Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Original poetry, translations and videopoems by the authors of this blog. (See Poets and poetry for criticism, etc.)
In the colony of the body,
everything that grows
is offering—
In the mortised joints
between webs of sugar and salt,
gears turn and the gates
sluice bile from the honey,
or cloudy froth. Broody
liver, spleen’s
dark halves: like serfs
to a feudal lord, we hold up
the unfinished, we ask for time.
In response to Via Negativa: (De)composition.
Up by five o’clock, and while my man Will was getting himself ready to come up to me I took and played upon my lute a little.
So to dress myself, and to my office to prepare things against we meet this morning.
We sat long to-day, and had a great private business before us about contracting with Sir W. Rider, Mr. Cutler, and Captain Cocke, for 500 ton of hemp, which we went through, and I am to draw up the conditions.
Home to dinner, where I found Mr. Moore, and he and I cast up our accounts together and evened them, and then with the last chest of crusados to Alderman Backwell’s, by the same token his lady going to take coach stood in the shop, and having a gilded glassfull of perfumed comfits given her by Don Duarte de Silva, the Portugall merchant, that is come over with the Queen, I did offer at a taste, and so she poured some out into my hand, and, though good, yet pleased me the better coming from a pretty lady.
So home and at the office preparing papers and things, and indeed my head has not been so full of business a great while, and with so much pleasure, for I begin to see the pleasure it gives. God give me health. So to bed.
I ready myself for
a ride in rough conditions
with a chest of glass,
my hand leased
from a pretty lady
and a paper head so full of sin
I begin to see God.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Thursday 19 June 1662.
Up early; and after reading a little in Cicero, I made me ready and to my office, where all the morning very busy. At noon Mr. Creed came to me about business, and he and I walked as far as Lincoln’s Inn Fields together. After a turn or two in the walks we parted, and I to my Lord Crew’s and dined with him; where I hear the courage of Sir H. Vane at his death is talked on every where as a miracle.
Thence to Somerset House to Sir J. Winter’s chamber by appointment, and met Mr. Pett, where he and I read over his last contract with the King for the Forest of Dean, whereof I took notes because of this new one that he is now in making. That done he and I walked to Lilly’s, the painter’s, where we saw among other rare things, the Duchess of York, her whole body, sitting instate in a chair, in white sattin, and another of the King, that is not finished; most rare things. I did give the fellow something that showed them us, and promised to come some other time, and he would show me Lady Castlemaine’s, which I could not then see, it being locked up! Thence to Wright’s, the painter’s: but, Lord! the difference that is between their two works. Thence to the Temple, and there spoke with my cozen Roger, who gives me little hopes in the business between my Uncle Tom and us. So Mr. Pett (who staid at his son’s chamber) and I by coach to the old Exchange, and there parted, and I home and at the office till night. My windows at my office are made clean to-day and a casement in my closet. So home, and after some merry discourse in the kitchen with my wife and maids as I now-a-days often do, I being well pleased with both my maids, to bed.
death is a miracle
making in the body (that is not finished)
most rare things
how could it be locked up
between two hopes
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Wednesday 18 June 1662.
1 / El Nopal
Each spiked bud is a revolution
prickling the flat surface of the moon.
2 / El Diablito
You should never give gifts to the gods
that take you under.
3 / La Mano
After I am stripped down, I conceal nothing.
Someone once unrolled parchment, pointed, said Here.
4 / El Corazon
Tomorrow, forgiveness.
Tonight, the feast of tears.
5 / El Alacran
It is true, I have seen the venomous
cowering beneath the house-post.
“When I come back in another life can it be
as child, not as mother?”
from “Arguments with destiny: 15” by Luisa A. Igloria
The space between life and death
and life again is so bright,
shivering with eloquent vowels,
songs that hover out of range
of our hearing, the braided
textures of bounding bounded
light.
Conversations there don’t fit
into our words, minds, bodies,
or so my tiny daughter
assures me. She remembers.
She says not to worry; smiles.
What’s most important never
dies.
Her eyes streak with color like
a slow small explosion, leafed
and layered, interlaced
fibers twining together
as inverted galaxies,
first hinted at in Doptone
dust.
Around her small shape gather
half-forgotten words from stars
and planets, floating featherlike.
The cosmic conversations
she describes form a kind of
invisible aura of
points,
dissolving memories not
permitted, treasured echoes.
In her, the words of God melt down
into an ingot of flesh
and vision. I believe her.
I can almost see the shimmer,
heat
radiating from her birth.
I can hardly wait. But, “No!”
she says sharply. “Wait! Next time
it’s my turn to be the mommy.
You have to promise to wait
for me!” We stare. I recall
blue
veins chained and knotted and twined
together across my chest,
as my heart stretched and grew great
to hold her, this alien
angel, this eternal ache.
I can’t argue about this. I
promise.
Based on a true incident. My daughter was three years old, and persuaded me that reincarnation is a real thing. That’s why, when I read those lines of Luisa’s, my reaction was, “I KNOW THIS STORY!” and I had to write it up as a poem immediately. I’ve told the story in prose many times. It’s one of the great mysteries and jewels of my life.
“Viajo sozinha com o meu coração.”
(“I travel alone with my heart.”)
~ from “Despedida” (“Farewell”) by Cecília Meireles, trans. Natalie d’Arbeloff
At the shoe repairer’s,
a canvas boot unpaired
for at least two decades—
I want to reach inside
the window to touch the grimy
laces and pass them, overlapping,
through rusted grommets; then
tie a bow. A poet reminded me
that every poem should be a kind
of prayer— Should have a heart
red-blue and heaviest at midnight,
sloping from the branch,
under which the faithful
lover waits with open mouth
for the first dewdrop to fall.
In response to Via Negativa: How to recognize the road....
Up, and Mr. Mayland comes to me and borrowed 30s. of me to be paid again out of the money coming to him in the James and Charles for his late voyage. So to the office, where all the morning. So home to dinner, my wife not being well, but however dined with me.
So to the office, and at Sir W. Batten’s, where we all met by chance and talked, and they drank wine; but I forebore all their healths. Sir John Minnes, I perceive, is most excellent company. So home and to bed betimes by daylight.
A borrowed voyage:
we dine and talk
and the wine is
excellent company.
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Tuesday 17 June 1662.
[untitled]
A small gesture would be enough,
made lightly and from a distance
for you to come with me
and for me to hold you forever…
Basta-me um pequeno gesto
feito de longe e de leve
para que venhas comigo
e eu para sempre te leve…
*
Farewell
For me, and for you, and for the others
wherever the others are,
I’m leaving the raging sea and the quiet sky:
I want solitude.
My road is without a sign and without a landscape.
So how do you recognise it? — they ask.
— By the absence of words, the absence of images.
Not a single enemy and not a single friend.
What do you need? — Everything. What do you want? — Nothing.
I travel alone with my heart.
I’m not wandering lost, merely un-met.
I carry my course in my hand.
Memory has flown from my head.
Flown my love, my imagination…
Maybe I’ll fade before the horizon.
Memory, love and all the rest, where are they?
Here I leave my body, between earth and sky.
(I kiss you, my body, all disillusioned!
Sad flag of a strange war…)
I want solitude.
Despedida
Por mim, e por vós, e por mais aquilo
que está onde as outras coisas nunca estão,
deixo o mar bravo e o céu tranqüilo:
quero solidão.
Meu caminho é sem marcos nem paisagens.
E como o conheces? — me perguntarão.
— Por não ter palavras, por não ter imagens.
Nenhum inimigo e nenhum irmão.
Que procuras? — Tudo. Que desejas? — Nada.
Viajo sozinha com o meu coração.
Não ando perdida, mas desencontrada.
Levo o meu rumo na minha mão.
A memória voou da minha fronte.
Voou meu amor, minha imaginação…
Talvez eu morra antes do horizonte.
Memória, amor e o resto onde estarão?
Deixo aqui meu corpo, entre o sol e a terra.
(Beijo-te, corpo meu, todo desilusão!
Estandarte triste de uma estranha guerra…)
Quero solidão.
Film by Swoon (Marc Neys) in memory of his mother, using the above translation and reading. Read Marc’s process notes on his blog.
*
Serenade
Allow me to close my eyes,
I’m so far away and it’s so late!
I thought you were merely delayed,
and I began to wait for you, singing.
Allow me to change now:
adapt myself to being alone.
There’s a soft light in the silence, and the pain is of divine origin.
Allow me to turn my face towards a sky bigger than this world,
and let me learn to be as docile in dreams as the stars in their wandering.
Serenata
Permita que eu feche os meus olhos,
pois é muito longe e tão tarde!
Pensei que era apenas demora,
e cantando pus-me a esperar-te.
Permita que agora emudeça:
que me conforme em ser sozinha.
Há uma doce luz no silencio, e a dor é de origem divina.
Permita que eu volte o meu rosto para um céu maior que este mundo,
e aprenda a ser dócil no sonho como as estrelas no seu rumo.
*
Read the earlier post: “Contrary Moon: three poems by Cecília Meireles“
Up before four o’clock, and after some business took Will forth, and he and I walked over the Tower Hill, but the gate not being open we walked through St. Catharine’s and Ratcliffe (I think it is) by the waterside above a mile before we could get a boat, and so over the water in a scull (which I have not done a great while), and walked finally to Deptford, where I saw in what forwardness the work is for Sir W. Batten’s house and mine, and it is almost ready. I also, with Mr. Davis, did view my cozen Joyce’s tallow, and compared it with the Irish tallow we bought lately, and found ours much more white, but as soft as it; now what is the fault, or whether it be or no a fault, I know not.
So walked home again as far as over against the Towre, and so over and home, where I found Sir W. Pen and Sir John Minnes discoursing about Sir John Minnes’s house and his coming to live with us, and I think he intends to have Mr. Turner’s house and he to come to his lodgings, which I shall be very glad of. We three did go to Mr. Turner’s to view his house, which I think was to the end that Sir John Minnes might see it.
Then by water with my wife to the Wardrobe, and dined there; and in the afternoon with all the children by water to Greenwich, where I showed them the King’s yacht, the house, and the park, all very pleasant; and so to the tavern, and had the musique of the house, and so merrily home again. Will and I walked home from the Wardrobe, having left my wife at the Tower Wharf coming by, whom I found gone to bed not very well, she having her month’s upon her. So to bed.
before four o’clock
a rat walked in the tallow
as soft as it
Erasure haiku derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 16 June 1662.
“I write my life.” ~ D. Bonta
Drink quickly, we’re told. Live
immediately, before the stream
changes course, before the water
makes good on the threats
it is always making about our utter
effacement, our certain oblivion.
So what if it does? Don’t linger
in the bath that certain evenings
draw you into: all melancholy, all
purple shade and stupefying incense.
Rain or no rain, tomorrow the sky
is the ledger on which the sun
once more pawns its only diadem.
Who is without debt? Who is without
a raft or gondola of burdens?
In the crepuscular mist it’s easy
to be entranced by the long,
trailing banners of sadness,
by the fixed and illusory orbit
of their ferment. You want to know
the word with which to dispel them,
what bitten seeds to disgorge
from under the tongue. Perhaps
winter is merely winter and not
ransom of one body for another.
Perhaps the fig and the plum
burst out of their skins only
because heat has unstitched them,
and not because their hearts constrict
from a sadness they cannot bear.
In response to Via Negativa: Contingency.