in the tongue behind my word.
Today I touch my chin in retreat
and in these momentary trousers I tell myself:
So much life and never!
So many years and always my weeks!...
My parents buried with their stone
and their sad stiffening that has not ended;
full length brothers, my brothers,
and, finally, my Being standing and in a vest.
I like life enormously
but, of course,
with my beloved death and my cafe
and looking at the leafy chestnut trees in Paris
and saying:
This is an eye, that one too; this a forehead, that one too... and repeating:
So much life and the tune never fails me!
So many years and always, always, always!
I said vest, said
whole, part, yearning, said almost, to avoid crying.
For it is true that I suffered in that hospital close by
and it is good and it is bad to have watched
from below up my organism.
I would like to live always, even flat on my belly,
because, as I was saying and I say it again,
so much life and never! And so many years,
and always, much always, always, always!
translated from the Peruvian by Clayton Eshleman and Jose Rubia Barcia
Today I like life much less,
but I like to live anyway: I have often said it.
I almost touched the part of my whole and restrained myself
with a shot in the tongue behind my word.
Today I touch my chin in retreat
and in these momentary trousers I tell myself:
So much life and never!
So many years and always my weeks!...
My parents buried with their stone
and their sad stiffening that has not ended;
full length brothers, my brothers,
and, finally, my Being standing and in a vest.
I like life enormously
but, of course,
with my beloved death and my cafe
and looking at the leafy chestnut trees in Paris
and saying:
This is an eye, that one too; this a forehead, that one too... and repeating:
So much life and the tune never fails me!
So many years and always, always, always!
I said vest, said
whole, part, yearning, said almost, to avoid crying.
For it is true that I suffered in that hospital close by
and it is good and it is bad to have watched
from below up my organism.
I would like to live always, even flat on my belly,
because, as I was saying and I say it again,
so much life and never! And so many years,
and always, much always, always, always!
translated from the Peruvian by Clayton Eshleman and Jose Rubia Barcia
7.02.2010
Chairil Anwar (1922 - 1949)
Ina Mia
Lying in the lap of morning
-it's just turned light-
Ina Mia gropes for
the heart of her dream,
Ina Mia touches
just the rind of hope,
Ina Mia
takes a long breath
along the edge of the valley
of passion
that's been blown away.
Among the leaves gone gray as dust
she feel's, trembling for a moment,
the mist of an old love, a lost love.
Ina Mia stands on the green grass.
A breeze springs up, and
-the last of the fan-waving girls-
she turns away
in time to see a soldier hurrying away, around the corner.
An Ordinary Song
On the restaurant terrace, now, we're face to face
just introduced. We simply stare
although we've already dived into the ocean of each other's souls.
In this first act
we're still only looking
the orchestra plays "Carmen" along with us.
She winks. She laughs
and the dry grass blazes up.
She speaks. Her voice is loud
My blood stops running.
When the orchestra begins the "Ave Maria"
I drag her over there...
I Run Around with Them
I run around with them, what else can I do, now-
changing my face at the edge of the street, I use their eyes
and tag along to visit the fun-houses:
these are the facts as they know them
(a new American flick at the Capitol,
the new songs they dance to).
We go home, there's nothing doing,
though this kind of death is our neighbor, now, our friend.
Hanging around at the tram stop,
we wait for the Chinatown trolley
that glows night to day like a gold tooth;
lame, deformed, unable to keep our promises,
we lean our boney asses on lamp poles
and jaw away the years.
It's raining. We wait for the Chinatown trolley.
And ah, there's a prayer in our hearts, tonight,
that whoever reads what this hand writes will read out of love:
may syphilis and leprosy
(not to mention all the agonies of the atomic bomb)
be a proof, be a sign that we've lived the good life together;
Let my world be all right,
for those who can bear witness to its poisons.
Darkness, and them: I feel them both in my heart. Both.
translated from the Indonesian by Burton Raffel
Lying in the lap of morning
-it's just turned light-
Ina Mia gropes for
the heart of her dream,
Ina Mia touches
just the rind of hope,
Ina Mia
takes a long breath
along the edge of the valley
of passion
that's been blown away.
Among the leaves gone gray as dust
she feel's, trembling for a moment,
the mist of an old love, a lost love.
Ina Mia stands on the green grass.
A breeze springs up, and
-the last of the fan-waving girls-
she turns away
in time to see a soldier hurrying away, around the corner.
An Ordinary Song
On the restaurant terrace, now, we're face to face
just introduced. We simply stare
although we've already dived into the ocean of each other's souls.
In this first act
we're still only looking
the orchestra plays "Carmen" along with us.
She winks. She laughs
and the dry grass blazes up.
She speaks. Her voice is loud
My blood stops running.
When the orchestra begins the "Ave Maria"
I drag her over there...
I Run Around with Them
I run around with them, what else can I do, now-
changing my face at the edge of the street, I use their eyes
and tag along to visit the fun-houses:
these are the facts as they know them
(a new American flick at the Capitol,
the new songs they dance to).
We go home, there's nothing doing,
though this kind of death is our neighbor, now, our friend.
Hanging around at the tram stop,
we wait for the Chinatown trolley
that glows night to day like a gold tooth;
lame, deformed, unable to keep our promises,
we lean our boney asses on lamp poles
and jaw away the years.
It's raining. We wait for the Chinatown trolley.
And ah, there's a prayer in our hearts, tonight,
that whoever reads what this hand writes will read out of love:
may syphilis and leprosy
(not to mention all the agonies of the atomic bomb)
be a proof, be a sign that we've lived the good life together;
Let my world be all right,
for those who can bear witness to its poisons.
Darkness, and them: I feel them both in my heart. Both.
translated from the Indonesian by Burton Raffel
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
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