In praise of poetry (Martin Newell). Fragmento.

Poetry is no less than this:
An unexpected workplace kiss
The brandy in the spirit cage
A salve upon our wounded age
That lustful swell, the secret damp
The yellow of the attic lamp
The drifting, smoky, hazel haze
Of wooded hills on autumn days
Between the thoughts of summer lost
And anvil of the winter frost

Alabanza de la poesía (fragmento)

La poesía es nada más y nada menos:
Un beso inesperado en el trabajo
El brandy en la barrica de roble
Una salve en nuestra época jodida
Esa lujuria, ese secreto
El amarillo de la luz en lo alto
La niebla de avellana que se mueve
En las colinas con bosques en otoño
Entre pensamientos del verano perdido
Y el miedo a los fríos del invierno

Feliz cumpleaños.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my lions. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

Lolita, luz de mi vida, fuego de mis entrañas. Mi pecado, mi alma. Lo-li--ta: la punta de la lengua emprende un viaje de tres pasos desde el paladar hasta caer, en el tercero, en los dientes. Lo. Li. Ta.

Feliz cumpleaños, hermosa

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my lions. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

Lolita, luz de mi vida, fuego de mis entrañas. Mi pecado, mi alma. Lo-li-ta: la lengua que emprende un viaje de tres pasos desde el paladar hasta los dientes. Lo. Li. Ta.

Sylvia Plath.

Birthday Present.

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,

Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.

Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.

You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.

I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.

To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.

Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,

Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.

You are silver-suited for the occasion.
O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth,
I should be sixty

By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.

If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.

I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.

And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

Φελείς να κοιμηθείς μαξι μου;

Robin Ekiss

Edison in Love

Thomas Edison loved a doll
with a tiny phonograph inside
because he made her speak.

Is there any other reason
to love a woman? Did she say
the ghost of my conception

or something equally demure?
It’s hard to be sure how he feels
when he holds me, I fall apart.

I’m projecting here. He didn’t feel
her first transgression
was in having no expression.

René Descartes, too, traveled alone
with a doll-in-a-box
he called his daughter. Francine,

Francine... is it better to be silent
and wait for everything
we were promised?

Or should we love them back,
the way a train loves its destination,
as if we have the machinery necessary for it?

Edison enamorado

Tomás Edison estaba enamorado de una muñeca
que tenía dentro un fonógrafo chiquito
porque era él quien la hacía hablar.

¿Hay alguna otra razón
para amar a una mujer? ¿Dice ella
el fantasma de mi concepción

o algo igualmente recatado?
Resulta dificil estar seguro de cómo se siente
cuando me abraza, me rompo.

Me estoy proyectando. Él no sintió
que su primera trasgresión fuera
no tener expresión.

René Descartes también viajaba
con una muñeca en una caja
a la que llamaba su hija. Francine,

Francine... ¿es mejor callar
y esperar todo aquello
que nos fuera prometido?

¿O debemos devolverles su amor
como un tren ama su destino,
como si tuvieramos la maquinaria para ello?

Damir Sodan

Antarktik
blažena bjelina
udaljenih mjesta.
obična čista majica
u kojoj nisi nikoga ubio.
u pet ujutro u hotelskoj sobi
kopaš po torbi
tražiš pjenu za brijanje
i misliš na Antarktik.
Zbilja – gdje bi ti bio kraj
da si se kojim slučajem
oduvijek ovako rano
budio.

ANTARCTIC
Blessed be the whiteness
of distant places,
a clean, ordinary T-shirt
with no one to kill!
At 05:00 A.M. in a hotel room
you rummage through your bag
looking for shaving foam
and thinking of the Antarctic.
Indeed, there would have been no
stopping you, had you
always been ready
for such an early start.
(Traducción del croata al inglés de Damir Sodan y Stephen M. Dickey)

ANTÁRTICA
Bendita sea la blancura
de los lugares remotos,
un playera normal, limpia
con nadie a quien matar.
A las cinco de la mañana
en una habitación de hotel
rebuscas por entre tu bolsa
la crema de afeitar
y piensas en la Antártica.
De hecho, no hubiera habido manera
de pararte si hubieras
estado preparado
para un inicio tan temprano.

DAMBUDZO MARECHERA

SHOCK: FOR BETTINA

Like meteorites, through my long
Isolated heart-atmosphere, you
Burst incandescent over my platinum history.
My future in earthquake reeled; my present only on
Seismograph could point to the cataclysm – no
Evidence of you attached to my stone and flesh,
Only nightmarish passions which I can still hear
When you shake your head. Shake it vigorously.
Nuclear tests of underground love!

AGITACIÓN: PARA BETINA

Como meteoritos por la ya mucho tiempo
Solitaria y desolada atmósfera del corazón
Ardes incandescente sobre mi historia de platino.
Mi futuro enroscado en un terremoto, mi presente apenas
En un sismógrafo podría señalar el cataclismo.
No hay evidencia de que estés unida a mi piedra, a mi carne,
Sólo pasiones de pesadilla que aún escucho
Cuando mueves tu cabeza. Muévela con fuerza.
Pruebas nucleares de un amor subterráneo.

Geoffrey Brock

Exercitia Spiritualia

We met, like lovers in movies, on a quay
Beside the Seine. I was reading Foucault
And feeling smart. She called him an assault
On sense, and smiled. She was from Paraguay,
Was reading Saint Ignatius. Naivete
Aroused her, so she guided me to Chartres
And Sacre Coeur, to obscure theatres
For passion plays - she was my exegete.
In Rome (for Paris hadn't been enough)
We took a room, made love on the worn parquet,
Then strolled to Sant'Ignazio. Strange duet:
Pilgrim and pagan, gazing, as though through
That ceiling's flatness, toward some epitome
Of hoped-for depth. I swore I saw a dome.

Ejercicios espirituales
Nos encontramos, como los amantes de las películas, en un muelle
junto al Sena. Yo estaba leyendo a Foucalt
y me sentía inteligente. Ella lo llamó un asalto
al sentido y sonrió. Ella era paraguaya,
leía a San Ignacio. La ingenuidad
la animaba. Por eso me llevó a Chartres
y al Sacre Coeur, a oscuros teatros
para ver autos sacramentales. Ella fue mi exégeta.
En Roma (porque París no fue bastante)
alquilamos un cuarto y nos amamos sobre el viejo parquet.
Después nos lanzamos corriendo a San Ignacio. Extraño duo:
pregrina y pagano, mirando, como a través
de la lisura del techo, hacia algún epitome
de la anhelada profundidad. Juro que vi una cúpula.

Laurie Duggan

3
the side of a silo
overcome by vegetation

4
an eye
or moon
in blue night

3
el costado del silo
vencido por la vegetación

4
un ojo
o la luna
en la noche azul