Yannis Moralis (1916 - 2009)

Anonymous Zuni Tribe

Invocation to the U'wannami

Come, ascend the ladder: all come in: all sit down.
We were poor, poor, poor, poor, poor,
When we came to this world through the poor place,
Where the body of water dried for our passing.
Banked up clouds cover the earth.
All come four times with your showers:
Descend to the base of the ladder and stand still:
Bring your showers and great rains.
All, all come, all ascend, all come in, all sit down.

translated from the Zuni by Matilda Coxe Stevenson in 1905

Leo Lionni (1910 - 1999) from his book, On My Beach There are Many Pebbles (1961)

Wislawa Szymborska (1923 - present)

Nothing Twice

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.



Parting With a View

I don't reproach the spring
for starting up again.
I can't blame it
for doing what it must
year after year.

I know that my grief
will not stop the green.
The grass blade may bend
but only in the wind.

I take note of the fact
that the shore of a certain lake
is still--as if you were living--
as lovely as before.

I don't resent
the view for its vista
of a sun dazzled bay.

I am even able to imagine
some non-us
sitting at this minute
on a fallen birch trunk.

I respect their right
to whisper, to laugh,
and lapse into happy silence.

I can even allow
that they are bound by love
and that he holds her
with a living arm.

Something freshly birdish
starts rustling in the reeds.
I sincerely want them
to hear it.

I don't require changes
from the surf,
now diligent, now sluggish,
obeying not me.

I expect nothing
from the depths near the woods,
first emerald,
then sapphire,
then black.

There's one thing I won't agree to:
my own return.
The privilege of presence--
I give it up.

I survived you by enough,
and only by enough,
to contemplate from afar.


translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

Ben Shahn (1898 - 1969) From his book, The Cherry Tree Legend (1967)

F

Robert Creeley (1926 - 2005)

The Conspiracy

You send me your poems,
I'll send you mine.

Things tend to awaken
even through random communication.

Let us suddenly
proclaim spring. And jeer

at the others,
all the others.

I will send a picture too
if you will send me one of you.



For Friendship

For friendship
make a chain that holds,
to be bound to
others, two by two,

a walk, a garland,
handed by hands
that cannot move
unless they hold.



The Sentence

There is that in love
which, by the syntax of,
men find women and join
their bodies to their minds

-which wants so to acquire
a continuity, a place,
a demonstration that it must
be one's own sentence.



As We Sit

There is a long
stretch of sky
before us. The road

goes out to the channel
of the water. Birds
fly in the faintly

white sky. A sound
shuffles over
and over, shifting

sand and
water. A wind
blows steadily

as we sit.

Galway Kinnell (1927 - present)

Wait


Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven't they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don't go too early.
You're tired. But everyone's tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair,
music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

David Lean, from his film Summertime (1955)

Lee Bassett

Sometimes, there are times when I cannot bear
to be alone. Sometimes, I wish that my basic pain
could melt into the sadness of another.

Sometimes, I wish that when I light a cigar,
my whole body would catch flame.

Sometimes, as if bonding is an emergency,
I turn into someone else
and knock uninvited
on a door.


----


And with a hint of what your nakedness might offer,
you came down tonight
to save another human being.
And after, like the migratory wings
that swarmed in to eat the berry-tree,
you moved on.

Here is what happens, when the heart wakes up:
on Halloween, according to the law of sadness,
a man-child comes to our door in costume,
and makes us cry.
And, according to the law of joy,
we open that door,
and a great wind
full of snow
turns us.

Misch Kohn (1916 - 2003)

Lucretius ( 99 B.C. - 55 B.C. )

On the Nature of Things

I

Darling of Gods and Men, beneath the gliding stars
you fill rich earth and buoyant sea with your presence
for every living thing achieves its life through you,
rises and sees the sun. For you the sky is clear,
the tempests still. Deft earth scatters her gentle flowers,
the level ocean laughs, the softened heavens glow
with generous light for you. In the first days of spring
when the untrammelled all renewing southwind blows
the birds exult in you and herald your coming.
Then the shy cattle leap and swim the brooks for love.
Everywhere, through all seas, mountains and waterfalls,
love caresses all hearts and kindles all creatures
to overmastering lust and ordained renewals.
Therefore, since you alone control the sum of things
and nothing without you comes forth into the light
and nothing beautiful or glorious can be
without you, Alma Venus! Trim my poetry
with your grace: and give peace to write and read and think.


translated from Latin by Basil Bunting

W. Eugene Smith (1918 - 1978)

Francois Villon (1431 - 1463)

Ballade

I know flies in milk,
I know the man by what he wears,
I know fair weather from foul,
I know the apple from the tree,
I know the tree by the look of the sap,
I know when all things are the same,
I know who labors and who loafs,
I know all things except myself.

I know the doublet by the collar,
I know the monk by the cowl,
I know the master by the servant,
I know the nun by the veil,
I know when hustlers start their spiel,
I know delinquents raised on cream,
I know the wine by the barrel,
I know all things except myself.

I know the horse and the mule,
I know their limit and their load,
I know Beatrice and Belle,
I know beads that count and add,
I know sleep and I know dreams,
I know the Bohemians' heresy,
I know the power of Rome,
I know all things except myself.

Prince, I know everything in brief,
I know the red-cheeked and the pale,
I know Death who devours all,
I know all things except myself.


The Testament (excerpt at line 841)

I give and leave my body
to the Earth our great mother,
the worms won't find much meat on it
so fiercely did hunger make war:
let it quickly be given her,
from Earth it came, to Earth it goes,
all things unless they stray too far
gladly return to their own place.


The Testament (excerpt at line 1848)

To wit, anywhere in this will,
should there be any difficulty
to pare it like an apple peel
I do give him authority.

To gloss it and annotate it,
to define it and fill it in,
to shorten it and to stretch it out,
to cross it off and to annul it,
With his own hand, and if he can't write,
to interpret it and to give it sense,
for better or for worse, as he sees fit,
to all this I do here consent.


The Testament (excerpt at line 1876)

I will and at my grave
the following words and only these
be written in great big letters
and if there's no writing tool
use charcoal or a lump of coal
trying not to scratch the plaster,
at least a memory of me will remain
such as it may be of a wild one:

Here lies and sleeps in this garret
one slain by love's spur
a poor wretched scholar
who was named Francois Villon,
he never owned a furrow on Earth,
he gave it all away, everyone knows,
tables, chairs, bread, basket,
before God, say in these verses:

Rest eternal grant him,
Lord, and everlasting light,
the price of a plate or a bowl
he never had, nor of a parsley sprig,
he was shaved, head, beard and eyebrows
like some turnip you scrape or peel,
rest eternal.


translated from the French by Galway Kinnell

Suzanne Valadon (1865 - 1938)

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.

Gyula Derkovits (1894 - 1934)

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

Maria Helena Vieira da Silva (1908 – 1992)

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

Masaccio (1401 – 1428)

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.

Rudolf Kremlička (1886 - 1932)

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

Kenneth Callahan (1905 - 1986)

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.