LA CHIOMA DI CALIPSO
Chi, la ninfa marina?
Di Calipso io ricordo
i suoi capelli azzurri,
così lunghi da avvolgere
e celare l'intera isola
che risponde al nome
misterioso di Ogigia:
più un suono che un nome,
anzi un verso indistinto,
a tal segno i naviganti
timorosi delle tempeste
evitano di pronunciarlo.
Rammento anche il suo dono:
la promessa di farmi immortale,
in cambio della mia permanenza
nell'isola prigioniera dell'incanto.
Io non sarei mai più stato Ulisse,
intendo questo in carne ed ossa,
tutt'al più una specie di fantasma
che le onde chiamassero Nessuno,
un naufrago con l'orecchio intento
all'auricolare di una radio portatile
che mendichi notizie dal mondo.
Aggirarmi per sempre
su quelle spiagge dorate
ad accumulare le perle,
cibando mansueti delfini
accorrenti fra gli scogli
a lambire le mie mani:
non fa per me questa vita
le confidai in un sussurro,
mentre i lunghi capelli
grondanti gocce di luce
tornavano a raccogliersi
in un nodo sulla sua nuca.
Lei non fiatò. Da quel giorno
si spense il suo canto e Ogigia
tornò un'isola come poche altre,
di quelle che i migliori skipper
segnano sulle loro carte nautiche
per gli approdi di turisti di lusso.
Buste di plastica, bottiglie vuote
e profilattici usati cominciarono
ad arenarsi fin sulle sue coste.
Ma, per fortuna, era prossimo
ormai il varo del mio scafo.
Presto avrei ripreso il largo
in cerca di una nuova isola
o piuttosto di una antica,
là dove le dee o le ninfe
fossero solo delle statue
ben salde sui loro altari,
là dove a nessun devoto
toccasse restare avvinto
dal flusso dei loro capelli,
e il cui povero splendore
fosse quello dei ceri accesi
dalle dita stanche di tessitrici.
CALYPSO'S HAIR
Please, let me tell you
of Calypso the sea-nymph,
with her blue flowing hair.
It was long enough to encircle
and conceal the whole island,
whose mysterious name is
Ogygia: more an indistinct
sound than a name,
to such an extent seamen
avoided pronouncing it,
afraid of the storms.
I also remember her gift.
She promised to make me
immortal, if only I would
remain on her wondrous isle.
There I should no more
be Ulysses, I mean this one
you can see and may touch.
At most, a species of phantom
the waves will call Nobody,
who outlived shipwreck once
and listens to the earplug
of a radio, begging news
from the world.
Yes, to wander for ever
those golden sands,
collecting pearls,
feeding the gentle dolphins
which swim among reefs
coming to skim my hands:
such life does not suit me,
I said to her whispering.
Meanwhile the long hair
gathered upon her head,
into a bun dropping light.
She did not speak at all.
From that day, her song
remained silent and so Ogygia
became an isle like others,
one of those the skippers
mark on their pilot charts
to let rich tourists land.
Plastic bags, empty bottles
and used condoms began
to wash up on its strand.
I felt lucky then, my raft
was ready to launch.
Soon I could sail again
searching for a new isle
or rather for an old one,
where the gods and the nymphs
are fine and holy statues
standing behind altars,
where nobody touched
remains bound by the flow
of their hair
and whose poor splendor
was that of votives lit
by the weary hands of weavers.
IL FRUTTO DELL'OBLIO
Dimenticare la patria
insieme ai propri cari,
dimenticare la guerra
coi suoi lutti e rimorsi
o le cicatrici impresse
nella carne e nell'animo.
Scordare ogni affanno,
e lasciare che i vivi
vivano una loro vita
se e come a dio piace,
lasciando che i morti
seppelliscano i morti
come recita un poeta.
Questo e nient'altro,
il dono dei Lotofagi
gentili e smemorati.
Era, a ben giudicare,
un'insidia contraria
ma non meno rischiosa
di quella delle Sirene,
le marine incantatrici
che facevano affiorare
grazie al magico canto
ogni angoscia sommersa
nelle nostre coscienze.
Vietai ai miei compagni
di mangiare quel frutto,
offerto a noi stranieri
dagli abitanti del luogo.
Io invece ne assaggiai
nascosto agli sguardi,
già a bordo della nave
lontana da quella costa
infida di sabbie mobili.
I flutti si placarono
e il cielo si schiarì
davanti ai miei occhi,
benché per i miei uomini
infuriasse la tempesta.
A volte ancora adesso
torna a farsi sentire
l'effetto di quel frutto
e causa vuoti di memoria
ovvero prolungate assenze
dalla realtà circostante.
Allora non riconosco più
la mia isola, e la fedele
Penelope diventa estranea,
lei intenta al suo telaio
a fianco di un marinaio
ormai rimasto senza nave
e privo della sua ciurma.
Verrà un giorno in cui
mi allontanerò di nuovo,
con un remo in ispalla
e un sacchetto di sale
ben stretto in una mano,
incapace questa volta
di ritrovare la strada
del ritorno verso Itaca.
Non più Ulisse ma Nessuno,
mi perderò fra una gente
che ignora la mia lingua
e che non conosce il mare,
come mi predisse un cieco
giù nel regno delle ombre.
FRUIT OF OBLIVION
To forget the homeland,
with whatever familiar.
To forget the long war,
its deaths and mourning
and its scars impressed
in our flesh and souls.
To forget all the worry
and let the living live
if and as the gods please.
Let the dead
bury the dead
as a poet once said.
This and no more,
was the gift of the gentle
and forgetful Lotus-eaters.
If we consider it well,
this was an innocence,
but one no less dangerous
then the song of the Sirens,
enchanters of the sea
who were wont to arouse
with their magical song
every trouble submerged
deep in our consciences.
I prevented my mates
from eating that fruit,
offered to us strangers
by the denizens of the place.
Yet I tasted it secretly,
once we were back on board
and the ship far off from
those quicksand shores.
The swells flattened out
and the sky cleared
before these raving eyes,
though a bad storm began
to rage against my crew.
Still today at times
the effect of such fruit
outshines my mind again.
It makes my memory fail
and my self cut out
from the surrounding reality.
Then I know my island
no longer; even my worthy
wife becomes a stranger,
she weaving by her loom
and living with this old
sailor who lost his ship
and could not save his crew.
I know, there will be a day
when I shall leave again,
with an oar on my shoulder
and a small sack of salt
hanging down from my hand,
so forgetful at last
as to be unable to find
the way leading back home.
I will no more be Ulysses
but a guy whose real name
is Nobody, lost in a people
who are ignorant of the sea
and do not speak my tongue,
as foreseen by a prophet
once in the realm of shades.
PARCO DELLA RIMEMBRANZA
Una volta ogni tanto
quasi con nostalgia
salire sul vecchio tram
che fende la nebbia
sui binari silenziosi
nel ventre della città,
simile a un'antica nave
spinta avanti dai remi
sopra abissi nascosti
e su acque inospitali
dove la voce è attutita,
ogni suono è privo di eco
come corpi senz'ombra.
La prossima fermata
è un giardino di rovi
abbandonato all'incuria
al centro di un piazzale,
cosparso di siringhe usate
e di bottiglie infrante.
Tra cancelli arrugginiti
e panchine rovesciate
vi si aggirano animali
tornati allo stato selvatico,
e si dice che siano stati
uomini e donne una volta.
Parco della Rimembranza,
proprio così lo chiamano
e forse lo è stato un tempo
ma nessuno se ne ricorda,
tranne Circe la spacciatrice
con lo sguardo appannato.
Lì lei recita la solita storia:
"Rivedo giochi per bambini,
coppie di giovani amanti
e cespugli di rose bianche.
C'era una giostra che girava
simile alla ruota del karma,
quella che macina le vite
secondo i meriti e le colpe".
"Le rose sono appassite,
le coppie si sono sciolte
e la giostra si è fermata.
Ma mai si arresta la ruota,
nessuno ne può scendere
una volta che vi sia salito.
Ben lo so io, che ne sono
la custode e la prigioniera.
Se questo ti può consolare,
ciò vale per ogni altra vita.
È quanto gli altri ignorano,
anzi fingono di non saperlo
fosse pure nel cuore di Itaca".
"Itaca non esiste," Ulisse
ribatte, "o non esiste più.
L'isola è solo un miraggio,
uno dei tuoi tanti trucchi.
Io me n'ero già accorto
ancor prima che salpassi
da questa terra di chimere.
Eppure fosti tu a insistere,
maestra di tutte le illusioni.
Me ne parlavi ogni notte
come se ben la conoscessi,
fino a convincermi davvero
che stesse nei miei ricordi".
"Se ho usato le mie arti,"
spiega la maga, "è perché
non pensavo che tu partissi
sul serio, l'unico fra tanti.
O non so, magari speravo
che mi portassi via con te.
Spesso ho sognato un'Itaca
illuminata da un sole vero,
in cui per sempre le nubi
non coprissero l'orizzonte.
In una casa dalle alte mura
un portico che giri intorno
al cortile interno, lontano
dagli sguardi del mondo".
PARK OF REMEMBRANCE
Once in a long while,
nearly nostalgic,
getting out on an old tram
cutting through fog
on its silent rails inside
the deep womb of the town,
seems like an old ship
driven by oar-strokes
above the hidden depths
of inhospitable waters
where voices turn dull,
all sound lacking echo
like bodies without shadow.
Next stop is a scrubby
and neglected garden
in the middle of a square,
strewn with used syringes
and smashed bottles.
Within its rusty gratings,
among its upset benches,
you might bump
into wandering animals
who become wild again
and are said to have been
once men and women.
Park of Remembrance, so
this place is called, as
maybe it was in the past.
Yet nobody remembers
but Circe the drug-dealer;
she repeats an odd story,
staring with dim eyes:
"I see children's games,
pairs of young lovers
and bushes of white roses.
There was a merry-go-round too,
quite like the Karma-wheel
which mills each one's life
according to what is due."
"Then the roses withered
and those pairs broke up,
that merry-go-round stopped.
But the wheel never stops,
so that no one may get down
after getting on such a device.
I know it well, since I am
its guardian and its hostage.
And if it may console you
this is worth all other life.
How much others ignore,
or pretend not to know
what was pure once
in the heart of Ithaca."
"Ithaca is no more," Ulysses
replies, "or it never existed.
The home-isle is a mirage,
the best of your many tricks,
what I realized before I sailed
from this chimeric land.
Nevertheless you went on,
thou mistress of illusion,
to tell me about every night
as if I knew well that island,
until I was convinced it was
a real place in my memory."
"I made use of my art," such was
the apology of the sorceress,
"because I could not believe
you were going to leave me,
thou alone of so many others.
Or maybe I hoped you were
wont to take me with you.
So often I dreamt of Ithaca,
a land lit by a true sun
where clouds do not flood
the horizon for ever and ever.
And a house with high walls,
with a portico circling within
its interior courtyard
out of sight from the world."
LA TRAMA DI PENELOPE
Niente di nuovo a Itaca,
per le strade notturne.
Agli angoli degli incroci,
sbadigliano semafori
intermittenti e gialli.
Nelle vetrine dei negozi
spente dopo la chiusura,
manichini incantati
replicano la trita
pantomima del sacro.
Domani partire,
su lunghe autostrade
asfaltate di luce
nuova del giorno.
Lontana la città
nella sua cupola di vetro,
gli occhi delle telecamere
puntati sulle piazze,
nelle viscere l'urlo
lancinante delle sirene.
In una sala silenziosa
della reggia dei sogni
senza finestre né specchi
per l'ennesima notte
la tessitrice di miti,
Penelope, disfa la tela.
e la ordisce daccapo,
senza rughe sul bel viso,
digitando alla tastiera
col suo tocco leggero.
Fuochi di prostitute
e carcasse di auto,
accatastate lungo le vie
che si diramano
dal cuore di Itaca.
Attraverso lo stereo
di motel deserti,
il canto delle Sirene
affascina i sensi
stanchi di camionisti.
Dentro lo schermo acceso
che illumina la stanza
col suo verde chiarore,
quasi un raggio di luna,
lei simula il labirinto.
Dove echeggi il muggito
mostruoso del Minotauro
e spicchi il volo Icaro,
accecato dal riverbero
del sole nel blu marino.
Ulisse si arresta in trance
di fronte all'oblò
di una lavatrice in funzione,
rimembrando l'occhio
vorticoso del Ciclope.
Poi si inietta nelle vene
L'essenza dei Lotofagi
e attende con pazienza
che l'incendio di Ilio
gli si proietti nel cranio.
Ma dalla mano di Teseo,
che si torce come olivo
nello spazio senza tempo,
pende reciso il filo
della matassa di Arianna.
Su un labile supporto
a fatica si dipana,
va crescendo a dismisura
e si lacera fra le dita
la trama della scrittura.
PENELOPE'S WEB
Nothing new in Ithaca,
on its streets
yellow traffic lights
shine and fade,
yawning on their posts
at night crossroads.
In the shop windows
spellbound manikins
pantomime a mystery play.
Let us leave tomorrow
on endless highways,
paved with the new light of day,
a last look backward
at the city left behind
under its glass vault,
with camera eyes
pointed on the squares,
the scream of sirens
piercing its own bowels.
Inside a dreamy palace
there is a quiet room
without windows or mirrors.
One night more Penelope,
weaver of myths, undoes
what she will do again.
There are no wrinkles
on her beautiful face,
her fingers are nimble,
typing on the keyboard.
Fires lit by whores
and the carcasses of cars
stacked along the roads
which branch off from
the heart of Ithaca,
while a Siren song
runs through the stereo
of desolate motels
to bewitch the senses
of tired truckers.
In the lit up screen,
whose green glimmer
illuminates the room
like a ray of moonlight,
she counterfeits the Labyrinth
where the Minotaur still
makes his bellows echo
and young Icarus
is poised to fly away,
dazzled with the glare
of sun on the blue sea.
Ulysses stops entranced
before the porthole
of a running washing machine,
remembering the vortex
of the Cyclops' single eye.
Later he shoots up
the Lotus-eaters' drug,
awaiting the scene
of wasted Troy on fire
to replay in his skull.
But from the hand of Theseus,
twisting like an olive branch
from that timeless space,
hangs the broken thread
of Ariadne's skein.
On an ephemeral foundation
the web of writing winds
and growing to diminish
breaks in the weaver's hands.
LE VOCI DI ULISSE
Molti mi hanno domandato
che mai narrarono le Sirene
quando otturai con la cera
le orecchie dei miei uomini,
chinati sui manici dei remi,
perché non udissero il canto.
Ma io stesso mi feci legare
all'albero dalla vela inerte,
per sfuggire alla seduzione
e all'insidia di quelle voci
emesse dai petti verginali.
Ebbene, esse mi promisero
che mi avrebbero raccontato
nulla che io già non sapessi:
le gesta della guerra di Troia,
i lutti dei vincitori e dei vinti,
gli infausti ritorni degli eroi
che vi avevano preso parte,
tanto che io mi chiesi se mai
le voci non fossero le stesse
che riecheggiano nel sonno
e mi destano durante le notti
facendomi desiderare l'alba.
I mostri stavano appollaiati
in cima alle bianche rocce
della loro isola maledetta.
Si diceva che essi fossero
tetri spiriti delle tempeste,
volatili dal torso di donna,
ma non c'era alito di vento.
A mano a mano che la nave
si avvicinava alla costa, vidi
che quegli scogli non erano
se non cumuli di nude ossa,
tante quante erano le morti
che aveva generato la lunga
guerra fra i greci e i troiani.
Tornò ad allontanarsi la nave
spinta dalla forza dei rematori
provati dalle avverse correnti,
ma quelle voci mi inseguivano.
Mi torcevo in preda ai rimorsi,
supplicavo di sciogliere i nodi
e certo mi sarei gettato in mare
se solo qualcuno l'avesse fatto.
Non potendo udirmi, ciascuno
evitava di notare i miei cenni,
pur di attenersi alle istruzioni
da me impartite in precedenza.
Molti hanno preferito credere
che quella insinuante melodia
suscitasse non so quale piacere,
invece che una smania suicida.
Forse io avrei dovuto smentirli,
una volta tornato padrone di me?
Li ho lasciati alla loro illusione;
temevo che non volessero capire
o potessero rivoltarsi contro chi
li aveva guidati in tale impresa.
Né sapevano, i miei compagni,
che per loro non c'era scampo
alla tardiva vendetta degli dei.
ULYSSES' VOICES
Many have asked me
what the fair Sirens sang
when I filled the ears
of my crew with wax,
slumped over the oars,
so that they could not
hear the song. But I
lashed myself to the mast
under the limp sail
to escape the seduction
and snare of those voices
uttered by virgin breasts,
listening to their appeal.
Indeed, they promised me
to tell nothing but what
I already knew: the feats
of the war with its mourning
of victors and vanquished,
or the unlucky homecomings
of Greek heroes from Troy;
such a song made me wonder
if their voices might be
the same as those echoing
in my sleep
that wake me at night,
and make me long for daylight.
Monsters were squatting
on the peaks of white rock
of their cursed island.
They are said to be the gloomy
spirits of storms,
birds with the chest of a woman.
There wasn't a breath of wind.
By oar stroke the ship
neared the coast and we saw
that those rocks were
heaps of bare bones,
as many as the numbers of dead
churned out by the long war
between Trojans and Greeks.
We turned asea and made way
by the strength of the oarsmen
stemming the current,
but those voices pursued me.
I became prey to remorse
and writhed begging
for the knots to be loosened,
and would have dove overboard
if someone obeyed me.
None could hear and each,
minding orders,
ignored my gestures
as per my instructions.
Many have liked to believe
some raving pleasure arose
from that bewitching melody,
instead of a suicidal rush.
After mastering myself again,
I did not disappoint them
and left them their illusion.
I feared they wouldn't want
to understand or might
turn against their captain
in such circumstances.
They could not know, oh my crew,
that none of them would escape
the due vengeance of the gods.
(Translated from the Italian by Pino Blasone and Andrew Haley)
Pino Blasone was born and lives in Rome. He taught Latin and philosophy and translated poems from Latin and Arabic. In Italian, he issued a novel, several stories and some essays. When Blasone was young, he travelled through the United States and studied for a while at the American University in Cairo. There, he learned to appreciate both English and Arab modern poetry, with special reference to their nostalgic and updated Mediterranean contents.
Pino Blasone è nato e vive a Roma. Ha insegnato latino e filosofia. Ha tradotto poesie dal latino e dall'arabo. In italiano, ha pubblicato un romanzo, racconti e saggi. Da giovane, ha viaggiato negli Stati Uniti; ha studiato per un periodo all'Università Americana del Cairo, dove ha imparato ad apprezzare sia la poesia inglese sia quella araba moderne, in particolare i loro riferimenti a un aggiornato immaginario mediterraneo.
viernes, abril 27, 2007
sábado, abril 14, 2007
An Elegy For Vonnegut by Andrew Haley
STRANGE PROCESSION (RIP KV)
In the church of the world
Some are guiding the long leashes
Of the animals
Caged in thought
Some are guiding the cages
With antique keys
Hanging on leather loops
Around their heads
Some guide the long night forward
Leading it with crosses
And the oxcarts’ aching axels
Grinding forward
In the loam
Behind the straining steps
Of bullocks
The mute procession of the animals
Marks the earth with holes
The sky is the end of the wind
The wind is the shadow of heaven moving
Over the vast stretches
Where the bodies lie
Where the animals sit down mutely
And mew their final song of servitude
To the night they draw
Over the church of the world
In the church of the world
You are one of many cages moving
An hour of ice in an hour of glass
Your wet eyes and your heart wetter
Wrongs piled filings on the bottom of the cage
Rightness a key whittled from molded metal
Method
Is right
In the altar
The altar shaking
On the planks
Of the oxcart
Dikirion and trikirion flameless
The candles continuously extinguished
Tilting in their brass candelabra
Smoke leading night over loam
Priests nodding the exhausted refrain
To the bullocks’ pace–
“They did not like it here”
Andrew Haley is a writer and translator living in Buenos Aires. His poems and translations have appeared previously in Zone, as well as Quarterly West, Western Humanities Review, Wavelength and Good Foot.
In the church of the world
Some are guiding the long leashes
Of the animals
Caged in thought
Some are guiding the cages
With antique keys
Hanging on leather loops
Around their heads
Some guide the long night forward
Leading it with crosses
And the oxcarts’ aching axels
Grinding forward
In the loam
Behind the straining steps
Of bullocks
The mute procession of the animals
Marks the earth with holes
The sky is the end of the wind
The wind is the shadow of heaven moving
Over the vast stretches
Where the bodies lie
Where the animals sit down mutely
And mew their final song of servitude
To the night they draw
Over the church of the world
In the church of the world
You are one of many cages moving
An hour of ice in an hour of glass
Your wet eyes and your heart wetter
Wrongs piled filings on the bottom of the cage
Rightness a key whittled from molded metal
Method
Is right
In the altar
The altar shaking
On the planks
Of the oxcart
Dikirion and trikirion flameless
The candles continuously extinguished
Tilting in their brass candelabra
Smoke leading night over loam
Priests nodding the exhausted refrain
To the bullocks’ pace–
“They did not like it here”
Andrew Haley is a writer and translator living in Buenos Aires. His poems and translations have appeared previously in Zone, as well as Quarterly West, Western Humanities Review, Wavelength and Good Foot.
jueves, abril 12, 2007
miércoles, abril 11, 2007
Tres Poemas en Prosa de María Gallardo
Y fue...
Calladamente, sin sentir casi su paso, con una simple pregunta...me quitó el aliento, inundó de pasión mis ojos, de emociones mis sentidos, de ilusión mi vida, de amor mi boca.
Cadenciosamente, sin mover casi su cuerpo, abarco mis formas, las lleno de estrellas… las cubrió de alfas… las tradujo a omegas.
Dulcemente, sin imposición ni esfuerzo, me hizo parte de su masa, su peso, su volumen...su voz se fundió en mis murmullos, su respiración abrió espacios en mi estomago, la sospecha de su aroma vino hasta mi, dejando tras de si, misterio y deseo.
Sus ojos oscuros, cuajados de ansias, abiertos solo a mi intensa apariencia... conjugaron en un solo instante... la razón de ser de mi existencia.
Otro mundo?
Deslizo mi huella y las rutas que persigo en el firmamento se desdibujan bajo cristales rotos de un infinito negro... Abro más mis ojos y me sumerjo en esa ineludible inconsistencia cósmica.
Trato de alcanzar un universo inexistente, muevo mis párpados, apaciblemente; en un intento vano por definir un concepto, pero la imagen que se forma no tiene sombras.
Persisto en mi intención pero la tenebrosa vaguedad me impide aceptar una realidad amorfa y sólo quiero extender mi tacto hasta donde encuentro el sentido de mi carne trémula.
Los cinco sentidos asfixian la posibilidad y el sexo está ausente de esa interiorización prematura de un yo, totalmente incongruente con una miseria humana irreversible... Inevitable.
Cada una de las figuras que se ciernen sobre mi inmensidad son sólo ligeros rasgos de un mundo extremo que no logro entender, mi conciencia cuelga con desparpajo y se resiste a sufrir los embates de la constancia de un viaje sin retorno.
Temor callado de un ente enfermo... Ilusión maltrecha, en la que otro mundo es la esperanza insensata y ajena a una mortal esencia.
Vaguedad
Siento mis extremidades hundidas en un pantano, una urgencia de realización me abate y no se cómo levantarme y continuar; los distintos espacios de mi vida sólo han hecho heridas que aún buscan sanar.
Un egoísta sentido justifica el deseo de avanzar en mi individualidad, la solidaridad presiona mi conciencia para buscar humanidades a las que pueda ayudar.
La palabra me puede enredar y convertir este monólogo interior en la expresión divina de una ilusa retórica, sin actos que puedan ocultar las mezquindades propias de mi destino como ser humano.
Es fácil perderse en los derroteros de sumisión y los actos acalorados que deseamos propagar como hacedores de historia y creadores de grandes revoluciones se ven acallados, sometidos al artilugio de una seductora vida cómoda en la que no cuestiono nada.
Quiero vivir intensamente, pero los pasos que debo seguir son muchas veces, laberínticos y en esencia soy tan cobarde como el más sencillo.
Creo que no debo sucumbir al paso del tiempo, que inexorable me aleja de mis imaginarios actos reivindicativos; pero cuando más cerca me siento de mi objetivo, una oleada de brisa marina me recuerda la dulce lacitud que se siente vagar los sentidos en la inmensidad de una hamaca.
María Gallardo nació y vive en Costa Rica. Creció en medio de un ambiente artístico – su padre fue un importante pintor de Europa. En los noventa se casó y tuvo tres hijos. Poco después de divorciarse a la edad de veinte años, empezó a trabajar empíricamente y publicar en la red de forma anónima. Actualmente realiza algunas ediciones y cursos de la lengua española y estudia comercio internacional. Ha estado conenctada con arte y literatura y ha hecho viajes a otros países, en una permanente confirmación de su viaje y búsqueda personal. Madre y esposa, está lista para publicar su primera colección de poemas y prosa.
Calladamente, sin sentir casi su paso, con una simple pregunta...me quitó el aliento, inundó de pasión mis ojos, de emociones mis sentidos, de ilusión mi vida, de amor mi boca.
Cadenciosamente, sin mover casi su cuerpo, abarco mis formas, las lleno de estrellas… las cubrió de alfas… las tradujo a omegas.
Dulcemente, sin imposición ni esfuerzo, me hizo parte de su masa, su peso, su volumen...su voz se fundió en mis murmullos, su respiración abrió espacios en mi estomago, la sospecha de su aroma vino hasta mi, dejando tras de si, misterio y deseo.
Sus ojos oscuros, cuajados de ansias, abiertos solo a mi intensa apariencia... conjugaron en un solo instante... la razón de ser de mi existencia.
Otro mundo?
Deslizo mi huella y las rutas que persigo en el firmamento se desdibujan bajo cristales rotos de un infinito negro... Abro más mis ojos y me sumerjo en esa ineludible inconsistencia cósmica.
Trato de alcanzar un universo inexistente, muevo mis párpados, apaciblemente; en un intento vano por definir un concepto, pero la imagen que se forma no tiene sombras.
Persisto en mi intención pero la tenebrosa vaguedad me impide aceptar una realidad amorfa y sólo quiero extender mi tacto hasta donde encuentro el sentido de mi carne trémula.
Los cinco sentidos asfixian la posibilidad y el sexo está ausente de esa interiorización prematura de un yo, totalmente incongruente con una miseria humana irreversible... Inevitable.
Cada una de las figuras que se ciernen sobre mi inmensidad son sólo ligeros rasgos de un mundo extremo que no logro entender, mi conciencia cuelga con desparpajo y se resiste a sufrir los embates de la constancia de un viaje sin retorno.
Temor callado de un ente enfermo... Ilusión maltrecha, en la que otro mundo es la esperanza insensata y ajena a una mortal esencia.
Vaguedad
Siento mis extremidades hundidas en un pantano, una urgencia de realización me abate y no se cómo levantarme y continuar; los distintos espacios de mi vida sólo han hecho heridas que aún buscan sanar.
Un egoísta sentido justifica el deseo de avanzar en mi individualidad, la solidaridad presiona mi conciencia para buscar humanidades a las que pueda ayudar.
La palabra me puede enredar y convertir este monólogo interior en la expresión divina de una ilusa retórica, sin actos que puedan ocultar las mezquindades propias de mi destino como ser humano.
Es fácil perderse en los derroteros de sumisión y los actos acalorados que deseamos propagar como hacedores de historia y creadores de grandes revoluciones se ven acallados, sometidos al artilugio de una seductora vida cómoda en la que no cuestiono nada.
Quiero vivir intensamente, pero los pasos que debo seguir son muchas veces, laberínticos y en esencia soy tan cobarde como el más sencillo.
Creo que no debo sucumbir al paso del tiempo, que inexorable me aleja de mis imaginarios actos reivindicativos; pero cuando más cerca me siento de mi objetivo, una oleada de brisa marina me recuerda la dulce lacitud que se siente vagar los sentidos en la inmensidad de una hamaca.
María Gallardo nació y vive en Costa Rica. Creció en medio de un ambiente artístico – su padre fue un importante pintor de Europa. En los noventa se casó y tuvo tres hijos. Poco después de divorciarse a la edad de veinte años, empezó a trabajar empíricamente y publicar en la red de forma anónima. Actualmente realiza algunas ediciones y cursos de la lengua española y estudia comercio internacional. Ha estado conenctada con arte y literatura y ha hecho viajes a otros países, en una permanente confirmación de su viaje y búsqueda personal. Madre y esposa, está lista para publicar su primera colección de poemas y prosa.
lunes, marzo 26, 2007
New Poetry From Sergio Balari Ravera
ARCA
celatamente Amor l’arco riprese
Francesco Petrarca
A ng
Era l'any del diluvi
(un altre)
i jo m'ofegava,perdia peu,
sense terra,
illa,
ni barca.
Quan,
entre les llums de colorsi les músiques de Plutó,
vas sorgir,
Noè de la Nit,i em vas obrir l'arca.
La que navega
i dibuixa deixants de mercurien la mar,
que es reflecteixen
en els punts argentatsdel teu rostre
i fan preguntar-me:
sarai tu Laura et, io, Petrarca?
1 de gener de 2007
ARK
celatamente Amor l’arco riprese
Francesco Petrarca
For ng
It was the year of the deluge
(a further)
and I was drowning,on free dive,
with no land,
no ile,
no trawler.
When,
out of the bright coloured lightsand the music of Pluto,
you emerged,
Noah of the Night,and ushered me into the ark.
The one that sails
and draws over the seaquicksilver wakes,
which shine
on the silvery flecksof your face
and make me wonder:
sarai tu Laura et, io, Petrarca?
1st of January 2007
Translated from Catalan by Sergio Balari and William Bain
LES MANS
Agafa'm fort i plora'm.
Plora'm totes les llàgrimes aturades,
perdudes,
robades.
Agafa'm fort i plora'm.
I treu-me la sal de les nits eviscerades,
mortes,
malaurades.
Estreny-me,
esprem-me,
destil.la'm el licor amarg que m'enverina.
Dóna'm les mans.
Dóna'm les mans.
Les teves mans.
18 de gener de 2007
THE HANDS
Hold me tight and weep me.
Cry me all tears dammed,
forfeited,
snatched.
Hold me tight and weep me.
Take the salt off the nights eviscerated,
killed,
depleted.
Squeeze me,
squash me,
distill any sour liquor that befouls me.
Let me hold hands.
Let me hold hands.
With your hands.
18th of January 2007
Translated from Catalan by Sergio Balari and William Bain
Sergio Balari Ravera (Barcelona, 1963) teaches general linguistics at the Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, but poetry and fiction are two of his many other secret passions.
Sergio Balari Ravera (Barcelona, 1963) és professor de lingüística general a la Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, però la poesia i la ficció són dues de les seves moltes altres passions secretes.
Sergio Balari Ravera (Barcelona, 1963) es profesor de lingüística general en la Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, pero la poesía y la ficción son dos de sus muchas otras pasiones secretas.
jueves, marzo 22, 2007
New Poetry From William Bain Translated Into Catalan and Spanish
Rucksack screwdriver
It isn’t only the weather that takes the hitch-hiker south.
There’s an irony in southern speech he likes,
a heaviness in the summer days, almost visible
in the glint off the water, the thorn of cactus. Time
from vehicle to vehicle takes each
driver’s maze closer to circle. Blown tires,
overheating radiators, broken keys, trysts
derived, the talked out fire re-emerging in shared close
call just before dawn on an all but empty, I swear,
straightaway just before a perfectly well-marked exit ramp.
He drinks morning chill and vending machine coffee
alone, buys the gas station’s last bargain price screwdriver.
He likes to think he’d never drive that way. He just
hopes for a quick death when death comes.
Tornavís de motxilla
No és només el bon temps que porta l’autostopista cap al sud.
Hi ha una ironia en el parlar del sud que li agrada,
una pesantor en els dies d’estiu, quasi visible
en la lluentor de l’aigua, l’espina del cactus. El temps
que triga a passar d’un vehicle a l’altre atansa
el laberint de cada conductor més cap al cercle. Rodes punxades,
radiadors fumejants, claus trencades, encontres derivats—
El foc silenciat reemergeix llavors, i escapa,
poc abans de l’albada, a un accident en—ho juro—
una sortida perfectament senyalitzada d’una quasi totalment buida carretera.
Li agrada el fred de matinada que beu en el seu cafè de màquina.
En la seva soledat, compra el darrer tornavís d’oferta de la gasolinera.
Li agrada pensar que ell mai no conduiria d’aquella manera.
Només espera tenir una mort ràpida quan arribi.
Traduït per William Bain y Sergio Balari
Destornillador de mochila
No es únicamente el buen tiempo lo que lleva al autoestopista hacia el sur.
Hay una ironía en el hablar del sur que le gusta,
una pesadez en los días de verano extendiéndose casi visiblemente
en el brillo del agua, en la espina del cacto. El tiempo
que cuesta pasar de un vehículo al próximo lleva el laberinto
de cada conductor más cerca al círculo. Pinchazos,
radiadores humeantes, llaves rotas, encuentros derivados—
El fuego silenciado reemerge entonces, y escapa,
poco antes del amanecer, de un accidente en—lo juro—
una salida perfectamente señalizada de una casi totalmente vacía carretera.
Le gusta el frío de la mañana que bebe en su café de máquina.
En su soledad, compra el último destornillador de oferta de la gasolinera.
Le gusta pensar que él nunca conduciría de aquella manera.
Sólo espera tener una muerte rápida cuando llegue.
Traducido por William Bain y Sergio Balari
William Bain cursa estudis de doctorat en Teoria Literària a la Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona.
William Bain estudia para doctorarse en teoría literaria en la Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona.
lunes, marzo 19, 2007
Three Poems From Tommy FitzGibbon
it's good to be going
he came behind a sun of gold, propelled by his broad shoulders,
and opening his weathered hands a beam of light emits, for a moment,
into the eyes of animals. and he walks through a sea of humanity.
and from where he stands he can look out over a horizon that is
one hundred percent flat, when he strikes the ground it is a fire work
or a flower blooming. spirits shoot from his nostrils and whither as leaves.
when passers by are caught in the rain they melt in their dark suits,
fall through grates into networks of drains. this man has been down the
liquid steps, waves of glass break over us.
he folds his fingers around a warm cup, his cup overflows. this disused
radio tower came to life when it received him, the sky was cut open by
sharp airplanes. he lies there listening to the hammers of development.
did you become sick? did you, with your voice, try to signal, or with some
mechanism, a bright light? crawl through the darkness? and did you pound
on the ceiling of your shallow bunk in pain (as if the bones were breaking)?
in its fever was the body overtaken by violent rigor?
so then what mechanisms put you into this clean bed under a warm
blanket, curled? and did the room emit, from the corners, murmurs?
i drink a sticky liquid sweet tasting and soporific. recline in tall grass,
observe clouds of butterflies. i come to a river as wide as it is slow. filtering
loud and soft through the air the sun comes out, catches currents of insects
above its sluggish waters. gaze into flickered foliage and past into bare
sky.
i came out of ten big animals their eyes were each different shapes and
colors. i eat flesh, i become one another. the skin is covered in a layer of salt.
their long black legs without joints stretched upwards. through city streets
reflections caught across mirrored monoliths of commerce, billowing.
engulf us in their shadows as they pass us by.
his smile cuts his blank face in two, opening his large mouth an odor
of lilac escapes as if from a prison - i was dozing beneath industry tree,
i heard whispers of an oasis, a winged insect, keys.
which float in and out amidst the generative din of another spilt market
place.
at dusk we sit watching dust roll off mountains, for the day we have
removed our protective eye wear.
he wakes in a patch of light, before him an opening that
frames a stark blue. beyond the threshold sweeps a flock
of small birds. for a moment their twittering has replaced everything.
the sun flows in moats,
falls like wings through the air.
for posy
when i start i often release
a cloud of dense black smoke
disappear into my very distress
and fatten a thinness
find myself in dead hotels
that circulate conditioned air
as sleeping i spill over
my artificial boundaries
say no to death, return
holding the future as a shield
against the gnashing teeth
of the present
but now, on the brink
the teeth have become quiet
and our little house rotates
on the wind
emits warmth, brilliant
clouds etched, swept across
and hung before our window
the connection of two stray wires
and any minute now i fear
they´re going to turn me on
and i´ll smell power
become blind
i just want you to know
that if i go
i wont really be going
we never will be forgiven
for the dogs we leave behind
who as empty vessels
hover in the periphery
but now i cant keep from drifting
towards the complex organs
one day maybe we´ll graze
upon these pastures of plastic
dreamily beneath
the impossible airplanes
marooned
sometimes restrained in this room i
go on long walks through my own cities
buildings stand
wheels roll
we buy things
we sell things
we touch each other
once i found myself at night
on an empty street
sheltering myself from a persistent drizzle
by means of some chance overhang
or perhaps it was the middle of the afternoon
and a great rain came that was completely
unexpected so that
everyone forgetting their umbrellas
was squeezed in together
under the same overhang
there was a slightly wild smell in the air
and it was dropping so fast
that it made one long sound
and the street became a river
for a little while
sometimes i sit on the curb of my mind
and watch the cars drive by
of my imagination
they move in both directions and stick to
certain sides of the road
their various shapes reflect their uses
and the forward looking eyes
of their designers
in my grocery stores i shop among ghosts
the food lacks nutrition
and we fill our carts with empty boxes
amidst a profound silence
we stand in long lines
that dont seem to move at all
and i am so happy the places i return to
are always exactly how i left them
and visiting i become the person i was
all the people from my past
are just as they used to be
the dead exist in beautiful precision
my lovers wait behind their doors
now where i am in the dark
solutions are as simple
as reaching for the switch
there will be no more fumbling
a circuit waits to be completed
and bring our small rooms to life
a door knob waits to be turned
so that the outside might spill in
feet wait to walk
eyes wait to see
the body reclined
head resting against a wall
this power manifests itself
through the surfaces we touch
the room is continuously expanding
in my world divisions of prosperity
create zones of intangibility
beggars stand on medians
while vehicles burn past
the machine is diverse to a point
that is unfathomable except that
it always needs fuel
from my pockets a flock of bills
takes flight
sustains me
an environment surrounds me
that will eventually be acquired
while i sleep
Tommy FitzGibbon is a young American living in the Dominican Republic.
he came behind a sun of gold, propelled by his broad shoulders,
and opening his weathered hands a beam of light emits, for a moment,
into the eyes of animals. and he walks through a sea of humanity.
and from where he stands he can look out over a horizon that is
one hundred percent flat, when he strikes the ground it is a fire work
or a flower blooming. spirits shoot from his nostrils and whither as leaves.
when passers by are caught in the rain they melt in their dark suits,
fall through grates into networks of drains. this man has been down the
liquid steps, waves of glass break over us.
he folds his fingers around a warm cup, his cup overflows. this disused
radio tower came to life when it received him, the sky was cut open by
sharp airplanes. he lies there listening to the hammers of development.
did you become sick? did you, with your voice, try to signal, or with some
mechanism, a bright light? crawl through the darkness? and did you pound
on the ceiling of your shallow bunk in pain (as if the bones were breaking)?
in its fever was the body overtaken by violent rigor?
so then what mechanisms put you into this clean bed under a warm
blanket, curled? and did the room emit, from the corners, murmurs?
i drink a sticky liquid sweet tasting and soporific. recline in tall grass,
observe clouds of butterflies. i come to a river as wide as it is slow. filtering
loud and soft through the air the sun comes out, catches currents of insects
above its sluggish waters. gaze into flickered foliage and past into bare
sky.
i came out of ten big animals their eyes were each different shapes and
colors. i eat flesh, i become one another. the skin is covered in a layer of salt.
their long black legs without joints stretched upwards. through city streets
reflections caught across mirrored monoliths of commerce, billowing.
engulf us in their shadows as they pass us by.
his smile cuts his blank face in two, opening his large mouth an odor
of lilac escapes as if from a prison - i was dozing beneath industry tree,
i heard whispers of an oasis, a winged insect, keys.
which float in and out amidst the generative din of another spilt market
place.
at dusk we sit watching dust roll off mountains, for the day we have
removed our protective eye wear.
he wakes in a patch of light, before him an opening that
frames a stark blue. beyond the threshold sweeps a flock
of small birds. for a moment their twittering has replaced everything.
the sun flows in moats,
falls like wings through the air.
for posy
when i start i often release
a cloud of dense black smoke
disappear into my very distress
and fatten a thinness
find myself in dead hotels
that circulate conditioned air
as sleeping i spill over
my artificial boundaries
say no to death, return
holding the future as a shield
against the gnashing teeth
of the present
but now, on the brink
the teeth have become quiet
and our little house rotates
on the wind
emits warmth, brilliant
clouds etched, swept across
and hung before our window
the connection of two stray wires
and any minute now i fear
they´re going to turn me on
and i´ll smell power
become blind
i just want you to know
that if i go
i wont really be going
we never will be forgiven
for the dogs we leave behind
who as empty vessels
hover in the periphery
but now i cant keep from drifting
towards the complex organs
one day maybe we´ll graze
upon these pastures of plastic
dreamily beneath
the impossible airplanes
marooned
sometimes restrained in this room i
go on long walks through my own cities
buildings stand
wheels roll
we buy things
we sell things
we touch each other
once i found myself at night
on an empty street
sheltering myself from a persistent drizzle
by means of some chance overhang
or perhaps it was the middle of the afternoon
and a great rain came that was completely
unexpected so that
everyone forgetting their umbrellas
was squeezed in together
under the same overhang
there was a slightly wild smell in the air
and it was dropping so fast
that it made one long sound
and the street became a river
for a little while
sometimes i sit on the curb of my mind
and watch the cars drive by
of my imagination
they move in both directions and stick to
certain sides of the road
their various shapes reflect their uses
and the forward looking eyes
of their designers
in my grocery stores i shop among ghosts
the food lacks nutrition
and we fill our carts with empty boxes
amidst a profound silence
we stand in long lines
that dont seem to move at all
and i am so happy the places i return to
are always exactly how i left them
and visiting i become the person i was
all the people from my past
are just as they used to be
the dead exist in beautiful precision
my lovers wait behind their doors
now where i am in the dark
solutions are as simple
as reaching for the switch
there will be no more fumbling
a circuit waits to be completed
and bring our small rooms to life
a door knob waits to be turned
so that the outside might spill in
feet wait to walk
eyes wait to see
the body reclined
head resting against a wall
this power manifests itself
through the surfaces we touch
the room is continuously expanding
in my world divisions of prosperity
create zones of intangibility
beggars stand on medians
while vehicles burn past
the machine is diverse to a point
that is unfathomable except that
it always needs fuel
from my pockets a flock of bills
takes flight
sustains me
an environment surrounds me
that will eventually be acquired
while i sleep
Tommy FitzGibbon is a young American living in the Dominican Republic.
jueves, marzo 15, 2007
Three Poems From David Sullivan
Quarrying
Ten shirtless men
split granite. Drive
iron feathers—tapered
metal triangles—down
into seams they’ve
grooved in stone.
The men wedge apart
huge sections with plug
drills’ chiseled points;
gaining leverage from
above they unsettle
what’s beneath their feet.
As the blocks seize,
giving way with a groan,
the men jump back from
the chasm they’ve created.
Granite dust whitens
the air and their faces.
Below, one hoses
dust down, reveals
teeth-marked granite
he tags for delivery to
sculptor or contractor:
moves to the next.
Permission Granted
You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others will pass over.
You don’t have to bury
your grandmother’s keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.
You don’t need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube–the machine’s wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.
You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.
You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember floury
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.
Go skydiving as your birthday gift.
Lie in the bath with ears under water
and sing Lay down my sword and shield.
Take all day to emerge from the steamy room,
then hide your prunedness in silk robes.
The skin on things vibrates. Attune yourself.
Close your eyes. Hum. Each beat
of the world’s pulse demands nothing more
than that you feel it. No words even.
Just the thought. Yes. This lives.
The homeless woman is following the tunings
of a dead composer, she closes her eyes
and sways with the subways. Follow her
down inside where the singing resides.
Curl up at her feet.
No Place Like
1.
Double-paned windows
strapped to a truck
are canted
into a lean glass pyramid
that carries clouds,
flickers of telephone poles,
a moment
of blinding sun,
and my elongated body.
2.
Blue vinyl siding
stacked
against peeling white clapboard
encircled by ivy.
3.
The front porch leans
into itself
like a couple
loving the heat
of their argument.
4.
Twine straps
the cardboard boxes
to the park bench—
slipped one
into the next
like a telescope.
On the protruding pillow,
a faded pink cat.
5.
A coffee maker
kicks on
at 6:40 am
and begins
to drip.
Below the counter
the spaniel paws
its red pillow,
sinking down
into its snoring.
6.
The diminishing
T’s of telephone poles
march towards
non-existent
subdivisions.
One unscarred road
turns and ends
in a heap of sand
diamonded with beer cans.
7.
The graduate student
stirs noodles
over his hotplate
in the darkened office.
A security guard
catches the scent
of daikon mingled with
grated ginger.
Closes his eyes.
8.
A place to call my own.
A room of—
Smell of—
9.
No I ain’t homeless,
says the woman
who scrubs
the soup kitchen’s
huge metal pans
beside me,
say I’m
dispossessed.
10.
I’d driven the nails in
myself, and it showed.
That first night
I lay awake on the platform
cradled between four gnarled
apple limbs and surveyed
the slow circuit
of the moon.
Something woke me.
I rolled over and the buck
snorted as it raised its antlers.
Slowly it circled the apple tree.
Moving in and out of my field
of vision
three times.
When it stomped
its hooves and charged
into the trees
a doe and fawn
sprang into being
and chased after.
11.
Camelot. Forest Green.
Tanglewood. Sherwood Forest.
New Audubon’s plowed hills,
like a patient shaved
for an operation.
Pelican Lane.
Killdeer Avenue.
Tern Street.
Kingfisher Terrace.
The street signs up
before the houses.
The animals have fled,
but the coyotes
will come back down the greenbelts
to pick off house cats
and smaller dogs.
12.
A boxcar bulldog noses
the man’s crotch;
his beefy hands
tell the air a story
he hopes the guard
will buy.
13.
What I wouldn’t give—
On any given night—
The trick is
to keep moving.
Always. Sleep’s just
what happens when the sun
finds you
before the cops do.
14.
In Oaxaca they spread ashes
on the first of November
to catch the spirit
of angelitos
who return
through the paws
and claws
of animals.
15.
Sun bakes
the old man’s face
like bread.
He slaps flies
in his sleep.
16.
Ridge beams.
Elk skins. Boxcars. Freighters.
Semi-cabs with night-lights
and mini-fridges.
Burlap sacks.
Quonset huts.
The blue sea of the TV
bathing a sleeping woman
in a terry cloth bathrobe.
Lockets pinched on hairs.
A dumpster redolent
with the rot of a hundred limes.
A dinghy, overturned,
on Nantucket’s white sands
under which I once spent the night.
A cough heard through
a baby monitor.
An empty chapel’s
flickering
electric votive candles.
17.
We need more
than our dreams
to live in.
18.
And Raven
disappeared
through the smoke hole
with the sun in his beak.
And when it burned
too hot he tossed it
to the sky
and it stuck.
And that is why
we leave Raven
the leavings of fish,
brightly turned shells,
and our songs of home.
19.
My son snuggles
against me
in his bed:
Tell me a story.
One where a girl
gets lost
and a porcupine
helps her find her way back.
Home?
Anywheres.
20.
The night drapes
its black cloak
over us
with its cut-out stars
and the new moon’s
scythe.
Our breath
goes out,
over and over again,
into the arms of the night.
David Sullivan is an instructor of English and Film at Cabrillo Community College, where he also edits The Porter Gulch Review. His poems have appeared in The Chicago Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Quarry West, and New Letters. His book of poems, Strong-armed Angels, is forthcoming from Hummingbird Press. He lives in Santa Cruz, California, with his partner, Cherie, and their two children.
Ten shirtless men
split granite. Drive
iron feathers—tapered
metal triangles—down
into seams they’ve
grooved in stone.
This morning you laid
my hand on your belly
and it pulsed. You live
a double life: vessel
of two hearts, one
smaller than a pebble.
my hand on your belly
and it pulsed. You live
a double life: vessel
of two hearts, one
smaller than a pebble.
The men wedge apart
huge sections with plug
drills’ chiseled points;
gaining leverage from
above they unsettle
what’s beneath their feet.
I cradle my head on your
lap. Tell you we’ll work
out this tug of war between
wants. Your finger idly
curls a lock of hair. You say
I’ve already given ground.
lap. Tell you we’ll work
out this tug of war between
wants. Your finger idly
curls a lock of hair. You say
I’ve already given ground.
As the blocks seize,
giving way with a groan,
the men jump back from
the chasm they’ve created.
Granite dust whitens
the air and their faces.
Your too-loving words
are metal-sharp feathers
splitting me through
my weakest seams:
I fear I’m less than
the man you mean.
are metal-sharp feathers
splitting me through
my weakest seams:
I fear I’m less than
the man you mean.
Below, one hoses
dust down, reveals
teeth-marked granite
he tags for delivery to
sculptor or contractor:
moves to the next.
But this life has only
begun, and what we were
we are no longer. I fear
the face I kiss through
your taut belly’s wall.
Listen for his first fists.
begun, and what we were
we are no longer. I fear
the face I kiss through
your taut belly’s wall.
Listen for his first fists.
Permission Granted
You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others will pass over.
You don’t have to bury
your grandmother’s keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.
You don’t need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube–the machine’s wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.
You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.
You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember floury
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.
Go skydiving as your birthday gift.
Lie in the bath with ears under water
and sing Lay down my sword and shield.
Take all day to emerge from the steamy room,
then hide your prunedness in silk robes.
The skin on things vibrates. Attune yourself.
Close your eyes. Hum. Each beat
of the world’s pulse demands nothing more
than that you feel it. No words even.
Just the thought. Yes. This lives.
The homeless woman is following the tunings
of a dead composer, she closes her eyes
and sways with the subways. Follow her
down inside where the singing resides.
Curl up at her feet.
No Place Like
1.
Double-paned windows
strapped to a truck
are canted
into a lean glass pyramid
that carries clouds,
flickers of telephone poles,
a moment
of blinding sun,
and my elongated body.
2.
Blue vinyl siding
stacked
against peeling white clapboard
encircled by ivy.
3.
The front porch leans
into itself
like a couple
loving the heat
of their argument.
4.
Twine straps
the cardboard boxes
to the park bench—
slipped one
into the next
like a telescope.
On the protruding pillow,
a faded pink cat.
5.
A coffee maker
kicks on
at 6:40 am
and begins
to drip.
Below the counter
the spaniel paws
its red pillow,
sinking down
into its snoring.
6.
The diminishing
T’s of telephone poles
march towards
non-existent
subdivisions.
One unscarred road
turns and ends
in a heap of sand
diamonded with beer cans.
7.
The graduate student
stirs noodles
over his hotplate
in the darkened office.
A security guard
catches the scent
of daikon mingled with
grated ginger.
Closes his eyes.
8.
A place to call my own.
A room of—
Smell of—
9.
No I ain’t homeless,
says the woman
who scrubs
the soup kitchen’s
huge metal pans
beside me,
say I’m
dispossessed.
10.
I’d driven the nails in
myself, and it showed.
That first night
I lay awake on the platform
cradled between four gnarled
apple limbs and surveyed
the slow circuit
of the moon.
Something woke me.
I rolled over and the buck
snorted as it raised its antlers.
Slowly it circled the apple tree.
Moving in and out of my field
of vision
three times.
When it stomped
its hooves and charged
into the trees
a doe and fawn
sprang into being
and chased after.
11.
Camelot. Forest Green.
Tanglewood. Sherwood Forest.
New Audubon’s plowed hills,
like a patient shaved
for an operation.
Pelican Lane.
Killdeer Avenue.
Tern Street.
Kingfisher Terrace.
The street signs up
before the houses.
The animals have fled,
but the coyotes
will come back down the greenbelts
to pick off house cats
and smaller dogs.
12.
A boxcar bulldog noses
the man’s crotch;
his beefy hands
tell the air a story
he hopes the guard
will buy.
13.
What I wouldn’t give—
On any given night—
The trick is
to keep moving.
Always. Sleep’s just
what happens when the sun
finds you
before the cops do.
14.
In Oaxaca they spread ashes
on the first of November
to catch the spirit
of angelitos
who return
through the paws
and claws
of animals.
15.
Sun bakes
the old man’s face
like bread.
He slaps flies
in his sleep.
16.
Ridge beams.
Elk skins. Boxcars. Freighters.
Semi-cabs with night-lights
and mini-fridges.
Burlap sacks.
Quonset huts.
The blue sea of the TV
bathing a sleeping woman
in a terry cloth bathrobe.
Lockets pinched on hairs.
A dumpster redolent
with the rot of a hundred limes.
A dinghy, overturned,
on Nantucket’s white sands
under which I once spent the night.
A cough heard through
a baby monitor.
An empty chapel’s
flickering
electric votive candles.
17.
We need more
than our dreams
to live in.
18.
And Raven
disappeared
through the smoke hole
with the sun in his beak.
And when it burned
too hot he tossed it
to the sky
and it stuck.
And that is why
we leave Raven
the leavings of fish,
brightly turned shells,
and our songs of home.
19.
My son snuggles
against me
in his bed:
Tell me a story.
One where a girl
gets lost
and a porcupine
helps her find her way back.
Home?
Anywheres.
20.
The night drapes
its black cloak
over us
with its cut-out stars
and the new moon’s
scythe.
Our breath
goes out,
over and over again,
into the arms of the night.
David Sullivan is an instructor of English and Film at Cabrillo Community College, where he also edits The Porter Gulch Review. His poems have appeared in The Chicago Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Quarry West, and New Letters. His book of poems, Strong-armed Angels, is forthcoming from Hummingbird Press. He lives in Santa Cruz, California, with his partner, Cherie, and their two children.
domingo, marzo 04, 2007
New Poetry From Peter Golub
Interpretation of Yeats
When Jack Bauer goes to Puerto Rico
He isn’t really on vacation
And he isn’t afraid to venture past the walls of Old San Juan into the cemetery
He brings a pack of Lucky Strikes, but forgets to smoke them
When he makes it to Isla Mona he’s too drunk to notice how drunk the iguana’s are
On the fancy boat that takes him around the island
Several times before he finally gets off
And stumbles into the black forest where he falls asleep
In an over priced hotel and writes
The following poem after singing Motherless Child
In all the languages the Government
Taught him
Several girls gather beneath his window while he sings
Weeping not knowing
How to continue on with their lives
The world must be saved endlessly
Just as it must die without end
As this terrible country
A sand dollar inside a hockey’s mans stomach
The koala bear in the backyard
Howling from its plastic tree
If I see the man with the tattoo
Wielding a stapler –it is a threat to national security
Preventions
I have met them at the close of day
From the counter of the rainbow I saw this morning
I passed with a nod of the head
While I lingered around a mangrove watching a bird
This other man I had dreamed
A vainglorious lout
I number him
He has resigned
A terrible beauty is born
Minute by minute the change
While I save the nation
While trout fall from the sky
In perfect sequence
On time
Each with his plans
Chatting on black phones
Minute by minute they live
Too long a sacrifice
O when may it suffice?
That is heaven’s part
To murmur name upon name
And for an hour I have walked, that is, in my mind the future years had come
Out of the murderous innocence
May she be granted beauty and yet not
That chooses right
That is no country
Caught in that sensual neglect consume my heart away sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is and gathers me
Into the artifice of eternity what is past, or to come
The America whose plant is packed into the bowels
Of young-four-stomached-girls
They graze the lawns
Inside my mind
Full of grace
Amid the rustle
High in the hills
Dizzy high
A mechanical
Shape
Jet
As if some empty shell
I should hand in my resignation
Those non regulated factories in China
Where there is no congressional oversight
O my god what is this world coming to?
Wine wine wine
Wine relieves my sigh
The men are on their way
They have my wife
They have my doctor’s medication
Public opinion ripening for so long
And a great army but a showy thing
Delicate matters are not unsolvable by anger
Unless a little powder
A drunken soldier
Murder at her door
In her own blood
As before we pieced out thoughts together
With satellite surveillance
I read the signs
I am a call-sign
Oh, master work of intellect or hand
That country round
None dared admit
If such a thought were mine
Chinese
A shining web
Or hurried them
No moralist
An image of its state
A man in his own secret
Is lost amid the labyrinth he’s made
In politics or art
Delicate matters are not unsolvable by anger
Where we trade our work
The half written resignation
We, who seven years ago
Talked of honor and of truth
Shriek with pleasure if we show
The weasel’s shriek and weasel’s tooth
We traffic
Upon the roads of violence
In monetary wonder stare upon
And thinking of that fit of grief of rage
What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
Honey of generation had betrayed,
And who must sleep, shriek, and struggle to escape
As recollection of the drug decide
Maria
Maria full of grace
Peter Golub was born in Moscow. After receiving a BA in Russian and Philosophy from the University of Utah he moved to Nevada to pursue an MFA in poetry at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. His translations can be found in Absinthe: New European Writing, Caketrain, Cimarron Review, Zone, and St. Petersburg Review. He also has a cat named Sparrow, a squemu named Brenna, and harbors serious plans for international fame and domination.
jueves, febrero 22, 2007
Four Poems From Nathaniel Rounds
LITTLE LORD FONTANEL
To Bob--whom everyone knows, or would like to.
(Chapter XII--Of lions habituated to seize deer, and eagles ordered to seize wolves.)
1.
Clouds on the horizon. Six sirens wailed. Mother, in alarm, wept tears of
blood and milk. A bearded thief--baneful and watchful like the guileless
snake--removed his victim's signet ring and took to hiding in the lake.
Did he feast upon the catfish? Were his pockets full of scones? Did he
bring to water's surface gilded leopards carved from bone?
2.
William Reuben's fight with jaundice is made obvious in this
single-surviving portrait (drawn by a street artist on Rue St. Denis) and
even in this rough oil pastel we can see that he had few days left to rework
the Táin Bó Cúailnge as a performance piece (a dining car crashes through a
supermarket window) accompanied by three minor notes plucked upon a piece of
bailing wire nailed to a knacker's door. It was just as well. The northern
lights unveiled themselves as William drove his taxi into the Montreal
night.
3.
Marty Volkslied sings in his mirth loving way: “Three peremptory cheers for
fine-feathered Feagh and his keeper, Fortunato!”
Fortunato opines to Feagh (between breezy inhalations of laughing gas):
“Never again shall we confide in our bought sons. One shall do one sort of
work while the other does another. The worm fence shall divide them.”
Feagh’s fat face spreads into a crapulous smile.
“Never again,” he crows. “Not ever, no never, never be it so! Not ever
again, de facto! Make the bought boys work the worm fence! Farm out the
fault line! Never again, both in poor and fine weather, never again shall we
speak them whatever!”
“Stick with me,” coos Fortunato. “Stick with me, little Feagh, like a
cockroach to turd.”
“Like a cockroach to turd,” chirps Feagh. “Like a cockroach who listens to
larvae in turd I shall act on your low-spoken, venomous word!”
Darkness lingers within bright sons.
‘Neath the eaves Noel whispers to Bo:
“Go skip-bomb the wordmongering, tinhorned Jack and hear his sad chide chime
in a flashflood of flatulent timpani over the Seven Seas.”
Meanwhile, as Bob lies browning in the noonday sun, Marty Volkslied sings
outside the door:
“Buffo’ floribunda, tabula rasa,
band organ marches and
Washington pie, our
tabourer with calfskin and fife
trolled rosy-colored,
third-hand hymnals rife
with cloying clumps of storm cloud
leavened
through homage to promised wassailer’s
third heaven.
“Three turns of the crank
as he caroled the town,
singing ‘Riddle-me-roundelay, Old Mr. Brown!’”
4.
Two boys--one aged six, the other eight--
contest over woolly mountains
and scorched field
with aerial evocations to Popeye.
Their bed gives final warning of
earthquake
while the youngest pees conspiratorially off
the edge into
darkness,
making a trip to the bathroom (where Dad,
his face a
torn map of blood, alcohol and vomit)
unnecessary.
5.
Inside a back street car wash in New Orleans,
two bayou smithies
hold their war criminal firmly
by his coat sleeves of Scottish tweed--
a cleric pinned down in his own clipper
by the pirate boys Lafitte.
The cleric recalls a scene
from a nature program,
in which a lion devours a fawn.
Beads of red light trickle
over portholes draped in steam.
The cleric removes a breastpin--
a tree-of-life
from the Field of Gold,
asking that his life be spared.
“We’re sorry,” intone his captors
gravely, “but we cannot process your plea
at this time.”
Inside a back street car wash
in New Orleans,
a fawn nibbles on a timid lion.
KINGDOM OF FEZ (RUINS)
1.
Half past four/
Walking out the door/
Gonna sell a diamond
And a '57 Ford.
Oh, money….
2.
That’s daddy striding waving smiling goodbye
into the bicentennial parade
tambourine and baton Pinto wagon papier-mâché float
Budweiser blanket spread out on the hill
and in the persistence of memory/
mid-jump/
I unsnap my parachute
waiting for peace to bleed through
3.
Jumped out of bed in my burning pajamas/
Swam a roaring river and jumped a train/
In six months time I might poke around in Eden/
In six months time I might be dead again
4.
POETRY KILLS
PACKAGED IN A FACILITY THAT PROCESSES EGGS, WALNUTS, AND PEANUTS.
Pain
Tome 5
And Zachery Snowfield
the Incredible Breathing Speed Dancer
who earned twenty six dollars every two weeks
mopping the floor in a portrait studio
took a job in a shipyard in Kittery, Maine.
He signed on to a ship and was returning from Havana
when a storm blew him off the mainstay
and into shark infested waters.
A sharp-eyed deck hand threw him a lifeline.
Zach thanked him with a boot to the head.
"There's a mermaid out there," he growled.
"Name is Vonny Hedlund.
She was writing down her phone number
and everything. Best thing that ever happened to me
and you had to mess it up."
He was reunited with her on a second trip
and they got married in Walled Lake, Michigan
during a Hewett Theater dance marathon contest.
They were team no. 6 3/4.
The sailor groom and his mermaid bride
would go on to win thirty-two contests across the country
until they were banned from nationals
on account of Vonny’s fish tail.
Their wedding cake was ten feet tall,
850 pounds and required 2500 spectators to help eat it.
No further events are recorded until thirty-six years later
when Zach was killed in an electrical fire
at the Transcontinental Toe & Heel Tap factory.
A Harrington rod implant correcting his scoliosis
was retrieved from the ruins
and used to identify his remains.
Vonny was left penniless and took a cleaning job
in a tuna fish cannery near Gate 5 on San Francisco Bay.
Shining Steel Tempered in the Fire
Wrote the only literate bobbin boy from #7 room:
“Dear Mr. Henry Quackenbush, Factory Overseer:
I’m leaving this note to inform you
that the loom fixer, the sample weaver,
the mill right and the finish percher
have gone home.
“We have stripped your bobbins,
cleaned off your looms,
swept your floors,
turned off your boilers
and overhead lights,
padlocked your file drawers and cabinets,
boarded your windows and barred your doors.
“We have spread storage cloths over
your mill housing furniture,
torn the final page
from the company calendar.
“We have blotted our names
from the final census
of the United States.
“We’re boarding a fast train
fueled with mummies from antiquity,
and are heading home to
Quebec, County Clare
and the tribe of Reuben.
“Our attorney, Mr. Moyse,
shall plague you by requesting
an independent audit on your heart.”
Thought the old overseer,
pulling at his stiff collar
while reading this note,
“My last sol has passed through my hands!
May the spent purple dyes from the dye house
pour down
into the mighty river of water of life
and poison their last fish.
I’ll spend my days weaving baskets
while imbibing Rod McKuen
in paperback,
Schlitz beer on ice and Perry Como
singin’ Dirty Old Town with a
western swing,
then have my cracked nut fastened
to the house of Dagon.”
A Canadian/American filmmaker and poet, Nathaniel Rounds has appeared in Scrivener, Pottersfield Portfolio, and presented numerous experimental movies in films fests. He's currently involved in preserving the lost video tapes of poet Milton Acorn.
To Bob--whom everyone knows, or would like to.
(Chapter XII--Of lions habituated to seize deer, and eagles ordered to seize wolves.)
1.
Clouds on the horizon. Six sirens wailed. Mother, in alarm, wept tears of
blood and milk. A bearded thief--baneful and watchful like the guileless
snake--removed his victim's signet ring and took to hiding in the lake.
Did he feast upon the catfish? Were his pockets full of scones? Did he
bring to water's surface gilded leopards carved from bone?
2.
William Reuben's fight with jaundice is made obvious in this
single-surviving portrait (drawn by a street artist on Rue St. Denis) and
even in this rough oil pastel we can see that he had few days left to rework
the Táin Bó Cúailnge as a performance piece (a dining car crashes through a
supermarket window) accompanied by three minor notes plucked upon a piece of
bailing wire nailed to a knacker's door. It was just as well. The northern
lights unveiled themselves as William drove his taxi into the Montreal
night.
3.
Marty Volkslied sings in his mirth loving way: “Three peremptory cheers for
fine-feathered Feagh and his keeper, Fortunato!”
Fortunato opines to Feagh (between breezy inhalations of laughing gas):
“Never again shall we confide in our bought sons. One shall do one sort of
work while the other does another. The worm fence shall divide them.”
Feagh’s fat face spreads into a crapulous smile.
“Never again,” he crows. “Not ever, no never, never be it so! Not ever
again, de facto! Make the bought boys work the worm fence! Farm out the
fault line! Never again, both in poor and fine weather, never again shall we
speak them whatever!”
“Stick with me,” coos Fortunato. “Stick with me, little Feagh, like a
cockroach to turd.”
“Like a cockroach to turd,” chirps Feagh. “Like a cockroach who listens to
larvae in turd I shall act on your low-spoken, venomous word!”
Darkness lingers within bright sons.
‘Neath the eaves Noel whispers to Bo:
“Go skip-bomb the wordmongering, tinhorned Jack and hear his sad chide chime
in a flashflood of flatulent timpani over the Seven Seas.”
Meanwhile, as Bob lies browning in the noonday sun, Marty Volkslied sings
outside the door:
“Buffo’ floribunda, tabula rasa,
band organ marches and
Washington pie, our
tabourer with calfskin and fife
trolled rosy-colored,
third-hand hymnals rife
with cloying clumps of storm cloud
leavened
through homage to promised wassailer’s
third heaven.
“Three turns of the crank
as he caroled the town,
singing ‘Riddle-me-roundelay, Old Mr. Brown!’”
4.
Two boys--one aged six, the other eight--
contest over woolly mountains
and scorched field
with aerial evocations to Popeye.
Their bed gives final warning of
earthquake
while the youngest pees conspiratorially off
the edge into
darkness,
making a trip to the bathroom (where Dad,
his face a
torn map of blood, alcohol and vomit)
unnecessary.
5.
Inside a back street car wash in New Orleans,
two bayou smithies
hold their war criminal firmly
by his coat sleeves of Scottish tweed--
a cleric pinned down in his own clipper
by the pirate boys Lafitte.
The cleric recalls a scene
from a nature program,
in which a lion devours a fawn.
Beads of red light trickle
over portholes draped in steam.
The cleric removes a breastpin--
a tree-of-life
from the Field of Gold,
asking that his life be spared.
“We’re sorry,” intone his captors
gravely, “but we cannot process your plea
at this time.”
Inside a back street car wash
in New Orleans,
a fawn nibbles on a timid lion.
KINGDOM OF FEZ (RUINS)
1.
Half past four/
Walking out the door/
Gonna sell a diamond
And a '57 Ford.
Oh, money….
2.
That’s daddy striding waving smiling goodbye
into the bicentennial parade
tambourine and baton Pinto wagon papier-mâché float
Budweiser blanket spread out on the hill
and in the persistence of memory/
mid-jump/
I unsnap my parachute
waiting for peace to bleed through
3.
Jumped out of bed in my burning pajamas/
Swam a roaring river and jumped a train/
In six months time I might poke around in Eden/
In six months time I might be dead again
4.
POETRY KILLS
PACKAGED IN A FACILITY THAT PROCESSES EGGS, WALNUTS, AND PEANUTS.
Pain
Tome 5
And Zachery Snowfield
the Incredible Breathing Speed Dancer
who earned twenty six dollars every two weeks
mopping the floor in a portrait studio
took a job in a shipyard in Kittery, Maine.
He signed on to a ship and was returning from Havana
when a storm blew him off the mainstay
and into shark infested waters.
A sharp-eyed deck hand threw him a lifeline.
Zach thanked him with a boot to the head.
"There's a mermaid out there," he growled.
"Name is Vonny Hedlund.
She was writing down her phone number
and everything. Best thing that ever happened to me
and you had to mess it up."
He was reunited with her on a second trip
and they got married in Walled Lake, Michigan
during a Hewett Theater dance marathon contest.
They were team no. 6 3/4.
The sailor groom and his mermaid bride
would go on to win thirty-two contests across the country
until they were banned from nationals
on account of Vonny’s fish tail.
Their wedding cake was ten feet tall,
850 pounds and required 2500 spectators to help eat it.
No further events are recorded until thirty-six years later
when Zach was killed in an electrical fire
at the Transcontinental Toe & Heel Tap factory.
A Harrington rod implant correcting his scoliosis
was retrieved from the ruins
and used to identify his remains.
Vonny was left penniless and took a cleaning job
in a tuna fish cannery near Gate 5 on San Francisco Bay.
Shining Steel Tempered in the Fire
Wrote the only literate bobbin boy from #7 room:
“Dear Mr. Henry Quackenbush, Factory Overseer:
I’m leaving this note to inform you
that the loom fixer, the sample weaver,
the mill right and the finish percher
have gone home.
“We have stripped your bobbins,
cleaned off your looms,
swept your floors,
turned off your boilers
and overhead lights,
padlocked your file drawers and cabinets,
boarded your windows and barred your doors.
“We have spread storage cloths over
your mill housing furniture,
torn the final page
from the company calendar.
“We have blotted our names
from the final census
of the United States.
“We’re boarding a fast train
fueled with mummies from antiquity,
and are heading home to
Quebec, County Clare
and the tribe of Reuben.
“Our attorney, Mr. Moyse,
shall plague you by requesting
an independent audit on your heart.”
Thought the old overseer,
pulling at his stiff collar
while reading this note,
“My last sol has passed through my hands!
May the spent purple dyes from the dye house
pour down
into the mighty river of water of life
and poison their last fish.
I’ll spend my days weaving baskets
while imbibing Rod McKuen
in paperback,
Schlitz beer on ice and Perry Como
singin’ Dirty Old Town with a
western swing,
then have my cracked nut fastened
to the house of Dagon.”
A Canadian/American filmmaker and poet, Nathaniel Rounds has appeared in Scrivener, Pottersfield Portfolio, and presented numerous experimental movies in films fests. He's currently involved in preserving the lost video tapes of poet Milton Acorn.
domingo, febrero 18, 2007
Three Poems by Li Po (李白) in New English Translations
Inscribed At Summit Temple
Night, I stay at Summit Temple
I lift my hand and touch the stars
I dare not raise my voice
For fear of disturbing the occupants of heaven
題峰頂寺
夜宿峰頂寺
舉手捫星辰
不敢高聲語
恐驚天上人
Before Wine
Wine
In gold cups
A beauty from Wu, 15, on a dwarf horse
Her lashes painted indigo, her boots of red brocade
She stumbles on the words, but sings coquettishly
At the banquet, drunk, she presses against me --
"Behind the curtain of nenuphar, I could never resist you"
對酒
葡萄酒
金叵羅
吳姬十五細馬馱
青黛畫眉紅錦靴
道字不正嬌唱歌
玳瑁筵中盃中醉
芙蓉帳裏奈君何
Autumn, Leaving Qingmen
Frost falls on Qingmen, into the river trees empty themselves
Plain cloth sails in autumn wind
Fine sliced perch not journey's end
For my love of famous mountains I go to the land of Shan
秋下荊門
霜落型門江樹空
布帆無恙掛秋風
此行不為鱸魚膾
自愛名山入剡中
Translated by Andrew Haley
Li Po (李白) the Banished Immortal, celebrated Tang Dynasty poet, was born in 701 in present day Kyrgyzstan to Chinese exiles. He achieved great acclaim before his death, despite a life of itinerant wandering. One of the Eight Immortals of Wine, he was a legendary drinker and is said to have drowned drunk in the Yangtze trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He was returning to his childhood home in Sichuan Province after a thirty-five year absence. He was 61.
Night, I stay at Summit Temple
I lift my hand and touch the stars
I dare not raise my voice
For fear of disturbing the occupants of heaven
題峰頂寺
夜宿峰頂寺
舉手捫星辰
不敢高聲語
恐驚天上人
Before Wine
Wine
In gold cups
A beauty from Wu, 15, on a dwarf horse
Her lashes painted indigo, her boots of red brocade
She stumbles on the words, but sings coquettishly
At the banquet, drunk, she presses against me --
"Behind the curtain of nenuphar, I could never resist you"
對酒
葡萄酒
金叵羅
吳姬十五細馬馱
青黛畫眉紅錦靴
道字不正嬌唱歌
玳瑁筵中盃中醉
芙蓉帳裏奈君何
Autumn, Leaving Qingmen
Frost falls on Qingmen, into the river trees empty themselves
Plain cloth sails in autumn wind
Fine sliced perch not journey's end
For my love of famous mountains I go to the land of Shan
秋下荊門
霜落型門江樹空
布帆無恙掛秋風
此行不為鱸魚膾
自愛名山入剡中
Translated by Andrew Haley
Li Po (李白) the Banished Immortal, celebrated Tang Dynasty poet, was born in 701 in present day Kyrgyzstan to Chinese exiles. He achieved great acclaim before his death, despite a life of itinerant wandering. One of the Eight Immortals of Wine, he was a legendary drinker and is said to have drowned drunk in the Yangtze trying to embrace the reflection of the moon. He was returning to his childhood home in Sichuan Province after a thirty-five year absence. He was 61.
viernes, febrero 16, 2007
Four Poems From David McLean
the bolts (after Hölderlin)
if i could also stand there
like him under god’s grayest thunder-heaven
not only bare-headed but totally naked
as a child born to die again, after
life’s brief morning of pain, and if i
could catch with my bare fingers
the rays and bolts themselves, naked too,
i would indeed wrap them lovingly in song
as he wanted, but not to give the people
as god’s forwarded love,
but humble to lay them under your feet,
for only from your earth
grows my heart’s tree truly green.
Psalm (after Trakl)
god's golden eyes opened so slowly in our skulls
and all the madmen are dead in our lost paradise
where the son's of Pan do not labour
except through the laborious twitching love of panic
that swoops black onto the shoulders
of your suffering, faithful as a dog
and homeless as every resounding sound of glasgow.
and we work together to bury the stranger
with the gaunt giant she chose to lay so close beside her,
and here the old asylum grows ever bleaker
remnants of humanity scarred and scored
by the fishwives of psychiatry
inscribing another's sad stumbling nothing on loving yellow,
the raiment of sudden pain fraying away her hemmed days.
as it were our childhood again
every church gapes ever open
this drugged sunday school that taught a generation
my thousand dead secrets
and love still just dust-balls behind god's fridge
where your truth has found me
still dreaming fragile beauty
and inscribing legends for your blind girl's eyes,
for i am the student who stood behind you on the staircase,
the expressive wrinkles on the night's lonely face
a change of time, a change of place
born a man
(i) was never born a man (i) was born a baby
the man came later with the brackets and the loneliness
and now (i) lives in a gym -
an (i) is always homeless
remembering dismembering
tattered fragments flown as proud as the bravest banners
in self-dismissive missives, our pauper's remittance
where we are all desolate stuffed men, miserly in our misery,
our remembered carapaces leaning together hollow as time,
hollow as the idiot ticking seconds of love's tacky alarm-clock
like a million cockroaches chuckling their way to death's pay day
when the glowing soil shall be rewarded for the roots we grubbed
with our decay's dark love.
another lover's lonely "Aubade" tolls the knell of whining this decaying day
as god's convenient rot subvenes on the only eternal,
that cold diurnal round of complacent complaint
waiting the iterative disdain of another generation of impatient patients
dreaming charity, the distant fingers falling mourning on life's alien shore,
(this girl still, this planet)
and only time travel is in our bloods, the hour's tortoise hosting
shelly courage, each painful pace our path's patent disgrace;
and we prop up our meanings on piles of lies, sifted through the maternal filters
thick as sedge, those viennese wafers of vision he gives us still,
the child's blind eye unseeing everything, the little pitcher's pictures
stamped on our grafted skeins of dying where the cordial seeps
freely through the baby's, always already ageing, withered veins,
and our life is a runaway carriage and some It seems to hold the reins.
It gives, Being gives, and we are never there to witness
and give what we should give, only our testimony, solely truthfully
but still your wisdom grows like dusty wine in some Israel's best vineyard
where words ferment their lament through years instilled suffering
listed in your every word, the ones i whisper at night silent by your side
our lives on pause, unseen, unheard,
and we deem a meaning therein, that foreign soil we suppose
our bodies may, some latter day, having died, laying, lie in,
a time for death in love's black and luscious loam, a time for final truth
for reason's unbelieving eschatology, for only Death says sooth.
and Death shall open his great black book that records the sad and final things,
for Everyman rides forth his thirsty day as life's only known knight at arms
and lives a love alone and palely loitering, for at death's door we loiter all
here in this winsome world where the sedge is still withered on the lake,
still withered drier on love's empty lake, and no birds are heard to sing.
David McLean was born in Wales in 1960. He attended Balliol College in Oxford where he took a BA in history in 1982. After working for a lawyer's firm in Brixton, south London, he moved to Sweden in 1987, having become father to a daughter with a Swedish woman. Leaving her in 1990, he remained in Sweden until the present. He worked for many years in health care with older people, the senile, and cancer patients. After this McLean studied philosophy and history of ideas at Stockholm University, taking an MA in 1999 with practical philosophy (ethics) as major. Phenomenology and existentialism are primary interests in that field. At present he lives with his partner Amanda Boschetto who is half-Italian, though she writes poems in Swedish and sometimes English. They have no children but many kittens. Both suffer from the personality disorder known as borderline, although McLean no longer shows any symptoms.
if i could also stand there
like him under god’s grayest thunder-heaven
not only bare-headed but totally naked
as a child born to die again, after
life’s brief morning of pain, and if i
could catch with my bare fingers
the rays and bolts themselves, naked too,
i would indeed wrap them lovingly in song
as he wanted, but not to give the people
as god’s forwarded love,
but humble to lay them under your feet,
for only from your earth
grows my heart’s tree truly green.
Psalm (after Trakl)
god's golden eyes opened so slowly in our skulls
and all the madmen are dead in our lost paradise
where the son's of Pan do not labour
except through the laborious twitching love of panic
that swoops black onto the shoulders
of your suffering, faithful as a dog
and homeless as every resounding sound of glasgow.
and we work together to bury the stranger
with the gaunt giant she chose to lay so close beside her,
and here the old asylum grows ever bleaker
remnants of humanity scarred and scored
by the fishwives of psychiatry
inscribing another's sad stumbling nothing on loving yellow,
the raiment of sudden pain fraying away her hemmed days.
as it were our childhood again
every church gapes ever open
this drugged sunday school that taught a generation
my thousand dead secrets
and love still just dust-balls behind god's fridge
where your truth has found me
still dreaming fragile beauty
and inscribing legends for your blind girl's eyes,
for i am the student who stood behind you on the staircase,
the expressive wrinkles on the night's lonely face
a change of time, a change of place
born a man
(i) was never born a man (i) was born a baby
the man came later with the brackets and the loneliness
and now (i) lives in a gym -
an (i) is always homeless
remembering dismembering
tattered fragments flown as proud as the bravest banners
in self-dismissive missives, our pauper's remittance
where we are all desolate stuffed men, miserly in our misery,
our remembered carapaces leaning together hollow as time,
hollow as the idiot ticking seconds of love's tacky alarm-clock
like a million cockroaches chuckling their way to death's pay day
when the glowing soil shall be rewarded for the roots we grubbed
with our decay's dark love.
another lover's lonely "Aubade" tolls the knell of whining this decaying day
as god's convenient rot subvenes on the only eternal,
that cold diurnal round of complacent complaint
waiting the iterative disdain of another generation of impatient patients
dreaming charity, the distant fingers falling mourning on life's alien shore,
(this girl still, this planet)
and only time travel is in our bloods, the hour's tortoise hosting
shelly courage, each painful pace our path's patent disgrace;
and we prop up our meanings on piles of lies, sifted through the maternal filters
thick as sedge, those viennese wafers of vision he gives us still,
the child's blind eye unseeing everything, the little pitcher's pictures
stamped on our grafted skeins of dying where the cordial seeps
freely through the baby's, always already ageing, withered veins,
and our life is a runaway carriage and some It seems to hold the reins.
It gives, Being gives, and we are never there to witness
and give what we should give, only our testimony, solely truthfully
but still your wisdom grows like dusty wine in some Israel's best vineyard
where words ferment their lament through years instilled suffering
listed in your every word, the ones i whisper at night silent by your side
our lives on pause, unseen, unheard,
and we deem a meaning therein, that foreign soil we suppose
our bodies may, some latter day, having died, laying, lie in,
a time for death in love's black and luscious loam, a time for final truth
for reason's unbelieving eschatology, for only Death says sooth.
and Death shall open his great black book that records the sad and final things,
for Everyman rides forth his thirsty day as life's only known knight at arms
and lives a love alone and palely loitering, for at death's door we loiter all
here in this winsome world where the sedge is still withered on the lake,
still withered drier on love's empty lake, and no birds are heard to sing.
David McLean was born in Wales in 1960. He attended Balliol College in Oxford where he took a BA in history in 1982. After working for a lawyer's firm in Brixton, south London, he moved to Sweden in 1987, having become father to a daughter with a Swedish woman. Leaving her in 1990, he remained in Sweden until the present. He worked for many years in health care with older people, the senile, and cancer patients. After this McLean studied philosophy and history of ideas at Stockholm University, taking an MA in 1999 with practical philosophy (ethics) as major. Phenomenology and existentialism are primary interests in that field. At present he lives with his partner Amanda Boschetto who is half-Italian, though she writes poems in Swedish and sometimes English. They have no children but many kittens. Both suffer from the personality disorder known as borderline, although McLean no longer shows any symptoms.
miércoles, febrero 14, 2007
Four Graphomuñecos From Vadim Bystritski
te encontré en el parque de noche
donde del mármol te erguiste
pisoteé tus flores
y tiré piedras
que a veces
tu rostro eludió
a-a-a patadas
quebré un banco
y con un madero
de nuevo te combatí
mezclando insultos
a la lista de asesinados
sequé a sorbos todo el agua
de tu fuente
me oriné a tus pies
me abondané a otras decadencias
hasta despertar los pájaros
después te acerqué
para cerciorarme
si había vida
entre tus párpados
enrojecidos
…
abracé a mis padres y vecinos
al contar este cuento
del largo viaje
de los niños de Hamelín
como embrujado
seguía el gaitero
a aquellos lejanos lugares
hasta que acalló
su intrumento musical
aún sin poder tornar
para huir
sino
mirar
por
horas
en esta dirección
y cuando aprendí
a andar así
y
cómo podría atravesar
la misma distancia al revés
y así llevé
una mala noticia
que otros niños
no volverán
…
quiero ser un huérfano
o un eneano
con todo mi caudal
apretado en un gran bolso
dondequiera andar
capaz
de vez en cuando
de en él huir
…
yo que sé
por qué la luna
no tiene nada más que hacer
que esparcir su luz
sobre una pierna solitaria
que no sabe más
que dar un paso
y otro
Born in 1966 in Kazakhstan, Vadim grew up in Azerbaijan and was educated in Russia (Saratov State University, Philology of Romance and Germanic Languages). Since 1989 he has resided in Los Angeles, California where he attended Pasadena City College and Cal Poly (Pomona). It was at Cal Poly that Bystritski wrote his manuscript Graphomuñecos. The poems appearing here are some of the few surviving poems from that book. In those days Vadim understood graphomania as an aesthetic notion opposed to that of voice: graphomaniacs write not with another voice, but in another language. It is a new language that is responsible for changes in writing style.
donde del mármol te erguiste
pisoteé tus flores
y tiré piedras
que a veces
tu rostro eludió
a-a-a patadas
quebré un banco
y con un madero
de nuevo te combatí
mezclando insultos
a la lista de asesinados
sequé a sorbos todo el agua
de tu fuente
me oriné a tus pies
me abondané a otras decadencias
hasta despertar los pájaros
después te acerqué
para cerciorarme
si había vida
entre tus párpados
enrojecidos
…
abracé a mis padres y vecinos
al contar este cuento
del largo viaje
de los niños de Hamelín
como embrujado
seguía el gaitero
a aquellos lejanos lugares
hasta que acalló
su intrumento musical
aún sin poder tornar
para huir
sino
mirar
por
horas
en esta dirección
y cuando aprendí
a andar así
y
cómo podría atravesar
la misma distancia al revés
y así llevé
una mala noticia
que otros niños
no volverán
…
quiero ser un huérfano
o un eneano
con todo mi caudal
apretado en un gran bolso
dondequiera andar
capaz
de vez en cuando
de en él huir
…
yo que sé
por qué la luna
no tiene nada más que hacer
que esparcir su luz
sobre una pierna solitaria
que no sabe más
que dar un paso
y otro
Born in 1966 in Kazakhstan, Vadim grew up in Azerbaijan and was educated in Russia (Saratov State University, Philology of Romance and Germanic Languages). Since 1989 he has resided in Los Angeles, California where he attended Pasadena City College and Cal Poly (Pomona). It was at Cal Poly that Bystritski wrote his manuscript Graphomuñecos. The poems appearing here are some of the few surviving poems from that book. In those days Vadim understood graphomania as an aesthetic notion opposed to that of voice: graphomaniacs write not with another voice, but in another language. It is a new language that is responsible for changes in writing style.
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