Sunday, October 31, 2010

Margret Atwood

The Rest
The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no language; or we know
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
but for her it is running in black smoke.
The cluster of cells in her swelling
like porridge boiling, and bursting,
like grapes, we think. Or we think of
explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
All around us the trees
and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
so green and at this time
of the year healthy.
We would like to call something
out to her. Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Miquel Hernandes

‘You Are Dying Of Purity and Simplicity:’
(XI: From ‘El Rayo Que No Cesa’)

You are dying of purity and simplicity:
I am guilty, love, I’m confessing
that I, intrepid snatcher of kisses,
I sipped at the flower of your cheek.
I sipped at the flower of your cheek,
and since that glory, that event,
your cheek, so careful and serious,
droops, despoiled and sallow.

The ghost of that delinquent kiss
haunts your persecuted cheekbone,
always more obvious, dark and immense.
And you are sleepless, zealously
watching my mouth, with such care,
so nothing corrupts or outrages!

Friday, October 29, 2010

Lêdo Ivo

What an incomplete silence among so many sounds!
Now, and only now, they are trying to tell us
that they loved and they forgot, and always remained far
from any final truth. Love is an unredeemable
debt contracted in the dark
and only death can free the debtors from default.

Everything will reach its end in an ocean of shadows.
The dead also cease, after so many tears,
and masses sung and notices in the daily newspapers.
We are born to evaporate, after having been
water lapping at the boatyard launching ramp.
We are born to say our name to the wind.

Our bodies crawled to the entrance of the cave.
But where were our souls at that moment
of ecstasy and bondage? They were hidden
like bats, sleeping, as placid as placentas.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Amy Lowell

by Amy Lowell

How is it that, being gone, you fill my days,
And all the long nights are made glad by thee?
No loneliness is this, nor misery,
But great content that these should be the ways
Whereby the Fancy, dreaming as she strays,
Makes bright and present what she would would be.
And who shall say if the reality
Is not with dreams so pregnant. For delays
And hindrances may bar the wished-for end;
A thousand misconceptions may prevent
Our souls from coming near enough to blend;
Let me but think we have the same intent,
That each one needs to call the other, "friend!"
It may be vain illusion. I'm content.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Tomas Transtromer

Tomas Tranströmer
At times my life suddenly opens its eyes in the dark.
A feeling of masses of people pushing blindly
through the streets, excitedly, toward some miracle,
while I remain here and no one sees me.

It is like the child who falls asleep in terror
listening to the heavy thumps of his heart.
For a long, long time till morning puts his light in the locks
and the doors of darkness open.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Zou Jingzhi


The wheat reaper
has ground his sickle
His wine is also ripe
like the sickle

The wheat is waiting
to fall
like friends far away
coming over
to fall into your arms

He hears
the sound of wheat meeting the sickle
He is that sickle
as well as the wheat

If there were no winter
the reaper would have given up the harvest
Wine agrees
when it cuts his throat

Monday, October 25, 2010

Edna St. Vincent Millay

by Edna St. Vincent Millay


I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.


I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!

Sunday, October 24, 2010

William Blake

Reader! of books! of heaven,
And of that God from whom
Who in mysterious Sinais awful cave,
To Man the Wond'rous art of writing gave,
Again he speaks in thunder and in fire!
Thunder of Thought, & flames of fierce desire:
Even from the depths of Hell his voice I hear,
Within the unfathomd caverns of my Ear.
Therefore I print; nor vain my types shall be:
Heaven, Earth & Hell, henceforth shall live in harmony

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Lone Star Lady


Like a spider they await
For the trusting and unsuspecting prey.
To light upon their web
To twist and deceive you
Until you believe what has been said
To be truth, love and kindness.

Words of evil and trustless faith
Has warped this world of it's gentleness
And stripped the life from it.
The very being of it's soul
Has been buried beneath
The cries of pain of centuries old

For they all watch and sit and wait
To see how much further we shall go
How much more destruction is left.
Sadly, we are being waited on
by eyes much wiser and knowing
Than yours or mine
Just to see what we will do
In our Circle of Time.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Ernesto Trejo

2 a.m.
Under the covers, the winds of sleep
rock the poppies of your breasts
We close our eyes to this life
and open them to the other Next to the eager
ness of the fly, the wrath
of a flock of sparrows
and the saintliness of the horse
you fall off the precipice of the day's bridge
The teeth of winter
also sleep for a while
Under the bed, my shoes too rest
their burning eyes
At 2 A. M. God comes out to stretch his legs
and lights the cigarette of a whore
that struts in front of the drugstore
The plank of solitude
that spawns fraternities
—snake and hare, owl and mouse—
is dispelled when I exist in your dream
alongside with whom I was and will be
The night is a knife of diving dust
You arch a shoulder and office buildings collapse
when your knees point skyward
there's thunder in a desert
If you were to open your eyes now
you could mangle a continent

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Eunice Odio

Heart with Park and Children

Àngeles de cuatro sílabas
llevaban tu corazón;

en el parque lo dejaron,
suma de arribo,

contracielo del estanque,
agua que nunca llegó.

Ahora, cuando los niños
dibujan con tiza el mundo,

y llueven sobre la gente
campanadas de crepúsculo,

tu corazón, a la sombra,
consulta los silabarios,

lleno de pecho y de humo.
.Heart With Park and Children
Angels of four syllables
were carrying your heart;

they left it in the park—
the sum of arrival,
a tremor,

a reflection of sky in the pond,
water that never arrived.

Now, when children
draw the world with chalk,

and bells of twilight rain
over the people,

your heart, in the shadow,
consults the syllabaries

full of spirit and smoke.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Marge Tindal

I Am Cherokee
~Marge Tindal~ ©1999

The blood that courses through my veins
Runs true to the Cherokee.
I am the blood of my people.
I am Cherokee.

The trail that my forefathers walked,
Saturated in their tears,
The trail has become my trial
I listen with their ears.

I heard the wailing of the Cherokee
Proud of the salty tears,
I cry the tears of the Cherokee
Even after all these years.

I walk the trail that they cried,
I hear their voices frail,
I bear the blood of the Cherokee.
Damn this worthless trail.

'Trail Of Tears' of the Cherokee,
Long remembered in shame.
I cry out for the Cherokee.
I wear the Cherokee name.

Hear me loud and hear me clear,
No head hung in sorrow...
For I am the proud Cherokee
Waiting for tomorrow.

I will regain what my forefathers lost.
I will stand and show my pride.
And all the spirits of the lost Cherokee
Will be standing at my side.

I am the proud Cherokee.
You'd do well to remember my name.
In the name of all Cherokee
My rights I do reclaim.
<~~~~~~~~> I am Cherokee
<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> I am Cherokee
<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> I amCherokee

Monday, October 18, 2010

Sylvia Plath

April Aubade
Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.

A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals
to waken dreamers in the milky dawn,
while tulips bow like a college of cardinals
before that papal paragon, the sun.

Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars,
where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass
and jonquils sprout like solomon's metaphors,
my love and I go garlanded with grass.

Again we are deluded and infer
that somehow we are younger than we were.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Alfonsina Storni


I never thought that God had any form.
Absoute the life; and absolute the norm.
Never eyes: God sees with the stars.
Never hands: God touches with the seas.
Never tongue: God speaks with sparkles.
I will tell you, don't be startled;
I know that God has parasites: things and men.

Friday, October 15, 2010

Paul Bogaert

It’s the jerky wheeze from the one who pants
makes him/her pant like that. The lower lip
curls to what a cerebral lobe
full of echoes in captivity dictates.
One pants, pauses and pants
in a causal connection. Nobody at all
is bothered by it while the panting lasts.
Later animals appear:
the scaredy-cat in the big wheel,
the fairground pony that relives everything at night.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Lyrics By: Robert Hunter

Songs » N
New Speedway Boogie
Lyrics By: Robert Hunter
Music By: Jerry Garcia
Please don't dominate the rap, Jack
If you got nothing new to say
If you please, don't back up the track
This train's got to run today

I spent a little time in the mountain
Spent a little time on the hill
I heard some say "better run away"
Others say "better stand still"

Now I don't know but I've been told
It's hard to run with the weight of gold
Other hand I heard it said
It's just as hard with the weight of lead

Who can deny? Who can deny?
It's not just a change in style
One step done and another begun
In I wonder how many miles?

I spent a little time on the mountain
Spent a little time on the hill
Things went down we don't understand
But I think in time we will

Now I don't know but I was told
In the heat of the sun a man died of cold
Do we keep on coming or stand and wait
With the sun so dark and the hour so late?

You can't overlook the lack Jack
Of any other highway to ride
It's got no signs or dividing lines
And very few rules to guide

I spent a little time on the mountain
Spent a little time on the hill
I saw things getting out of hand
I guess they always will

Now, I don't know but I've been told
If the horse don't pull, you got to carry the load
I don't know whose back's that strong
Maybe find out before too long

One way or another
One way or another
One way or another
This darkness got to give

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Robert Bly

A Month of Happiness

A blind horse stands among cherry trees.

And bones shine from cool earth.

The heart leaps

Almost up to the sky! But laments

And filaments pull us back into the dark.

Night takes us. But

A paw

Comes out of the dark

To light the road. I’ll be all right.

I follow my own fiery traces through the night.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Alexandr Blok

Do Not Entrust..."
Do not entrust all roads yours
To the unfaithful, immense crowd:
It’ll smash your castle with rough force,
And quench light of your temple, proud.

He’s single to bear his hard cross
Whose spirit is unmoved in rightness,
His fire on high hills he burns,
And breaks a curtain of the darkness.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

William Blake

William Blake Index


Love's Secret
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Laura Lush

In the Puszcza
Laura Lush
From: Hometown. Vehicule Press (Signal Editions), 1991.

In the secret forest mushrooms glow
in velvet stupors. Under moss,
skulls whiten like well-kept streetlamps,
empty conchs were you to hold them to your ears.
Yet the deer, the lynx, and boar live on freely,
nudging at still-uncovered helmets.
The night's shiny as a cut.
And sometimes they find them, face down—
skeletons with the dainty bracelets
of barbed wire round their angel-thin bones.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Miguel Hernández:

Because Of Your Feet, Where Your Beauty Ends’
(VIII: From ‘El Rayo Que No Cesa’)

Because of your feet, where your beauty ends
in ten fragments of whiteness, more a dance,

a dove ascends to your waist,

an unending balm falls to earth.

Along with your feet goes the wonder

of nacre, in a ridiculous narrowness,

and where your feet go whiteness goes,

a dog sowing anklets of jasmine.

At your feet, as much foam as shore,

sand and sea reach me, and ebb from me,

and I try to enter the sheepfold of your sole.

I enter and let myself pass to your soul itself,

with the loving voice of the grapes:

trample my heart, now it’s ripe.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Gladys Carmagnola


This ancient domestic ritual
of covering the bread well,
of seeing there is a tablecloth for the table
and that it doesn't lack salt,
my hands in such assiduous escape
without wanting nor thinking
it's already almost an irremediable defect
that I can't succeed in curing.
In the same way, I carry in my syllables
that someone sometime will write,
here, in my lukewarm fingertips
quick to caress
or to extend in a resounding slap in the face
that I can't manage to restrain.

In whatever manner, one lives jailed
who doesn't wish to escape.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Miguel de Unamuno

The Snowfall Is So Silent
by Miguel de Unamuno
translated by Robert Bly

The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless;
snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls,
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere escapes it.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off
as rain does,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
they bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Alfonsina Storni

Sleep Peacefully

You said the word that enamours
My hearing. You already forgot. Good.
Sleep peacefully. Your face should
Be serene and beautiful at all hours.

When the seductive mouth enchants
It should be fresh, your speech pleasant;
For your office as lover it's not good
That many tears come from your face.

More glorious destinies reclaim you
That were brought, between the black wells
Of the dark circles beneath your eyes,
the seer in pain.

The bottom, summit of the beautiful victims!
The foolish spade of some barbarous king
Did more harm to the world and your statue.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

San Juan de la Cruz

Song of the Soul in Intimate Communication of Union with God’s Love

O flame of living love,
that at its deepest centre

wounds now my soul with tenderness!

Since you no more remove,

end then, if you intend to;

tear now the veil of mutual sweetness!

O cautery so sweet!

O wound’s caress!

O soothing hand! O delicate the touching,

that signals life complete,

pays every debt,

changes death to life in its ending!

O fiery light,

in whose resplendencies

deep caves of purest feeling,

that once were eyeless night,

with rarest beauties

shed warmth and light on the loving.

How lovingly, how gently

you return now to my breast

where you live all secret and alone

and filled with virtue’s glory

how your sweetest breath

delicately pierces to the bone!

Friday, October 1, 2010

Anne Michaels

Women on a Beach
Anne Michaels
From: The Weight of Oranges / Miner's Pond. McClelland & Stewart, 1997. p.30
Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

Light chooses white sails, the bellies of gulls.

Far away in a boat, someone wears a red shirt,
a tiny stab in the pale sky.

Your three bodies form a curving shoreline,
pink and brown sweaters, bare legs.

The beach glows grainy under the sun's copper pressure,
air the colour of tangerines.
One of you is sleeping, the wind's finger
on your cheek like a tendril of hair.

Night exhales its long held breath.
Stars puncture through.

At dusk you are a small soft heap, a kind of moss.
In the moonlight, a boulder of women.