Posts tagged ‘2005’

Friday, 25 June 2021

Think of Others by Mahmoud Darwish

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).
As you conduct your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).
As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).
As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).
As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).
As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).
As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: “If only I were a candle in the dark”).


Date: 2005 (original in Arabic); 2009 (translation in English)

By: Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)

Translated by: Mohammed Shaheen (19??- )

Monday, 14 June 2021

Yes, It Can Be Admitted Now by Kathleen Jesme

Yes, it can be admitted now: she had a secret once

carried like a stone in her pocket until

(is this how what we are
becomes unspeakable.)

what if years later running her hands down her body she found
that stone, worn now,

and named it
or God
or something




Date: 2005

By: Kathleen Jesme (1949- )

Thursday, 29 April 2021

Work by Simon Hall

Abebot vaccuums dust
runs on fruit

Fredbot is the stampbot
can get cantankerous

Horatiobot stacks piles
dreams of pet monkey

Janbot1 is a polyglot superbot

Janbot2 stressed puffs

Kenbot runs on chips
ran twelve second hundred once

Maxbot’s eyes shrink people

Mrsvandongenbot’s operated for fifty one years

Mrsfergusonbot has replacement ears

Paulinebot had a bad fall
can’t bend

Sambot often loses head
breaks down

Simonbot is new
covered in dust.

From: 31 May 2005 – Cordite Poetry Review: Simon Hall: Work – Trove (

Date: 2005

By: Simon Hall (19??- )

Friday, 15 January 2021

Hyperion’s Fate Song by Johann Christian Friedrich Hölderlin

You walk above in the light,
Soulful genius, on a yielding floor!
God’s shining breezes
Gently touch you
As the fingers of a musician
Play on otherworldly strings

Fateless, like a nursing infant asleep,
The gods draw breath;
As chastely preserved
As modest buds,
Their minds are always
In flower,
And their soulful eyes
Gaze calmly and eternally
In silent clarity.

But it’s our fate
To have no place to rest,
As suffering mortals
Blindly fall and vanish
From one hour
To the next,
Like water falling
From cliff to cliff, downward
For years to uncertainty.


Date: c1800 (original in German); 2005 (translation in English)

By: Johann Christian Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843)

Translated by: Paul Hoover (1946- ) and Maxine Chernoff (1952- )

Saturday, 3 October 2020

Bag of Bones by Dunya Mikhail

What good luck!
She has found his bones.
The skull is also in the bag
the bag in her hand
like all other bags
in all other trembling hands.
His bones, like thousands of bones
in the mass graveyard,
his skull, not like any other skull.
Two eyes or holes
with which he listened to music
that told his own story,
a nose
that never knew clean air,
a mouth, open like a chasm,
was not like that when he kissed her
there, quietly,
not in this place
noisy with skulls and bones and dust
dug up with questions:
What does it mean to die all this death
in a place where the darkness plays all this silence?
What does it mean to meet your loved ones now
with all of these hollow places?
To give back to your mother
on the occasion of death
a handful of bones
she had given to you
on the occasion of birth?
To depart without death or birth certificates
because the dictator does not give receipts
when he takes your life?
The dictator has a heart, too,
a balloon that never pops.
He has a skull, too, a huge one
not like any other skull.
It solved by itself a math problem
That multiplied the one death by millions
to equal homeland
The dictator is the director of a great tragedy.
He has an audience, too,
an audience that claps
until the bones begin to rattle—
the bones in bags,
the full bag finally in her hand,
unlike her disappointed neighbor
who has not yet found her own.


Date: 1993 (original in Arabic); 2005 (translation in English)

By: Dunya Mikhail (1965- )

Translated by: Elizabeth Winslow (19??- )

Sunday, 30 August 2020

Riding the Earth (Jewed ‘I-Hoi) by Ofelia Zepeda

Jeweḍ ‘I-Hoi

Kus hascu hab a:g mat hab o cei,
“añ ep ta:tk mat si ‘i-hoi g jeweḍ,
nap pi ṣa’i ta:tk a:pi?”
“Pi’a, pi’a.”
Ñia, kus hascu hab a:g?
Kutp hems heg hab a:g mat o ṣ??-hai g jeweḍ k o ‘i-hoi
a no heg hab a:g mat sikol o memḍad mo g milga:n b a’aga rotation.
Ñia, kutp hems heg hab a:g mo hegai ta:tk.
Kutp hems hab e-elid mo an ke:k id jeweḍ da:m c da’a an da:m ka:cim oidc.
Ceṣṣajcug g jeweḍ hab masma mat hemakc g s-melidkam kawyu o ceṣṣajcug.
An meḍad c g mo’oj ṣelim an e-wiḍut huhu’u mehidag ku:bs oidc.
S-ke:g hab ma:s.
Heg an we:maj wiappoi mo an ko:mcug g taṣ c gahu amjeḍ i-bebhe
si alig ta:gio amjeḍ gamhu hukkam hudñig ta:gio.
Ñia, kut hegai maṣ d maṣad ceḍ o odham o si al hehemad matṣ an o bij.

Riding the Earth

She said she felt the earth move again.
I never knew whether she meant she felt a tremor
or whether it was the rotation of the earth.
I like to think she felt the rotation, because
anyone can feel a tremor.
And when she felt this
she could see herself
standing on the earth’s surface.
Her thick, wide feet solidly planted,
toes digging in.
Her visualization so strong
she almost feels her body arch
against the centrifugal force of the rotation
She sees herself with her long hair floating,
floating in the atmosphere of stardust
She rides her planet the way a child rides a toy.
Her company is the boy who takes the sun on its daily journey
and the man in the moon smiles as she passes by.

In memory of Barbara Lannan


Date: 2005 (original in Tohono O’odham); 2005 (translation in English)

By: Ofelia Zepeda (1952- )

Translated by: Ofelia Zepeda (1952- )

Sunday, 16 August 2020

Better than Nature by Edward Phillip Burger

? 24 HOURS = 138240 SCREWS PER DAY
? 365 DAYS = 504576000 SCREWS PER YEAR

From: Burger, Eddy, “Better than Nature” in Cordite Poetry Review, 21.1: ROBO, 17 March 2005.

Date: 2005

By: Edward Phillip Burger (1962- )

Friday, 7 August 2020

Mongrel Heart by David Baker

Up the dog bounds to the window, baying
like a basset his doleful, tearing sounds
from the belly, as if mourning a dead king,

and now he’s howling like a beagle — yips, brays,
gagging growls — and scratching the sill paintless,
that’s how much he’s missed you, the two of you,

both of you, mother and daughter, my wife
and child. All week he’s curled at my feet,
warming himself and me watching more TV,

or wandered the lonely rooms, my dog shadow,
who like a poodle now hops, amped-up windup
maniac yo-yo with matted curls and snot nose

smearing the panes, having heard another car
like yours taking its grinding turn down
our block, or a school bus, or bird-squawk,

that’s how much he’s missed you, good dog,
companion dog, dog-of-all-types, most excellent dog
I told you once and for all we should never get.


Date: 2005

By: David Baker (1954- )

Tuesday, 28 July 2020

Salt by Robert James Berry

for Ahila

A word like salt
needs no adjectives
to taste it.

Haunches of ham cure;
they hang saltily.

Thirst of the flat earth
is apocryphally,
a pillar of grief.

But I recall you
rolling sea salt between your
thumb and little finger

splendidly nude

your sight framing the cabbage trees
and a wall of rain, eating celery.

From: Berry, Robert James, “Salt” in Paperplates, Vol. 6, No. 3, 2005, p. 12.

Date: 2005

By: Robert James Berry (1960- )

Monday, 6 July 2020

Love is the Answer to God’s Question by Dorothea Lasky

Art cannot be without love.
There are no paintings done out of hunger.
That is longing you are thinking of, not hunger.
In you, I am sitting alone on a frighteningly sunny day.
The yellow sun rays making even my fingernails seem blue.
My ankles are completely shaven.
I am like some kind of freak,
But you see, now love is on my side.
I am eating tropical jelly beans and drinking coffee.
I have just gotten satsuma body wash and
Elderflower eye gel and orange essence facial cleanser.
Later I will take a bath in bergamots
And the bathroom will fill with moonsun.
The clear milky light will flood on me.
Completely bloodless, I in the white tub, surrounded with greenish fruits,
Will be almost not breathing.
The great event which is beauty
Can only happen when one is full.
You to me are like leaves on candy.
All of a sudden the candy is growing
And from the candy, blue flowers and leaves grow.
Made entirely of sugar,
Their grainy pores give food to the soul.


Date: 2005

By: Dorothea Lasky (1978- )