Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Anne Boyer – from The Undertaker

Sometimes it is easy to wake up any morning and write “books are the detritus of modernity’s tragic industry” than it is to remember that apart from any book and earlier than any fake-inevitability and later than any fake-inevitability too there is refusal and dialectic and possibility and every living, circulating, necessary poem. – Anne Boyer

The Poetry Project Fall 2017 SCROLL DOWN


ŽEMĖS UŽŽAVĖJIMAI. PER JAUNATĮ – the enchantments of earth. new moon by Jurgita Jasponytė




As if one is invited,

one is called

as if the vectors of windows

point north

and the thoughts of the earth awaken

so that you know

what actions to take.


A thread freezes and breaks in the cold –

The stalk of a nascent moon.




I am tired

of holding my tongue,

everything must be said,


while the seed is sown –


magic words

enchant the earth

and you can’t

prevent life

as your palms enclose roots

lifting everything



until I am cleansed by my own abnegation

until fear-filled eyes put me to the test.




Protect us from the rain

that promises more

than we need,

give us enough mouths

if you set the harvest upon us

through the fields


I know you are my mother,

that my legs are stuck in you

for ages,

and to break away

promises only

another turning towards you


I know that we love you

not just for

your ear for our prayers,

your gift of the harvest,

but how you don’t hesitate to feed

the mouth that disrespects you,

that fails to understand

the what and from where

of life –


your unconditionality

is the most perfect form of truth.


Let there be heaven for us

through rain.




In the cold, thread freezes and breaks –

the cord connecting the earth

with the pink moon of morning –

a shield

protecting us –


born naked

every evening.


Translated by Rimas Užgiris





Kaip kas kviestų

kas šauktų

kaip šiaurėn

būtų nutiestos pradalgių kryptys

būtų žemės mintis pažadinta ir žinotum

kokius veiksmus



Šalty stingsta ir lūžta siūlas –

virkščia įgemančio mėnesio.





Pavargau ištylėt


reikia greitai

kol beriama sėkla



žemė tampa tada užžavėta

ir neleist gyvasties


ir apglėbia delnais šaknis

ima viską paviršiun kelti


kol mane valo savęs atsisakymas

kol baimės akys mane išbando.







Ir apsaugoki mus nuo liūties

daugiau žadančios

negu mums reikia

duok pakankamai burnų

jeigu derlių per lauką

ant mūsų paleidai


žinau, kad esi man motina

kad mano kojos tavin įsmigusios

per amžius

ir atotrūkį

tik vėl virtimas tavimi

neišvengiamai žada


žinau, kad mylim tave

net ne už tai

kad maldas išklausai

ir derlium mus dovanoji

bet kad nesiliauji maitint

ir negarbinančią tavęs burną

nesuprantančią net

kas ir iš kur ta gyvybė –


tavo besąlygiškumas

yra tobuliausia teisybės forma.


Tebūnie dangus

mums per lietų.




Šalty stingsta ir lūžta siūlas –

Virkštelė, jungianti žemę

su rausvu ryto mėnesiu –


saugančiu mus


kurs iš vakaro įgema




John Berger Reads Mahmoud Darwish

Tom Clark – Beyond the Pale – THURSDAY, 16 NOVEMBER 2017 YOU / coexistence


_DSC0831: photo by noppadol maitreechit, 23 April 2016


YOU (I) 
The door behind me was you
and the radiance, there like
an electric train wreck in your eye
after a horrible evening of waiting outside places in the rain for you
to come
only to
find all of them, two I know, the rest scullions, swimming around you
in that smoky crowded room like a fishbowl
I escaped from, running away from you and my André Breton
dream of cutting your breasts off with a trowel
and what does that matter too them or you now, but just wait,
it’s still early
to the children embroidered in the rug, who seem to be setting up siege
engines under a tree house full of midgets who look like you.
Where are you in this sky of new blue
deltas I see in the drapery, and your new friends wearing bamboo singlets
what are they doing down there in the moat waving tridents like stalks
of corn?
Me, I’ll be happy to see their blood spilled all over the bedspread
pavilions of your hands as an example. If you come home right now I’ll
scrunch your hat
between my thighs like a valentine before you have time to wipe them.
You are bright, tremendous, wow.
But it is the hour of one from the horrible tremendousness
Of youth is about to depart.
The boats are ready. The air is soft and you perhaps nearby
Do pass, saying “I am for you.”
This is as much as “Everything is great.”
But desperation builds up all the time.
Life is nothing
            more to me
strapped at the bottom
      of  the throat
Than majesty, I think. You are arduous as that
Ashtray.  Swallow me!  since
Your hands are full of streets
And I walk out upon the streets
And I think the girls are better looking, vicious, cool
And the men are flying kites and newsprint
Gets on my arms. I enter rooms —
Wild my steps like an automaton’s —
Where batons are linked into some residue.
A gull is eating some garbage.
The sky is an old tomato can, I think.
I buy a newspaper and begin to walk back.
Smells torture the kites like gulls. Wild gulls, and
It’s the tremendous sky of survival.
Few things are still visible to me. Baseball
Withholds the tremors. They fall, so
I drag you down and
You are akimbo as I stick it in
And everything is thunderous accordion April, great,
Risen from palms and hypntism. I run home
And dip my coffee in bread, and eat some of it.
Today I get this letter from you and the sun
buckles        a mist falls over our villas
with a hideous organic slush like the music of Lawrence Welk
I lay in bed all day, asleep, and like some nocturnal
beast. And get your salutation among the torn green numbers
in the sky over the council houses. And see your eyes when
                                                   the retired pensioners pass
me by the abandoned railway station — this is not nothing, it is not
                                                                                          the hymn
of an age of bankrobbers or heraldic days but it is to sing
with complete gaiety until your heart freaks. I love you.
                                                         And go down amid the sycamores to
summer. Wandering by the lake any way
seems lovely, grand, the moon
is a gland in the thigh. Tumble and twinkle as on the golf course apparel
lifts. And a door is opened to
an owl. It is snowing, and you are here on the bed with me
and it is raining, and I am as full of frets as a guitar or a curtain
and I am singing, as I sponge up the cat place. You
                                                     are heaped. A curtain
of belief keeps me away from the tombs
of imagery. I love you, I’d like to go.
The chords knotted together like insane nouns         Dante
you are in bed           in the dark copula you
of the musical phrase          a few star birds sing in the branches
their voices are tangled not high
now all of them are dark and some move            you
were a word in the wood of my life
where the leaves are words, some of them fucking
in obscurity their clasping is terrible and brusque
pain birds ache thru them            and some
are lighter and seem to suggest less
of death than of a viola da gamba player these
birds sweep past in the forest
of my hands on your chest,            as we move
out on the glowing sea of the tropics on an ice pack,             you,
YOU (V) (after Hölderlin)

Desert flowers (sunset): Tom Clark

O Earth Mother, who consents to everything, who forgives everything
don’t hide like this                                                        and tell

Her Power is sweetened in these rays, the Earth before her
conceals the children
of her breast in her cloak, meanwhile we feel her,

and the days to come announce
that much time has passed and often one has felt
a heart grow for you inside his chest
They have guessed, the Ancients, the old and pious Patriarchs,
and in the secret they are, without even knowing it,
in the twisted chamber, for you, the silent men
but still more, the hearts, and those you have named Amor,
or have given obscure names, Earth, for one is shamed
to name his inmost heart, and from the start however man
when he finds greatness in himself and if the Most High permits,
he names it, this which belongs to him, and by its proper name
and you are it, and it seems
to me I hear the father say
to you honor is granted from now on
and you must receive songs in his name,
and you must, while he is distant and Old Eternity
becomes more and more hidden every day,
take his place in front of mortals, and since you will bear and raise
children for him, his wish
is to send anew and direct toward you men’s lives
when you recognize him           but this
directive which he inscribes in me is the rose
Pure sister, where will I get hold, when it is winter, of these
flowers, so as to weave the inhabitants of heaven crowns
It will be
as if the spirit of life passed out of me,
because for the heavenly gods these signs
of love are flowers in a desert       I search for them, you are hidden

Tom Clark

Desert flowers (dawn)
: Tom Clark

Shell by 高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi (1901-1987)


Nothing, nothing at all
is born,
dies, the shell says again
and again
from the depth of hollowness.
Its body
swept off by tide—so what?
It sleeps
in sand, drying in sunlight,
in moonlight. Nothing to do
with sea
or anything else. Over
and over
it vanishes with the wave.


– 高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi (1901-1987)
from Zen Poetry: Let the Spring Breeze Enter
Translated by Lucien Stryk and Takashi Ikemoto

Zen Master 高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi

“My Faithful Mother Tongue” a poem by Czeslaw Milosz

My Faithful Mother Tongue

Faithful mother tongue,
I have been serving you.
Every night, I used to set before you little bowls of colors
so you could have your birch, your cricket, your finch
as preserved in my memory.

This lasted many years.
You were my native land; I lacked any other.
I believed that you would also be a messenger
between me and some good people
even if they were few, twenty, ten
or not born, as yet.

Now, I confess my doubt.
There are moments when it seems to me I have squandered my life.
For you are a tongue of the debased,
of the unreasonable, hating themselves
even more than they hate other nations,
a tongue of informers,
a tongue of the confused,
ill with their own innocence.

But without you, who am I?
Only a scholar in a distant country,
a success, without fears and humiliations.
Yes, who am I without you?
Just a philosopher, like everyone else.

I understand, this is meant as my education:
the glory of individuality is taken away,
Fortune spreads a red carpet
before the sinner in a morality play
while on the linen backdropp a magic lantern throws
images of human and divine torture.

Faithful mother tongue,
perhaps after all it’s I who must try to save you.
So I will continue to set before you little bowls of colors
bright and pure if possible,

for what is needed in misfortune is a little order and beauty.

by Czeslaw Milosz

On Alejandra Pizarnik’s poetry – The Volatile I by Johannes Göransson | Boston Review


do not hand me over,

oh saddest of midnights,

to the impure whiteness of noon.

– Alejandra Pizarnik
from Works and Nights (1965)


a flower

not far from the night

my mute body


to the dew and its fragile urgency

– Alejandra Pizarnik
from Works and Nights (1965)



This lilac unlaces.

It falls from itself

and hides its ancient shadow.

I will die of such things.

– Alejandra Pizarnik
from Extracting the Stone of Madness (1968)



The absent figures are sighing and the night is thick. The night is

the color of the eyelids of the dead.

All night long I make the night. All night long I write. Word by word

I am writing the night.

– Alejandra Pizarnik
from Extracting the Stone of Madness (1968)

Translations by Yvette Siegert

In ecstatic states, it may not be clear whether we are in paradise or hell, whether the song is happy or sad. This is the experience Pizarnik describes even as she propels herself into its drunkenness, creating a saturated atmosphere that is, as Negroni puts it, the “antidote to transcendence.” Or it might be a kind of anti-transcendence, found precisely in the negation of transcendence, the refusal to elevate poetry into “concept.” Her poetry feels like a constant, intensive refusal that generates its own Gothic beauty and black light: “imminence without a recipient. I see the melody.”

Alejandra Pizarnik’s poetry finally gets the English translation it deserves.

Source: The Volatile I | Boston Review

~ to share with Marina