Posts tagged ‘2006’

Sunday, 2 July 2017

Sententiae by Kassiani

I hate a murderer condemning the hot-tempered.
I hate the adulterer when he judges the fornicator.
I hate the leper who drives out the leprous.

I hate a rich man complaining as a poor man.
I hate the poor man boasting as in wealth.
I hate a debtor who sleeps unconcernedly.

I hate the verbose in an unsuitable time.
I hate silence when it is a time for speaking.
I hate the one who conforms to all ways.

I hate the one who does not encourage everyone with words.
I hate one who speaks before examining.
I hate the one who teaches knowing nothing.

From: http://www.istanbulkadinmuzesi.org/en/kassia

Date: 9th century (original in Greek); 2006 (translation in English)

By: Kassiani (c805-c865)

Translated by: Anna Margaret Silvas (1954- )

Wednesday, 19 April 2017

Cansoneta 7 by Marcabru

Before the season turns green,
I will sing and I have the right!
Rejoice about Love who wants:
me, I have neither song nor complaint.
To a man who acts all courteous,
I don’t wish worse disease,
for he soon dies of starvation and cold
who is in the clutches of Love.

I do not want, nor desire, Love,
so much it knows how to deceive and lie.
For those reason I want to tell you
I never could feel the joy of love.
I wish it so much ill and hate it so,
that the remembrance alone makes me sick.
I was foolish in serving Love
but we have come to part.

For Love used to be gay,
but I will never be so
as one deceived me and betrayed me.
This is why I give up and renounce love.
He is loaded by quite a senseless burden
he who is in Love’s thrall.
Lord god, he was born in an evil hour
who feeds on such madness!

For Love is full of deception:
it changes its mind for money,
and turns the most valiant into despicable people,
for the wicked will have it before them.
And don’t go womanizing
without money, and by toiling!
Love that becomes a commodity:
the Devil may take it!

I’ll tell you how it is with Love:
if you were worth as much as a marquis,
do not dare court
after becoming poor.
It doesn’t matter how much you’ve given and provided:
you will not be considered worth a quarter.
One won’t even give you a thank
after you’ve ran out of money.

And I say to the suitors
who want to dream of love
not to make their desire apparent.
And I say this in their interest
because he is rather miserable
who is too eager to love
for he loves too much
soon turns from bad to worse.

The song is over:
I say no more to Sir Perman;
some, who act as lords of Love
should rather be cheating.
A lover who has himself compared to Bazan,
for Love, acts like a fool.
And let him not cross himself,
who will be deceived by Love!

From: http://www.trobar.org/troubadours/marcabru/mcbr7.php

Date: c1140 (original in Occitan); 2006 (translation in English)

By: Marcabru (fl. 1130-1150)

Translated by: Leonardo Malcovati (19??- )

Wednesday, 4 January 2017

Be Here First by Ellen Doré Watson

I don’t know my trees but I know my trees.
Their angling for what has spurned them;
their spitting and drooling, the battered

crocuses at their feet. We share the roofline,
the cesspool, I’m responsible for all that salt.
From my stone stoop I watch the lilac’s sun-

starved horizontal heroics, the still-naked
redbud shrugging off bitty unlit lights.
Neglect leans back on the lawn chair.

Must we dislike ourselves to change?
Sick of every other part of me, I approve
my hand slobbered by the horse’s jawing

a hacked apple. I say fear is behind our
everything. Or brazenness, which is just
a jacket fear puts on. The mare’s sudden

stillness says look: fox. The world as ever
offering now distraction, now danger.
But no. How much I owe the trees, the hissing

raccoon outsmarting my heart. The shed
moving towards ruin in its own slow time.
There’s something sprouting on the kitchen

table that’s not supposed to. Everything
eager, rude and alive. Not just the knotweed
but the crows’ hideous vowels; buds blasted

open or whipped young off the tree. Take your
pick: the ridge hurtling for the last rag of snow
or simply lifting off with the first smack of dawn.

From: https://orionmagazine.org/poetry/be-here-first/

Date: 2006

By: Ellen Doré Watson (1950- )

Wednesday, 20 April 2016

This is a Letter by Rebecca Dunham

This is a letter to the worm-threaded earth.

This is a letter to November, its gray bowl of sky riven by black-branched trees.
A letter to split-tomato skins, overripe apples, & a flock of fruit flies lifting
from the blueing clementines’ wood crate.
To the broken confetti of late fall leaves.
This is a letter to rosemary.

This is a letter to the floor’s sink & creak, the bedroom door’s torn hinge
moaning its good-night.
This is to the unshaven cheek.
To cedar, mothballs, camphor, & last winter’s unwashed wool.
This is a letter to the rediscovered,

to mulch, pine needles, the moon, frost, flats of pansies, the backyard,
hunger, night, the unseen.
This is a letter to soil, thrumming as it waits to be turned.
This is a letter to compost, eggshell’s bone-ash chips, fruit rinds curved like
fingernails, & stale chunks of bread.
A letter to the intimate dark—mouth-warm & damp as a bed.

This is a letter to the planet’s scavenging lips.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182205

Date: 2006

By: Rebecca Dunham (19??- )

Thursday, 30 July 2015

Invective Against the Bumblebee by Diane Lockward

Escapee from a tight cell, yellow-streaked,
sex-deprived sycophant to a queen,
you have dug divots in my yard
and like a squatter trespassed in my garage.

I despise you for you have swooped down
on my baby boy, harmless on a blanket of lawn,
his belly plumping through his orange stretch suit,
yellow hat over the fuzz of his head.
Though you mistook him for a sunflower,
I do not exonerate you,
for he weeps in my arms, trembles, and drools,
finger swollen like a breakfast sausage.
Now my son knows pain.
Now he fears the grass.

Fat-assed insect! Perverse pedagogue!
Henceforth, may flowers refuse to open for you.
May cats chase you in the garden.
I want you shellacked by rain, pecked by shrikes,
mauled by skunks, paralyzed by early frost.
May farmers douse your wings with pesticide.
May you never again taste the nectar
of purple clover or honeysuckle.
May you pass by an oak tree just in time
to be pissed on by a dog.

And tomorrow may you rest on my table
as I peruse the paper. May you shake
beneath the scarred face of a serial killer.
May you be crushed by the morning news.

From: http://www.culturalweekly.com/diane-lockward-three-poems/

Date: 2006

By: Diane Lockward (19??- )

Monday, 11 May 2015

The Bunny Gives Us a Lesson in Eternity by Mary Ruefle

We are a sad people, without hats.
The history of our nation is tragically benign.
We like to watch the rabbits screwing in the graveyard.
We are fond of the little bunny with the bent ear
who stands alone in the moonlight
reading what little text there is on the graves.
He looks quite desirable like that.
He looks like the center of the universe.
Look how his mouth moves mouthing the words
while the others are busy making more of him.
Soon the more will ask of him to write their love
letters and he will oblige, using the language
of our ancestors, those poor clouds in the ground,
beloved by us who have been standing here for hours,
a proud people after all.

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/178838

Date: 2006

By: Mary Ruefle (1952- )

Sunday, 11 January 2015

Home by Richard Newman

I like my hometown more
the longer I’m away.
Memories, like trick candles,
flicker as I pull in.

The longer I’ve been away
the less I recognize. Stars
flicker as I pull in.
Where are the woods and fields?

I barely recognize the stars.
Home is where
my boyhood woods and fields
now offer beautiful new homes.

Home is where they said
Leave now so we might miss you someday.
The beautiful new homes say
We’re better off since you left.

We might miss you someday—
yes, that would be my wish.
Home is where they’re better off since you left.
Blow into town and blow right out.

Yes, that would be my wish—
that I liked my hometown more.
Blow through town. Blow out
memories like trick candles.

From: http://www.versedaily.org/2007/home.shtml

Date: 2006

By: Richard Newman (1966- )

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

“’There’s Just One Little Thing: A Ring. I Don’t Mean On the Phone.’” – Eartha Kitt by Kathy Fagan Grandinetti

In lieu of the latkes,
the usual caroling,
and adorable Kazakh
orphans, instead of the crèche
and, après ski,
the figgy pudding slash
kwanzaa stew,
the yuletide blogging,
the tinsel, the garland,
and eight maids eggnogging,
allow me to mince
neither word nor pie
and provide advice
and a list forthwith:
Do not buy and regret,
dear. A diamond
is what to get,
dear. Its extra weight
I’m built to carry.
The starboard lilt,
the opiate
drag on one knuckle,
I’m willing to accommodate
and promise not to buckle
under. Been bottom.
Done shouldered.
It’s my time to
plunder, and have a little lovely
something, a nothing-too-modest
something, to set off
all this black
and dazzle the crosshatch
right out of my skin.
O halogen track,
O twinkling lights,
O shining star
upon the highest bough:
you’ll soon learn how
to be the ladies in waiting,
stable pony to the thoroughbred,
Martin to a Lewis,
Cathy to a Patty,
mere vein to the carotid—
i.e., to be outwatted.
O Christmas
tree, dear dreidl,
could it be more plainly said?
Some demand the head
upon a platter, others lick
the silver off their spoon.
This childless mother
desires neither moon
nor man but the carat
dangled all this time.
So snare it,
Santa, from that other
sorry cow.
The Baby Jesus phoned,
says I should wear it now.

From: http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/poem/2006/10/_theres_just_one_little_thing_a_ring_i_dont_mean_on_the_phone_eartha_kitt.html

Date: 2006

By: Kathy Fagan Grandinetti (19??- )

Friday, 3 October 2014

Fear and Trembling by Lauren K. Alleyne

After Kierkegaard

And there are many ways to come undone
—some more exquisite than others. Ask Eve,
she will tell you apple-lust unwrapped her
left her cold and with a word for shiver.
Lot’s wife is witness that a backward glance
is enough—nostalgia pillared her. But,
I imagine the somewhat greater deeds:
picture the Red Sea unstitched like a braid;
the lion’s den, its many hungry mouths;
Isaac’s bewildered screams: why, daddy, why?
And what terrible choice to peel back doubt
like a bandage, without question or lack
to say Here am I, to renounce relief:
step in, seize the knife, and to know belief.

From: http://www.2river.org/2RView/10_4/poems/alleyne.html

Date: 2006

By: Lauren K. Alleyne (19??- )

Thursday, 11 September 2014

Pig Wrestling by Carrie Jerrell

Well-greased and terrified, it screeches its way
into the pen where we four high-school girls,
last year’s division champs, anticipate
its first evasive move. It barrels left,
zig-zagging right between us while we slog
barefoot, our jeans rolled to the knees, through the muck
three inches deep. The crowd shouts strategies
as we close in, the pig prepares to dodge
us like a cornered memory that’s stuck
somewhere between forbidden and forgotten.
We spring together, struggle to subdue
it, stop its squealing, feel its slimy skin
beneath us — muscles twitching. When the bell calls time,
it twists off in escape, just like those thoughts
that bolt away after their capture, more
alive than when you pinned them for the count.

From: http://www.porkopolis.org/library/pig-poetry/carrie-jerrell/

Date: 2006

By: Carrie Jerrell (1976- )