Posts tagged ‘2009’

Sunday, 10 April 2022

[Overflowing with Love] by Shiimoto Saimaro

Overflowing with love
the cat as coquettish
as a courtesan.

From: Addiss, Stephen; Yamamoto, Fumiko; and Yamamoto, Akira (eds. and transls.), Haiku: An Anthology of Japanese Poems, 2009, Shambhala Library: Boston, p. 7.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=cbs9Z3WnGcUC)

Date: c1730 (original in Japanese); 2009 (translation in English)

By: Shiimoto Saimaro (1656-1737)

Translated by: Stephen Addiss (1935- ), Fumiko Yamamoto (1934- ) and Akira Yamamoto (19??- )

Saturday, 29 January 2022

Morning Knowledge by Kevin Hart

My gentle father died when day was young,
When there was very little left to take:
Gray face, a raft of bones, a bitter ache,
A word or two still living on my tongue.

There’s bread that only dying men can eat,
Worn words that only weary men can say.
Sometimes those wispy words just slip away,
Sometimes that gritty bread falls on a sheet.

In those last days my dad ate nothing much;
His words were mostly gnawing at warm air.
Dark One, I’ll be the one to smooth his hair.
You be the one who lets him know my touch.

From: https://www.eurekastreet.com.au/article/five-poems-by-kevin-hart

Date: 2009

By: Kevin Hart (1954- )

Tuesday, 4 January 2022

January Drought by Conor O’Callaghan

It needn’t be tinder, this juncture of the year,
a cigarette second guessed from car to brush.

The woods’ parchment is given
to cracking asunder the first puff of wind.
Yesterday a big sycamore came across First
and Hawthorne and is there yet.

The papers say it has to happen,
if just as dribs and drabs on the asbestos siding.
But tonight is buckets of stars as hard and dry as dimes.

A month’s supper things stacks in the sink.
Tea brews from water stoppered in the bath
and any thirst carried forward is quenched thinking you,
piece by piece, an Xmas gift hidden
and found weeks after: the ribbon, the box.

I have reservoirs of want enough
to freeze many nights over.

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/52250/january-drought

Date: 2009

By: Conor O’Callaghan (1968- )

Monday, 13 December 2021

First Light by Richard Bauckham

After all the false dawns,
who is this who unerringly paints
the first rays in their true colours?
We have kept vigil with owls
when the occult noises of the night
fell tauntingly silent
and a breeze got up
as if for morning.
This time the trees tremble.
Is it with a kind of reckless joy
at the gentle light
lapping their leaves
like the very first turn of a tide?
Timid creatures creep out of burrows
sensing kindness
and the old crow on the cattle-shed roof
folds his wings and dreams.

From: https://theadventusproject.wordpress.com/resources/poetry/richard-bauckham-first-light/

Date: 2009

By: Richard Bauckham (1946- )

Friday, 10 December 2021

Myriad Stars, No. 34 by Bing Xin/Ping Hsin

The creators of the new continent
are not those roaring waves,
but the minuscule sands beneath them.

From: Lin, Julia C. (ed. and transl.), Twentieth-Century Chinese Women’s Poetry: An Anthology, 2009, Routledge: London and New York, p. 3.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=DzHfBQAAQBAJ)

Date: 1923 (original in Chinese); 2009 (translation in English)

By: Bing Xin/Ping Hsin (1900-1999)

Translated by: Julia Chang Lin (1928-2013)

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”).

From: https://www.palestineadvocacyproject.org/poetry-campaign/think-of-others/

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

By: Mahmoud Darwish (1941-2008)

Translated by: Mohammed Shaheen (19??- )

Tuesday, 19 January 2021

Lingua Franca by Jay Snodgrass

I have always wanted to be blended. Biracial,
multilingual, polyglotal, some inner bead
in me seeking to unseem despite my fairly sturdy
keeping within the Caucasian chalk circle.

It could be that first time I drank
synthetic blended scotch made in Japan,
or in high school after I dropped a tab of LSD
then listened to two girls fight in Japanese
I could swear I understood every word.

Sunrise leaves me lonesome and univocal,
birdsong makes me furious like bass from a parked car.
The mockingbird! There’s my idol. Chattering
delirious nonsense, cutting up the morning with clatter.

Sometimes in the dark I hear owls and I feel
like Vikings finding Roman settlements
and thinking they were made by giants.
I proclaim the terrifying screech owl to be
my god, behemoth of imponderable darkness.

I drink sweating Gin and tonics in the summer
and listen to traffic on 95 punctuated by cat calls
and 747s landing just beyond the coal power plant.

With so many voices I feel unable to speak
but gin leases its tongue to me. I cut it out

with cranberry juice so it bloodies against the glass
like wood, with mysterious grains. The ice cubes swim
amongst the machines like teeth. I push them down,
drown it all with a solid tongue.

From: http://diodepoetry.com/v3n1/content/snodgrass_j.html

Date: 2009

By: Jay Snodgrass (19??- )

Saturday, 16 January 2021

I Take Away My Head by Paul Hoover

“I take away my hand, which writes and speaks much.”
—Jaime Sabines

I take away my mouth,
Which remembers nothing I say,
Though I speak loudly and often,
With everything on my mind.

I take away my heart,
Which never quite forgives me,
And I remove my ears,
Which have no feeling for song.

Moving between two lights,
Over white stones at midnight,
Past nine black boundaries,
I take away my shadow.

Here is history with its burning questions
And theory with its doubt—
I give them to a ridiculous man
Who smells of the sea and slow dancing.

How good it must be for the rain
To roll around on the street
And commingle with each surface.

The world is nothing much—
Grass and rubble and such.
I’ll put it into a camera
Filled with silver and potential.

From: https://www.lyrikline.org/en/poems/i-take-away-my-head-6421

Date: 2009

By: Paul Hoover (1946- )

Tuesday, 25 February 2020

The Russian God by Pyotr Andreyevich Vyazemsky

Do you need an explanation
what the Russian god can be?
Here’s a rough approximation
as the thing appears to me.

God of snowstorms, god of potholes,
every wretched road you’ve trod,
coach-inns, cockroach haunts, and rat holes,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

God of frostbite, god of famine,
beggars, cripples by the yard,
farms with no crops to examine,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

God of breasts and…all sagging,
swollen legs in bast shoes shod,
curds gone curdled, faces dragging,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

God of brandy, pickle vendors,
those who pawn what serfs they’ve got,
of old women of both genders,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

God of medals and of millions,
god of yard-sweepers unshod,
lords in sleighs with two postilions,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

Fools win grace, wise men be wary,
there he never spares the rod,
god of everything contrary,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

God of all that gets shipped in here,

unbecoming, senseless, odd,
god of mustard on your dinner,
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

God of foreigners, whenever
they set foot on Russian sod,
god of Germans, now and ever –
that’s him, that’s your Russian god.

From: https://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/2009/07/the-russian-god.html

Date: 1828 (original in Russian); 2009 (translation in English)

By: Pyotr Andreyevich Vyazemsky (1792-1878)

Translated by: Alan Myers (1933-2010)

Saturday, 4 January 2020

Bushfire Elegy by Joel Deane

And the world is fire.
And the sky wears a smoky veil.
And the bloodshot sun stares.

Can no longer comprehend the language
of the land—
charcoal trees, dirt rivers, ash mountains;
molten buildings, skulled cars, silent towns.

Can only see a country burned into the shape
of words
both beautiful and terrible

—beautiful
being the harmony of voices
that are people and places

—terrible
being the dissonant roar
that is the call of wild fire.

And some words have never been heard before.
And some words can never be heard again.
And some words must never be heard again.

From: https://twitter.com/joeldeane/status/1194827183815970817/photo/1

Date: 2009

By: Joel Deane (1969- )