Vito Apushana

BREAST HILL

The family cemetery is now one day away on foot.

We have all gathered at the base of the Epitsü hill.

We carry our light belongings:
coffee and corn
laughter and sobs . . .
prepare their forces.

The presence of man — the Jaguar remains among the women —

The younger brothers play the music:
some play the horn
others the seed whistle.

We pass silently by a nest of Ko`oi wasps,

we rest on the bank of a dry stream,
where children invent a bath in its sand
and play at the rabbit jump.

We resume our walking covered
by the burnt red of the sun.

Patsuuatushi, the great uncle, listens to the oldest of the owls
and shows us the refuge where we will live the night.

Wislawa Symborska (1923-2012)

A Few Words On The Soul

We have a soul at times.
No one's got it non-stop,
for keeps.

Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.

Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood's fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.

Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.

It's picky:
it doesn't like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.

Joy and sorrow
aren't two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.

We can count on it
when we're sure of nothing
and curious about everything.

Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.

It won't say where it comes from
or when it's taking off again,
though it's clearly expecting such questions.

We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.




Wislawa Szymborska

Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)

In my room lives a beautiful
Slow black snake;
It is like me, just as lazy,
Just as cold.

In the evening I compose marvelous tales
On the rug by the fire's red glow,
And with emerald eyes
It gazes at me indifferently.

At night the dead, mute icons hear
Resisting moans...
It's true, I would desire another
Were it not for the serpent eyes.

But in the morning, submissive once more, I
Melt, like a slender candle...
And then from my bare shoulder
A black ribbon slides.

1910 [uncollected]

—Translated from the Russian by Judith Hemschemeyer

Arapaho (anonymous - 19th cent.)

Arapaho Ghost Dance Songs
by Arapaho (Anonymous)
(19th Century) Timeline


Primal/Tribal/Shamanic : American Indian

19th Century



I
How bright the moonlight
how bright the moonlight
as I ride in with my load of buffalo meat.

II
My father did not recognize me.
Next time he saw me he said,
You are the child of a crow.

III
I am looking at my father
I am looking at him
he is beginning to turn into a bird
turning into a bird

IV
They say
the spirit army is approaching,
the spirit army is approaching,
the whole world is moving onward,
the whole world is moving onward.
See, everybody is standing, watching.
Everybody is standing, watching.

V
The whole world is coming,
a nation is coming, a nation is coming.
The Eagle has brought the message to the people.
The father says so, the father says so.
Over the whole earth they are coming.
The buffalo are coming, the buffalo are coming.
The Crow has brought the message to the people,
the father says so, the father says so.

VI
My children, my children,
it is I who wear the morning star on my brow,
it is I who wear the morning star on my brow.
I show it to my children,
I show it to my children.

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

16-bit Intel 8088 chip


with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.

Charles Bukowski

Adrienne Rich (1929-2012)

Wait
By Adrienne Rich
.
In paradise every
the desert wind is rising
third thought
in hell there are no thoughts
is of earth
sand screams against your government
issued tent hell’s noise
in your nostrils crawl
into your ear-shell
wrap yourself in no-thought
wait no place for the little lyric
wedding-ring glint the reason why
on earth
they never told you

Aung Cheimt (Myanmar)

Aung Cheimt Goes to the Cinema

I hear
The ballad
Inside the flower.

Heroes are those who dare cling
To life’s ennui.
I’ve picked up a toy from inside a book.

“Only edible crops should grow
On arable lands
On the earth,” they say.

In the garden
A corpse dissolves,
Still munching
A pack of salted peanuts.

People wear designer shirts timidly.
“SENSE?”
But does he himself have any sense?

A human
On a trishaw.
A human
In a rocket to the moon.
“To paint bovine portraiture
It’s necessary to live an animal life,”
Van Gogh says.

A cup of drinking water
I was privileged with.
How horrifying
“This happened . . .”

“This happened . . .”
5th January, Monday
(Sweet child)
I’ve been through a hundred trials.
Just like that in the life of impermanence
Devils of human existence
Passed by and paused
Glorifying my integrity.

On a rooftop
Under the moon
My soul sits like an aristocrat
While my body rests
In a dimly lit corner.