Posts tagged ‘1976’

Thursday, 30 December 2021

The Snowfall is So Silent by Miguel de Unamuno

The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless;
snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls,
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere escapes it.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off
as rain does,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
they bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.


Date: 1922 (original in Spanish); 1976 (translation in English)

By: Miguel de Unamuno (1864-1936)

Translated by: Robert Bly (1926-2021)

Sunday, 12 September 2021

Separation by Laura Crafton Gilpin

My shadow is leaving me.
It has rejected my solidness.
It says I am too definitive;
I lack ambiguity.
It is tired of my pedestrian ways.

I have offered it stability
but it wants to be free,
feathery, graceful as smoke,
to rise and drive, to dance,
most of all, to dance, unencumbered,
unrestrained by the bulk of my

I have tried to warn it
of the dangers of groundlessness
but it will not listen.

Poor shadow.
When I walk into a forest
I will find shreds of it
in all the trees.

From: Gilpin, Laura, The Hocus-Pocus of the Universe, 1977, Doubleday & Company, Inc: New York, p. 41.

Date: 1976

By: Laura Crafton Gilpin (1950-2007)

Sunday, 3 June 2018

Junction-Stream by Susan Safford Bright

at the corner
of barton creek and-the lower
colorado river
haggle over
ginger cinders
and river mist
longarmed liveoaks
to the riverbelly
from flashfloods
water settles
the earth together
wind here
clears the spirit,
a soft cloud
blows over austin
renoir city
rain on porcelain
carved a head once
for the riverwalk
its gone
wind’s glazed
with cooking grease
i feel engines
shake the land
building building
marketplaces expressways
in autumn
mallards stop here
the sky together
a man together
met a social scientist
how does it work?
i asked
can you stop it
no he said

From: Stake, Robert E., Easley, J. A. and Anastasiou Clifford J., Case Studies in Science Education: The Case Reports, 1978, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, p. 1-7.

Date: 1976

By: Susan Safford Bright (1945-2010)

Tuesday, 31 October 2017

The Widow’s Halloween by Wyatt Prunty

The pumpkin’s hollow head returns her gaze;
His yellow eyes are dancing in the flame.
And she, she has him on her window sill
Within a draft that flickers on his brain.

His jagged smile and diamond eyes
Are mirrored in the darkened panes.
Set to be seen, not see, to blaze before the wind
Or wither on the wick and snap black out.

Grinning backwards into the room.
On either side and looking in.
His gaze, she feels, was sharply cut
To burn beneath her dresses’ hems

Or follow her when reaching for the broom;
She wears the latest fashions as her age
But feels the flicker of his gaze
And will not pass near him.


Date: 1976

By: Wyatt Prunty (1947- )

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

The Dictator in Prison by Adélia Luzia Prado Freitas

The dictator is writing poetry,
poor fellow,
poor us for saying
poor fellow,
since he, too, has a memory
to conjure orange trees,
little bowls of pudding,
laughter and pleasant conversation—
a paradise of lowly delights.
The impatiens have barely opened
and the bees are already busy among them,
turning the day perfect.
Let’s not ridicule the bloodthirsty man
who, under the eyes of the guards,
pours his desire—equal to anyone’s—
into a notebook:
I want to be happy, I want an elastic body,
I want a horse, a sword and a good war!
The dictator is devout,
he observes his canonic hours
like the monks in the choir,
and dozes over the Koran.
I who live outside the walls
tremble for the fate
of a man who pounded the ground
with his iron boot.
Let no one interrupt the outcast’s prayer
or ridicule his verses.
God’s mercy is strange,
its mystery crushing.
For some unfathomable reason
I am not the prisoner.
My compassion is too large
to be my own.
He who invented hearts
loves this poor wretch with mine.


Date: 1976 (original in Portugese); 2007 (translation in English)

By: Adélia Luzia Prado Freitas (1935- )

Translated by: Ellen Doré Watson (1950- )

Tuesday, 27 December 2016

The Boys of Barr na Sráide by Edward Bernard “Sigerson” Clifford

O the town it climbs the mountain and looks upon the sea
And sleeping time or waking time ’tis there I long to be
To walk again that kindly street, the place I grew a man
With the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

With cudgels stout we roamed about to hunt for the dreoilín.
We searched for birds in every furze from Letter to Dooneen.
We sang for joy beneath the sky; life held no print or plan
And we boys in Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.

And when the hills were bleeding and the rifles were aflame
To the rebel homes of Kerry those Saxon strangers came
But the men who dared the Auxies and who fought the Black and Tans
Were the boys in Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

So here’s a toast to them tonight, those lads who laughed with me
By the groves of Carhan River or the slopes of Beenatee
John Dawley and Batt Andy and the Sheehans Con and Dan
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.

But now they toil on foreign soil where they have gone their way
Deep in the heart of London town or over in Broadway
And I am left to sing their deeds and to praise them while I can
Those boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran

And when the wheel of life runs down and when peace comes over me
O lay me down in that old town between the hills and sea
I’ll take my sleep in those green fields the place my life began
Where the boys of Barr na Sráide went hunting for the wran.


Date: ?1976

By: Edward Bernard “Sigerson” Clifford (1913-1985)

Saturday, 5 March 2016

Drunken Fisherman by A Reed Bank by Tang Yin

Punting pole stuck in the reeds, he ties up his skiff;
Late at night, the moon climbs to the top of the pole.
The old fisherman is dead drunk, call him, he won’t wake up,
In the morning he rises, frost-prints on the shadow of his raincoat.


Date: c1500 (original); 1976 (translation)

By: Tang Yin (1470-1524)

Translated by: Jonathan Chaves (1943- )