Scars Don’t Tan

We present this work in honor of the 10th anniversary of the poet’s death.

M.Z. Ribalow
American
1948 – 2012

 

It takes so little for the unraveling to
commence—a careless gesture, a reassuring
phrase never quite uttered, a heedless
moment that seemed rhapsodically hopeful
but which left resonant repercussions that
altered everything. A legacy of scars:
emotional ones fade but not away,
physical ones blend but don’t tan.

The rap music you give as a birthday gift
to your nephew because it’s what he likes,
the visit you force yourself to make because
your relatives need cheering up, your friend’s
neurotic phone call that consumes the night—
the recipients are grateful, but none of it
ever washes away your secret detritus.
Expiation seems a goal, but is a way of life.

It began happening so long ago, in details too
nuanced to notice. A slight misstep sprains an
ankle that never fully heals; a dropped stitch
subtly renders imperfect the entire tapestry.
Nothing to be done now but to recover; make
The most of what remains, the best of what
May be. Though you recall the white whale,
Do not pursue him through the oceanic past.

A Song of Light

John Barr
Kiwi
1809 – 1889

 

There have plenty songs been written,
Of the moonlight on the hill,
Of the starlight on the ocean,
And the sun-flecks on the rill,

But one glorious song has never
Fallen yet upon my ear,
‘Tis a royal song of gladness,
Of the gaslight on the beer.

I have watched an amber sunset,
Creep across a black-faced bay;
I have seen the blood-flushed sunrise,
Paint the snow one winter day,

But the gleam I will remember
Best, in lingering days to come,
Was s shaft of autumn radiance,
Lying on a pint of rum.

I have seen the love stars shining,
Through bronze hair across my face,
I have seen white bosoms heaving,
‘Neath a wisp of open lace,

But resplendent yet in memory –
And it seemeth brighter far –
Was a guttered candle’s flicker,
On a tankard in a bar…

Solitude

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.

Meira Delmar
Colombian
1922 – 2009

 

There’s nothing like this bliss
of feeling so alone
in mid-afternoon
and in the middle of the wheat field;
under the summer sky
and in the arms of the wind
I am one more ear of wheat.

I have nothing in my soul,not even a small sorrow,
nor an old remembrance
that would make me dream…
I only have this bliss
of being alone in the afternoon,
just with the afternoon!

A very long silence
is falling on the field,
for already the sun is leaving
and already the wind is leaving;
who would give me forever
this inexpressible bliss
of being, alone and serene,
a miracle of peace!

Translation by Nicolás Suescún

Horses coming Resurrection

We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Revolution Day.

Amal Al Akhdar
Moroccan
21st century

 

Do not open the windows wide…
Outside… there are things
With no names,
Transcending the space in the air .
The trees bow its length to it,
The sun… shrinks to itself…
It was blinded by its light
She backed up sighing
Outside…
The dust assumes the forms of humans,
Licking the buildings… the pavement
Ivy climbing…
The small café at the end of the street
Do not open the windows wide…
Let them be closed.
The descents of Tatars are coming
The bells are tolled from afar…
And the sky is growls and rumbles
The windmills…
Hardly stop
Electricity poles on the wall
Bend…
Crackling and neighing
Horses struck by panic,
And they chose to leave
Do not open the windows wide ..
Your dreams may fall
On the pavement
And the climbing bulldozer may smash you
Or your heavy bodies may fall.
Do not ask about a beloved who did not return
Nor a kid of yours in school
Do not buy morning bread…
Nor Newspaper
Do not greet your neighbor as usual…
Do not fix the clock’s hands
No, no do not open the windows
Hide behind it on oblique chairs
Enjoy polishing an old coat
Or caress the backs of luxurious cats
Or sip evening tea
Or laugh on the impact of an insipid joke
Do not open wide the windows wide…
Swarms of swallows
Kidnap their small bodies,
And flee dripping
The tree shake their roots,
Wishing they would to fly.
But they only swallow their disappointments
And remain a witness of current events
Crackle of imminent thunder
The specters of the death…
Leaving their long slumber
Grumbling… And moaning
As if… horses of resurrection
Are coming

Flying Crooked

We present this work in honor of National Aviation Day.

Robert Graves
English
1895 – 1985

 

The butterfly, the cabbage white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has – who knows so well as I? –
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.

Jiviche jivlage majhe Krishnai Kanhai

We present this work in honor of Janmashtami.

Kanhopatra
Indian
15th century

 

O Krsna
mother
heart of my heart,

O dark one,
with beautiful eyes,
have mercy on me,
my birth is low,
my reputation black as night.

O dark one,
with beautiful eyes, please,
have mercy on me.
The Vedas proclaim you
champion of the low
savior of the downtrodden
like me.
Kanhopatra surrenders
again and again,
O dark one,
have mercy on me.

Translation by Sarah Sellergren

Messalina

We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Dulcie Deamer
Australian
1890 – 1972

 

Cast back the doors! I stifle! Let the air
Of the outer night rush in and seize my hair
As with swift hands! My slender body bare

Stretches, and sighs, and tautens like a thong…
Oh, every hour of daylight does me wrong!

Why are the nights so brief, the days so long?

The days of mask-like faces, formalness.

Of downcast eyelid, pearl-entwisted tress;

I am the Emperor’s wife; the ceilings press

Downward trap-fashion; rafters sheathed in gold
Are as cross-beams of pits that take and hold—

Tall pits of marble, glassy-smooth and cold.

I am the Emperor s wife … I wore the hide
Of a she-leopard once; I rode the tide
Of splendid, savage seas, my glistening side

Compressed by triton-arms; I leapt and screamed
Where down the hill the naked Maenads streamed.
Beneath the droop of boughs, the faun’s eyes gleamed

Goat-golden. Oh, he found me where I lay!

I was a striving, but a laughing prey;

Crushed, conquered, wed—I knew not night or day.

Earth’s unmixed passion gorges all my veins—

The scourging suns, the blinding summer rains,

The breast-white mountains and the panting plains.

What do I know of templed gods, and laws,

Honour, and duty? All my essence draws
From older founts. I see the clamped, stark jaws

Of rearing centaurs in their mating-fights;

The smell of blood and sweat and love delights
My widened nostrils. Oh, those forest nights!—

The crying dark, the heavy blood-like dew,

The feet of Life and Death that doth pursue,

The lusty, rank, insatiate satyr-crew…

1 am the Emperors wife—no! I am I!

The hot Earth bore me: though I live or die
111 seek my old companions where they lie.

Stain both my lids with blue, my soles with red;
Sweeten with myrrh the black hair o’er me shed;

I will rise up and leave this empty bed.

A straight, thin, purple robe is all I’ll wear;

111 take no veil; unto my knees my hair
Falls. Am I pale and burning? Am I fair

As some lithe forest-thing with bloody lips?

Now—now to steal where the dark city dips
In reeking alleys, and the river slips…

My jungles! Quick with lawless, fearless life;

The teeth of love, the death-fang of a knife.

And satyr-brawls, and Maenad-women’s strife.

ril enter by some strait, scarce-lighted door,

Cross with bare feet the dank and wine-wet floor—
Ah! Now I am the Emperor’s wife no more!

Swordsman, Greek boxer, Goth—they wait for me;
Now does my body live—now am I free!

My shredded robe slips downward to my knee.

I am as naked as Life’s naked flame!

None ever spoke of law or coward shame
In that spring-fevered world from which I came
I fear no death. Let swift sleep end the game!