I know a woman
who keeps buying puzzles
pieces that finally fit
into some order.
she works it out
she solves all her
lives down by the sea
puts sugar out for the ants
in a better world.
her hair is white
she seldom combs it
her teeth are snaggled
and she wears loose shapeless
coveralls over a body most
women would wish they had.
for many years she irritated me
with what I consider her
like soaking eggshells in water
(to feed the plants so that
they’d get calcium).
but finally when I think of her
and compare it to other lives
more dazzling, original
I realize that she has hurt fewer
people than anybody I know
(and by hurt I simply mean hurt).
she has had some terrible times,
times when maybe I should have
helped her more
for she is the mother of my only
and we were once great lovers,
but she has come through
like I said
she has hurt fewer people than
anybody I know,
and if you look at it like that,
she has created a better world.
she has won.
Frances, this poem is for
“dont undress my love
you might find a mannequin
dont undress the mannequin
you might find love.
she’s long ago forgotten me.
hes trying on a new hat and looks more the coquette then ever.
she is a child and a mannequin and death.
i can’t hate that.
she didnt do anything unusual.
I only wanted her to”.
(Un poem cat o mie de poeme – de Rhina P. Espaillat )
What the scale tells you is how much the earth
has missed you, body, how it wants you back
again after you leave it to go forth
into the light. Do you remember how
earth hardly noticed you then? Others would rock
you in their arms, warm in the flow
that fed you, coaxed you upright. Then earth began
to claim you with spots and fevers, began to lick
at you with a bruised knee, a bloody shin,
and finally to stroke you, body, drumming
intimate coded messages through music
you danced to unawares, there in your dreaming
and your poems and your obedient blood.
Body, how useful you became, how lucky,
heavy with news and breakage, rich, and sad, sometimes, imagining that greedy zero
you must have been, that promising empty sack
of possibilities, never-to-come tomorrow.
But look at you now, body, soft old shoe
that love wears when it’s stirring, look down, look
how earth wants what you weigh, needs what you know.
The Poem of Poems
(By Greg Alan Brownderville)
A boy passes ghost-like through a curtain of weeping willow.
In rainbow-stained apparel, birds are singing a cappella.
Suddenly I sense it, in the birds and in the child:
The world is a poem growing wild.
A dewdrop on a blade of grass soon slips from where it clung
Like a perfect word that gathers on the tip of a poet’s tongue.
And men are merely characters to love and be defiled.
God is a poem growing wild.
Va rog frumos plictisiti-va si voi de plictiseala asta.
by Michael Burch
Indescribable–our love–and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
“I love you,” in the ordinary wayand tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white …
indescribably in love. Or so we say.
Your hair’s blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
“I love you,” in the ordinary way.
Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say
we’re older now, that “love” has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
“I love you,” in the ordinary way.
Stiu cat de mult mi-ar placea daca cineva, oricine mi-ar spune zi de zi cate unul dintre acele poeme despre care stii, imediat ce le auzi, ca ele trebuiau scrise, ca trebuiau sa tasneasca afara, in cuvintele cuiva, si ca, mai ales, sunt intr-atat de perfecte si de suficiente siesi incat par sa se fi scris singure. Nu stiu daca o sa ma pot tine – daca as face-o – de promisiunea de a reproduce aici, in fiecare zi, cate unul din acele poeme. Voi tinde insa spre acest deziderat, cu multa imperfectiune si totusi nu mai putin staruitor.
Iar astazi m-am gandit la Margaret Atwood si la poemul ei:
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn
where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
we are learning to make fire
Căsătoria nu e o casă
nici măcar un cort
este înainte de asta şi încă mai rece:
Marginea pădurii, marginea
din spate unde ne ghemuim
afară mâncând popcorn
unde suferind şi cu mirarea
că am supravieţuit chiar şi
învăţăm să facem focul
(traducerea imi apartine)
insa mai intai am descoperit o poezie. Asa a inceput, de fapt, totul, cu gesturi mici, insignifiante, (adica versuri) care s-au adunat unele peste altele, s-au adaugat unora celorlalte pana cand intalnirea, fara sa fie, mi s-a parut brusca. Asa cum, atunci cand te loveste un camion, nu stai sa te gandesti ca si el trebuie sa fi venit de la foarte mare distanta, ca soferul trebuie sa fi mancat o paine unsa cu margarina inainte sa se urce la volan, si ca a strabatut toata distanta aceea, foarte lunga, numai ca sa te faca pe tine praf.
Numele poetului este Richard Brautigan. Iar numele poeziei (genial, de altfel) este: All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace. Acum, va rog sa cititi!
I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammels and computers
live together in mutually
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.