Poem for 7/21/22 - “As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse” by Billy Collins

 

“As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse” by Billy Collins

I pick an orange from a wicker basket

and place it on the table
to represent the sun.
Then down at the other end
a blue and white marble
becomes the earth
and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

I get a glass from a cabinet,
open a bottle of wine,
then I sit in a ladder-back chair,
a benevolent god presiding
over a miniature creation myth,

and I begin to sing
a homemade canticle of thanks
for this perfect little arrangement,
for not making the earth too hot or cold
not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees
and the owl become possible,
not to mention the rolling wave,
the play of clouds, geese in flight,
and the Z of lightning on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again
and give thanks for the trout,
the oak, and the yellow feather,

singing the room full of shadows,
as sun and earth and moon
circle one another in their impeccable orbits
and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

“As If to Demonstrate an Eclipse,” by Billy Collins from Nine Horses (Random House).

Poem for 7/20/22 - "To escape into direct crazy speech..." by Mikhail Aizenberg

 To hear my recording of this poem in English and Russian click here. 

Mikhail Aizenberg (trans. J. Kates)

To escape into direct crazy speech.

To break out into the straightaway.

Not to strain out the word

And not to swathe it in cotton

And not burn in the blue flame of cultural activity.

No, I be no great cultural asset.

I be no man of culture.

I am a man of profound yearning.

Ah, yearning...

My only weapon.

An everlasting vibration,

after long expectation cracking

the brick of existence.

Чтобы выйти в прямую безумную речь.

Чтобы вырваться напрямую.

Не отцеживать слово.

И не обкладывать ватой.

И не гореть синим пламенем культурной деятельности.

Нет, я не есть человек культуры. 

Я — человек тоски.

О, тоска. 

Единственное мое оружие. 

Вечная вибрация,

от которой кирпич существования  дает долгожданную трещину

from Say Thank You (2007)

Poem for 7/19/22 - Sea Breeze by Stephane Mallarme

I've included not only the translation I read on the voicemail, but also the original French as well as two other translations I found on the web...  Enjoy!

Sea Breeze, by Stéphane Mallarmé

(trans. Henry Weinfield)

The flesh is sad, alas, and there's nothing but words!

To take flight, far off! I sense that somewhere the birds

Are drunk to be amid strange spray and skies.

Nothing, not the old gardens reflected in the eyes,

Can now restrain this sea-drenched heart, O night,

Nor the lone splendor of my lamp on the white

Paper which the void leaves undefiled,

Nor the young mother suckling her child.

Steamer with gently swaying masts, depart!

Weigh anchor for a landscape of the heart!

Boredom made desolate by hope's cruel spells

Retains its faith in ultimate farewells!

And maybe the masts are such as are inclined

To shipwreck driven by tempestuous wind.

No fertile isle, no spar on which to cling...

But oh, my heart, listen to the sailors sing!

Brise marine

La chair est triste, hélas ! et j’ai lu tous les livres.

Fuir ! là-bas fuir ! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres

D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux !

Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux

Ne retiendra ce cœur qui dans la mer se trempe

 

Ô nuits ! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe

Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend

Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son enfant.

Je partirai ! Steamer balançant ta mâture,

Lève l’ancre pour une exotique nature !

 

Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs,

Croit encore à l’adieu suprême des mouchoirs !

Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages

Sont-ils de ceux qu’un vent penche sur les naufrages

Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles îlots…

Mais, ô mon cœur, entends le chant des matelots !

Seabreeze (Translated from the French by Richard Wilbur)

The flesh grows weary. And books, I’ve read them all.

Off, then, to where I glimpse through spray and squall
Strange birds delighting in their unknown skies!
No antique gardens mirrored in my eyes
Can stay my sea-changed spirit, nor the light
Of my abstracted lamp which shines (O Night!)
On the guardian whiteness of the empty sheet,
Nor the young wife who gives the babe her teat.
Come, ship whose masts now gently rock and sway,
Raise anchor for a stranger world! Away!

How strange that Boredom, all its hopes run dry,
Still dreams of handkerchiefs that wave goodbye!
Those gale-inviting masts might creak and bend
In seas where many a craft has met its end,
Dismasted, lost, with no green island near it…
But hear the sailors singing, O my spirit!

—Stéphane Mallarmé

Sea Breeze (trans. A.M. Kline)

The flesh is sad, Alas! and I’ve read all the books.
Let’s go! Far off. Let’s go! I sense
That the birds, intoxicated, fly
Deep into unknown spume and sky!
Nothing – not even old gardens mirrored by eyes –
Can restrain this heart that drenches itself in the sea
O nights, or the abandoned light of my lamp,
On the void of paper, that whiteness defends,
No, not even the young woman feeding her child.
I shall go! Steamer, straining at your ropes
Lift your anchor towards an exotic rawness!
A Boredom, made desolate by cruel hope
Still believes in the last goodbye of handkerchiefs!
And perhaps the masts, inviting lightning,
Are those the gale bends over shipwrecks,
Lost, without masts, without masts, no fertile islands...
But, oh my heart, listen to the sailors’ chant!

Poem for 7/18/22 - "Mysteries, Yes" - by Mary Oliver

Mysteries, Yes

by Mary Oliver 

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Poem for 7/14/22 - "A Thing of Beauty is a Joy For Ever" by John Keats

 from Endymion

BY JOHN KEATS

A Poetic Romance

(excerpt)

BOOK I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. 

Poem for 7/13/22 - Sit A While by Siv Cedering

 Sit A While, by Siv Cedering [on Romare Beardon's Black Manhattan]

SIT A WHILE

[On Romare Bearden's collage,

Black Manhattan]

Sit a while.

What do you hear?

A bird? A bus? A baby's cry?

The shouting of a boy?

For joy?

Leaves rustling?

Trains rattling?

Skateboards rolling?

A boombox blaring?

A mother calling?

The droning of a car?

Or ten -

traveling far, then home again,

like your thoughts

as you sit

with nothing much to do but

contemplating it?

SIV CEDERING (1939-2007)

Poem for 7/12/22 - Sonnet of Fidelity by Vinincius de Moraes

 

Sonnet of Fidelity
Vinicius de Moraes (translator unknown)

Above all, to my love I'll be attentive
First and always, with care and so much
That even when facing the greatest enchantment
By love be more enchanted my thoughts.

I want to live it through in each vain moment
And in its honor I'll spread my song
And laugh my laughter and cry my tears
When you are sad or when you are content.

And thus, when later comes looking for me
Who knows, the death, anxiety of the living,
Who knows, the loneliness, end of all lovers

I'll be able to say to myself of the love (I had):
Be not immortal, since it is flame
But be infinite while it lasts.

To read the original in Portuguese click here
http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/show/119642-Vin-cius-de-Moraes-Soneto-de-Fidelidade 

Alternate Translation by E.R. Henriques

First and foremost, I will look to my love
With such care, always and so much,
That even in face of the greatest beauty
My thought should be more charmed by my love.

I want to live this love in each vain moment
And in its honor I will spread my song
And smile a smile and shed my tears
In moments of sorrow or contentment.

And, thus, later on, when seeking for me
Perhaps death, the anguish of those who live
Perhaps loneliness, end for those who love

I can tell myself of the love (I’ve had):
It mustn’t be immortal, for it’s a flame
But it must be infinite while it lasts.

Poems for 7/11/22 - "For Thomas Hardy" by Jane Cooper and "Nobody Comes" by Thomas Hardy

Jane Cooper - (1924-2007)

"For Thomas Hardy"

(after reading "Nobody Comes," dated on my birthday)

But you were wrong that desolate dusk

When up the street the crawl

Of age and night grew tall

As a shadow-self leaning away

From the gray religious husk

Of a streetlamp keeping watch above dead day.

Another took some risk.

You thought yourself alone

In a world whose nearest ghost

Was the alien pentecost

Of strumming telegraph, the throb

Of a motor quickly gone--

While over the animal sea my outraged sob Took life from the same dawn.

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

"Nobody Comes"

TREE-LEAVES labour up and down,
And through them the fainting light
Succumbs to the crawl of night.
Outside in the road the telegraph wire
To the town from the darkening land
Intones to travelers like a spectral lyre
Swept by a spectral hand.

A car comes up, with lamps full-glare,
That flash upon a tree:
It has nothing to do with me,
And whangs along in a world of its own,
Leaving a blacker air;
And mute by the gate I stand again alone,
And nobody pulls up there.
                                      — 9 October 1924

[first published in Hardy's Human Shows, Far Phantasies, Songs, and Trifles (1925).]

Poem for 7/7/22 - "When after a long silence..." by Mark Strand

 

Titian - The Flaying of Marsyas (c. 1575)

From Dark Harbor
by Mark Strand

I

When after a long silence one picks up the pen
And leans over the paper and says to himself:
Today I shall consider Marsyas

Whose body was flayed to an excess
Of nakedness, who made no crime that would square
With what he was made to suffer.

Today I shall consider the shredded remains of Marsyas
What do they mean as they gather the sunlight
That falls in small pieces through the trees,

As in Titian's late painting. Poor Marsyas,
A body, a body of work as it turns and falls
Into suffering, becoming the flesh of light,

Which is fed to onlookers centuries later.
Can this be the cost of encompassing pain?
After a long silence, would I, whose body

Is whole, sheltered, kept in the dark by a mind
That prefers it that way, know what I'd done
And what its worth was? Or is a body scraped

From the bone of experience, the chart of suffering
To be read in such ways that all flesh might be redeemed,
At least for the moment, the moment it passes into song.

MARSYAS was a Phrygian Satyr who invented the music of the flute. He found the very first flute which had been crafted but cast away by the goddess Athena who had been displeased by the bloating of the cheeks. Marsyas later challenged the god Apollon to a musical contest but lost when the god demanded they play their instruments upside-down in the second round--a feat ill-suited to the flute. As punishment for his hubris, Apollon had Marsyas tied to a tree and flayed alive. The rustic gods then transformed him into a stream.

Poem for 7/6/22 - "For Grief" by John O'Donohue

 

“For Grief” by John O’Donohue

ON JANUARY 15, 2019 BY CHRISTINA'S WORDSIN POETRY

When you lose someone you love,

Your life becomes strange,

The ground beneath you gets fragile,

Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;

And some dead echo drags your voice down

Where words have no confidence.

Your heart has grown heavy with loss;

And though this loss has wounded others too,

No one knows what has been taken from you

When the silence of absence deepens.

 

Flickers of guilt kindle regret

For all that was left unsaid or undone.

 

There are days when you wake up happy;

Again inside the fullness of life,

Until the moment breaks

And you are thrown back

Onto the black tide of loss.

 

Days when you have your heart back,

You are able to function well

Until in the middle of work or encounter,

Suddenly with no warning,

You are ambushed by grief.

 

It becomes hard to trust yourself.

All you can depend on now is that

Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.

More than you, it knows its way

And will find the right time

To pull and pull the rope of grief

Until that coiled hill of tears

Has reduced to its last drop.

 

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance

With the invisible form of your departed;

And, when the work of grief is done,

The wound of loss will heal

And you will have learned

To wean your eyes

From that gap in the air

And be able to enter the hearth

In your soul where your loved one

Has awaited your return

All the time.

 

“For Grief” by John O’Donohue, from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings (Doubleday, 2008).