In a small hotel room, pretty, unknown: –blue horizons, green lights–, we entered it together, entranced and flustered by the impossible fire that we’d conquered.
He kissed me on the mouth, and I surrendered my fragile body, sweet, desirous & swooning… Oh inexplicable repose after what had happened! Oh ineffable delight after what had been suffered!
I didn’t feel shame for my naked body. Happiness drowned me with a rough hand and the crystal of my eyes was clouded from tears,
while he on his knees, with furtive kisses, embraced the ivory of my sensitive feet with the most ardent fire of his saintly mouth.
We present this work in honor of the 70th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Fumiko Hayashi Japanese 1903 – 1951
I’ve seen Fuji I’ve seen Mount Fuji there was no red snow so I need not praise Fuji as a fine mountain.
I’m not going to lose out to such a mountain many times I’ve thought that, seeing its reflection in the train window, the heart of this peaked mountain threatens my broken life and looks down coldly on my eyes.
I’ve seen Fuji, I’ve seen Mount Fuji Birds! Fly across that mountain from dome to peak with your crimson mouths, give a scornful laugh Wind! Fuji is a great sorrowful palace of snow, blow and rage Mount Fuji is the symbol of Japan it’s a sphinx a thick, dream-like nostalgia a great, sorrowful palace of snow where demons live.
Look at Fuji, Look at Mount Fuji in your form painted by Hokusai I have seen your youthful spark.
But now you’re an old broken-down grave mound always you turn your glaring eyes to the sky why do you flee from the murky snow?
Birds, wind rap on Mount Fuji’s shoulder so bright and still it’s not a silver citadel it’s a great, sorrowful palace of snow that hides misfortune.
Mount Fuji! Here stands a lone woman who does not lower her head to you here is a woman laughing scornfully at you.
Mount Fuji, Fuji your passion like rustling fire howls and roars until you knock her stubborn head down I shall wait, happily whistling.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 185th birthday.
Annie Louisa Walker Canadian 1836 – 1907
You cannot rob us of the rights we cherish, Nor turn our thoughts away From the bright picture of a “Woman’s Mission” Our hearts portray. We claim to dwell, in quiet and seclusion, Beneath the household roof,— From the great world’s harsh strife, and jarring voices, To stand aloof;— Not in a dreamy and inane abstraction To sleep our life away, But, gathering up the brightness of home sunshine, To deck our way.
As humble plants by country hedgerows growing, That treasure up the rain, And yield in odours, ere the day’s declining, The gift again;
So let us, unobtrusive and unnoticed, But happy none the less, Be privileged to fill the air around us With happiness;
To live, unknown beyond the cherished circle, Which we can bless and aid; To die, and not a heart that does not love us Know where we’re laid.
In honor of the Argentine holiday, National Flag Day, we present this work by one of the country’s most representative poets.
Juana Bignozzi Argentine 1937 – 2015
lost the first sense of solidarity lost horizontal solidarity neighbor friend corner grocer in private no one recounts his life story these days where now are those Renaissance kitchens the houses of the Carpathians there will be no museum for our interiors like a fundamentalist veil some women have salvaged a universe conquered by my grandmothers children flora men in permanent distraction or literary fantasies while grand women water patio plants
Like flitting Philomel, who flies so proudly free having escaped the prison of her hated cage, who goes among the wooded groves and greens returning to her former happy life in liberty,
so had I escaped from love’s handcuffs, scorning all suffering and the special bitter pain of the sorrow beyond belief, reserved for the one who has lost her soul through excess, loving love.
As the Cyprian knows well (oh, merciless star!) I had gathered up my spoils from her temple and for their proud price I had gone elsewhere;
when to me, Love said: I will alter (to renew my pangs) your perverse will.
…From white horses with madcap bound into the deep wave you leapt: “I catch you,” I shouted, “my friend!” And you, when you were Tortoise, ran leaping through the yard of the great court.
Thus I lament, unhappy Baucis, and make deep moan for you. These traces of you, dear maid, lie still glowing in my heart: all that we once enjoyed, is embers now.
We clung to our dolls in our chambers when we were girls, playing Young Wives, without a care. And towards dawn your Mother, who allotted wool to her attendant workwomen, came and called you to help with the salted meat. Oh, what a trembling the Bogy brought us then, when we were little ones! – On its head were huge ears, and it walked on all fours, and changed from one face to another!
But when you went to a man’s bed, you forgot all that you heard from your Mother, dear Baucis, in babyhood: Aphrodite set oblivion in your heart. So I lament you, yet neglect your obsequies — my feet are not so profane as to leave the house, my eyes may not behold a body dead, nor may I moan with hair unbound, yet a blush of shame distracts me…
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
Kiki Dimoula Greek 1931 – 2020
Lord what’s still not in store for us.
I’m sitting here and sitting. It’s raining without raining just as when a shadow returns to us a body.
I’m sitting here and sitting. Me here, my heart opposite and still further away my weary relationship with it. So we might seem many whenever emptiness counts us.
Empty room blowing. I hold tight to the way I have of being swept off.
I’ve no news of you. Your photo stationary. You stare as if coming you smile as if not. Dried flowers at one side incessantly repeating for you their unadulterated name semprevives semprevives—eternal, eternal in case you forget what you’re not.
I’m asked by time how I want it to pass exactly how I pronounce myself as edging or ageing. Foolishness. No end is ever articulate.
I’ve no news of you. Your photo stationary. Just as it rains without raining.
Just as a shadow returns to me a body. And just as we’ll meet one day up there. In some lush sparseness with shady unexpectations and evergreen rotations. As interpreter of the intense silence that we’ll feel —developed form of the intense intoxication caused by a meeting down here—will come a void.
And we’ll be enraptured then by a passionate unrecognition —developed form of the embrace employed by a meeting down here. Yes we’ll meet. Breathing fine, concealed form attraction. In a downpour of heavy lack of gravity. Perhaps on one of infinity’s trips to ad infinitum; at the ceremony for loss awards to the known for its great contribution to the unknown; guests at destination’s starlight, at cessation’s galas on behalf of dissolving causes and the skies’ farewell importances once great. Expect that this company of distances will be somewhat downcast, cheerless even if non-existence finds cheer from nothing. Perhaps because the soul of the party will be absent. The flesh.
I call to the ash to disarm me. I call upon the ash by its code name: Everything.
You’ll meet regularly I imagine you and the death of that dream. The last-born dream. Of all I had the best-behaved. Clear-headed, gentle, understanding. Not of course so dreamy but neither worthless or mean, no toady to all and sundry. A very thrifty dream, in intensity and errors. Of the dreams I raised my most loving: so I’d not grow old alone.
You’ll meet regularly I imagine you and its death. Give it my regards, tell it to come too without fail when we meet there, at the loss awards ceremony.
Love me as long as you don’t live. Yes yes the impossible’s enough for me. Once I was loved by that. Love me as long as you don’t live. For I’ve no news of you. And heaven forbid that the absurd should show no signs of life.
A man pulls his cart piled with clay olas maneuvers the knotted traffic olas for sale to contain cool water quench the sand starched mouth
Futile to unlock this tongue I’m lost here mazed into a pattern of textures and rhythms snatched by the clutches of the tied bird of prey in the zoo out of tune with the peacock caged in the pet store stitched into the canvas of human sweat to divulge the secret of this magnet that draws us near a reckless gesture stumbles into the ola cart scatters clay shards and continue
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