Posts tagged ‘1964’

Tuesday, 15 September 2020

Stanza by Diego Hurtado de Mendoza y Pacheco

That tree whose leaves are trembling
is yearning for something.

That tree so lovely to look at
acts as if it wants to give flowers:
it is yearning for something.

That tree so lovely to see
acts as if it wants to flower:
it is yearning for something.

It acts as if it wants to give flowers:
they are already showing; come out and look:
it is yearning for something.

It acts as if it wants to flower:
they are already showing; come out and see:
it is yearning for something.

They are already showing: come out and look.
Let the ladies come and pick the fruits:
it is yearning for something.

From: Florit, Eugenio (ed.), Introduction to Spanish Poetry: A Dual-Language Book, 1991, Dover Publications, Inc: New York, p. 13.

Date: 16th century (original in Spanish); 1964 (translation in English)

By: Diego Hurtado de Mendoza y Pacheco (1503-1575)

Translated by: Eugenio Florit y Sánchez de Fuentes (1903-1999)

Sunday, 26 July 2020

Metonymy as an Approach to a Real World by William Bronk

Whether what we sense of this world
is the what of this world only, or the what
of which of several possible worlds
–which what?–something of what we sense
may be true, may be the world, what it is, what we sense.
For the rest, a truce is possible, the tolerance
of travelers, eating foreign foods, trying words
that twist the tongue, to feel that time and place,
not thinking that this is the real world.

Conceded, that all the clocks tell local time;
conceded, that “here” is anywhere we bound
and fill a space; conceded, we make a world:
is something caught there, contained there,
something real, something which we can sense?
Once in a city blocked and filled, I saw
the light lie in the deep chasm of a street,
palpable and blue, as though it had drifted in
from say, the sea, a purity of space.


Date: 1964

By: William Bronk (1918-1999)

Tuesday, 13 August 2019

I And by Tridib Mitra

Autumn’s phantasmagorical tempest
I at the door of 1964
wooden knocks–who are you wood pecker?
What is this?
Shocked vision
chances dreams haha reality’s become more dense
still boozed in love?
another revolt squanders like 1857 thrashes
Fire in Shantiniketan, fire here at Calcutta
In Midnapore Shyambazar Khalasitola
Fire in eyes face heart cock
This fireball gnarling
in happiness hatred pain intellect dream reality
All—junk–ho ho smoke net—
tinsel like groundnut
all around chirping
afar angry shadows roar, flounder on earth…


Date: ?1964 (original in Bengali); ?2009 (translation in English)

By: Tridib Mitra (1940- )

Translated by: Tridib Mitra (1940- )

Friday, 21 December 2018

Fairbanks Under the Solstice by John Meade Haines

Slowly, without sun, the day sinks
toward the close of December.
It is minus sixty degrees.

Over the sleeping houses a dense
fog rises—smoke from banked fires,
and the snowy breath of an abyss
through which the cold town
is perceptibly falling.

As if Death were a voice made visible,
with the power of illumination…

Now, in the white shadow
of those streets, ghostly newsboys
make their rounds, delivering
to the homes of those
who have died of the frost
word of the resurrection of Silence.


Date: 1964

By: John Meade Haines (1924-2011)

Saturday, 29 September 2018

The Soul by Benny Andersen

My soul is not really working
I have so much inside
that I can’t get out
don’t have any use for it myself
but maybe someone else would
could save someone
from something
give a little support when it counted
people go by
with oozing depression
gaping problems
and I have the solution inside me
but it’s just getting it out
I stand on my head
do cartwheels
but all kinds of other things
come out
corrections to old memories
I’m not really like that
I can almost taste it
it’s stuck in my throat
my head feels like a champagne cork
I shake myself a little and say
just a second
here comes the big bang
then everyone will be happy
but people get tired of waiting
if only they believed in me
then the big bang would come
but people don’t have time
think it’s just the usual
don’t know what they’re missing
and there I stand
misunderstood volcano
burning to let out my lava
I’ve got to try again
Give me a second –


Date: 1964 (original in Danish); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Benny Andersen (1929- )

Translated by: Michael Favala Goldman (1966- )

Tuesday, 18 September 2018

As the Ruin Falls by Clive Staples Lewis

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you —
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through;
I want God, you, all friends merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure are the goals I seek;
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin;
I talk of love — a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek,
But self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that you now have taught me (but how late!) my lack,
I see the chasm; and everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.


Date: 1964 (published)

By: Clive Staples Lewis (1898-1963)

Friday, 30 March 2018

You Who Created Everything by Anonymous

You who created everything,
My sweet Father, heavenly King,
Hear me, I your son implore,
For Man this flesh and bone I bore.

Clear and bright my breast and side,
Blood on the wideness gushing wide,
Holes in my body crucified.

Held stiff and stark my long arms rise,
And dim and dark fall on my eyes:
Like sculptured marble hang my thighs.

My feet are red with flowing blood,
Their holes washed over by the flood.
Show Man’s sins mercy, Father on high!
With all my wounds to you I cry!

From: Stone, Brian (ed. and transl.), Medieval English Verse, 1973, Penguin Books: London, p. [unnumbered].

Date: 14th century (original in Middle English); 1964 (translation in modern English)

By: Anonymous

Translated by: Brian Ernest Stone (1919-1995)

Sunday, 16 July 2017

Dedication Page from “Selected Poems” by Utpal Kumar Basu

One day, when its time, sit beside these verses
And pull it closer to you, like a broken table and keep a steaming tumbler
On it’s letters. Keep a jar of water and hear a cough or two,
Spit, yawn, close eyes in drowsiness… as if deaf

Doesn’t hear unwanted truths. Lies. And this, it’s witty cunningness
Is recent and without conscience. Doesn’t even bother to know-
who its neighbours are
Or read someone else- It dreads the unknown- and that time
Returned from the sea with a fistful of pebbles… Give him too much of

Petty household choirs. Keep accounts. And make him
toil with futility- unacknowledged
As much as you can- And let me hand you over
That night’s cremation, rituals aftermath, drenched shoots-
Bundles of unused clothes, blind, insanity… Take a look when you can.


Date: ?1964 (original in Bengali); 2010 (translation in English)

By: Utpal Kumar Basu (1939-2015)

Translated by: Debayudh Chatterjee (1991- )

Friday, 1 July 2016

When Autumn Lay Like a Drawn Sword in the Hills by Thomas McEvilley

When autumn lay like a drawn sword in the hills
And chilled us with its deathly radiance,
We flushed like leaves that beauty’s fever kills
And asked what lover loves with permanence.

And rising to the trail we rode away
From fever of that blade, and would not see
Where all around the dreams of lovers lay
Which once the summer guarded jealously.

And autumnstruck we would not hear the song
That echoes in the painful hearts of these
Who lingered by love’s fountain overlong
And lost their dreams among the fallen leaves.


Date: c1964

By: Thomas McEvilley (1939-2013)

Monday, 12 May 2014

Footnote by Barbara Howes

Love is a great leveler.
Some of us
May fancy we have mastered desire–
Not likely; it’s too imperious. For many
Love is a great
Barrier; some are ill
With fear of it. Few, really,
Have ever breathed its blue oracular air
Deep in their lungs. Love is a bell
That sounds and bodies forth the whole being.
We need own
So little: half a bed;
So much: hope that love is, will be


Date: 1964

By: Barbara Howes (1914-1996)