Posts tagged ‘2013’

Monday, 27 May 2019

Idealrelisation/My Hat by Henry Parland

Grimaces I

My hat
was run over
by a trolley yesterday.
This morning
my coat took a walk
to some place
far away.
This afternoon
my shoes
happened to get assassinated.
—I’m still here?
that’s just
it.

From: http://www.babelmatrix.org/works/sv/Parland%2C_Henry-1908/Idealrealisation__Min_hatt/en/41619-Idealrelisation_My_hat

Date: 1929 (original in Swedish); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Henry Parland (1908-1930)

Translated by: Johannes Göranson (19??- )

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Monday, 13 May 2019

Rose Red and Snow White by Kim Antieau

Skin as white as Virgin snow.
Ice crystals grown from dust motes,
Specks of Earth thrown skyward:
Snow White
Lips as red as pricked blood, first blood,
Unfolding like the Virgin Rose,
Whole in and of herself:
Rose Red
Colors of the Goddess,
Clues this tale is more than it seems.
Aren’t they all?
When Le Bête knocks on their door
Mid-winter, matted ice and snow giving him
A Rasti look, the twin goddesses invite
The Wild in,
Serve him tea and comb his fur.
No sign of gold at first blush.
Then what? Did they watch Jack Frost
Breathe on their windows and listen to
Ice crack into wintry art?
Their version of cable.
Today, would they gulp beer, eat chips,
And watch television, the three of them?
Would Le Bête complain about the
Commercialization of all things sacred
As he clutched the remote?
“Let’s live off the grid,” he’d murmur
While Snow White and Rose Red painted
Their fingernails black as pitch and their lips
Red as a whore’s candied tongue.
Goth or harlot?
Or, perhaps before the Bear enters their domain
The sisters are hippie-girls, wandering, modern-like,
Looking for some thing. Hitching rides.
Living off the land. Eating huckleberries plucked
From their core, the juice staining their lips and teeth
Deep purple. Watching the bloody salmon leap,
They wonder why their mouths water, wonder
What it is they have lost.
Why does it ache so much?
So when a man in gold knocks on their door
Mid-winter, they pull him inside, shining him on.
Until they spot the fur beneath the gold.
Le Bête!
They speak in tongues as they
Rip the clothes from him.
He is only a symbol, after all.
The sisters bury their faces in his fur.
When they look down at their own bodies,
They see they have grown Grizzly claws.
They laugh and embrace each other.
The man, speechless, tries to piece his
Gold suit back together. Alone
In the empty cottage, he closes the door.
Outside, the night is wild with beasts.

From: http://kathleenflenniken.com/blog/?m=201311

Date: 2013

By: Kim Antieau (1955- )

Tuesday, 1 January 2019

Starlight Grey by Ian Gibbins

At last, we strip off our wall-paper skins,
don brocade wedding gowns in readiness
for our year’s end resolution of untested hypotheses.

With tiger sharks looming in murky shallows,
viable financial propositions have failed to materialise:
no wonder we developed a case of cold feet,

no surprise that long-lost relatives clash again over
certain rather tricky matters, wedge-tailed eagles circle
anti-clockwise, goannas salivate in the undergrowth.

Hour by hour, some kind of narrative unfolds:
“Independence is a virtue,” they tell us. Arm in arm,
we move as one, speak with a single voice.

Faced with a chance of unpowered flight,
an opportunity to achieve previously unheralded
altitude, we make the momentous decision to refute

offers of help, deny any attempt to divert our course.
From the sidelines, they call out, “We told you so!”
and, in almost equal parts, “You’ll be glad you did!”

While hyenas smirk, harangue late-comers to the party,
we look confidently through each other’s eyes,
toss high a ceremonial coin, call either heads or tails.

From: http://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/poetry/sample-of-poets/gibbins/

Date: 2013

By: Ian Gibbins (19??- )

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
flips
but all kinds of other things
come out
excuses
reservations
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 –

From: https://hammerandhorn.net/benny-andersen/translations/the-soul/

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

By: Benny Andersen (1929- )

Translated by: Michael Favala Goldman (1966- )

Friday, 31 August 2018

Adolescence by Courtney Queeney

There was a ravine with a rain-choked creek,
water barreling down its cork-screwed spine.
When I paused on the bridge

to regard a twisted, rusted car hulk below,
the water muttered, I too am a way to escape.
The wreck pled, Dream me.

From: https://aqreview.org/adolescence/

Date: 2013

By: Courtney Queeney (1978- )

Saturday, 25 August 2018

The Enigma of Arrival by Anis Shivani

First the Coptics came smiling to the Maryland shores,
drowning black cats, when they weren’t worshiping
the bells that never rang around their knobby necks;
then came the Assyrians, settling around Boston hills,
digging in the land like raggedy rabbits run out of chase,
weaned of scraps, agonized by the shadow of their tails;
then came the Phoenicians, complete with identity clasps
strangling their thin throats, swishing their romantic robes
as if they were a nation entirely of loving kings and queens;
Finally, the Huns, who chose Philadelphia to build
in the image of castles where murders are publicized
to maids not afraid enough of their raping masters,
so that harmony in the new world may prevail.

From: https://newfound.org/archives/volume-4/issue-1/poetry-anis-shivani/

Date: 2013

By: Anis Shivani (19??- )

Monday, 4 June 2018

For a Plain Man by Marianne Burton

For a plain man you have fancy writing.
It announces itself on envelopes
in a fanfare of loops and curlicues.
Your letters clasp hands to dance galliards,
throw each other through the air, swooping
down lower than is strictly legible,
deeper than any teacher would have ever ticked.

You must have practiced it under the desk
of the village school that wrote you off,
with short blunt pencils and scraps of paper
salvaged and stored in the empty inkwells,
working up rococo scripts whimsical
enough to summarise the man you prayed
you would become, just to spite them.

None of it comforts you of course. Not
your florid penmanship, nor the fact that
you are now important. The child still sits
under an alphabet frieze in cheap clothes,
tight-lipped, trying to coil his pot hooks into Os
of wonder and praise. You can’t get back
to tell him it worked out. None of us can.

From: https://inpressbooks.co.uk/blogs/poem-of-the-week/34265413-poem-of-the-week-for-a-plain-man-by-marianne-burton

Date: 2013

By: Marianne Burton (19??- )

Thursday, 10 May 2018

Torn by Ada Limón

Witness the wet dead snake,
its long hexagonal pattern weaved
around its body like a code for creation,
curled up cold on the newly tarred road.
Let us begin with the snake: the fact
of death, the poverty of place, of skin
and surface. See how the snake is cut
in two—its body divided from its brain.
Imagine now, how it moves still, both
sides, the tail dancing, the head dancing.
Believe it is the mother and the father.
Believe it is the mouth and the words.
Believe it is the sin and the sinner—
the tempting, the taking, the apple, the fall,
every one of us guilty, the story of us all.
But then return to the snake, poor dead
thing, forcefully denying the split of its being,
longing for life back as a whole, wanting
you to see it for what it is, something
that loves itself so much, it moves across
the boundaries of death, to touch itself
once more, to praise both divided sides
equally, as if it was almost easy.

From: https://composejournal.com/articles/ada-limon-three-poems/

Date: 2013

By: Ada Limón (1976- )

Thursday, 3 May 2018

The Angel of History by Theo Dorgan

In the great house on Kildare Street the lamps were burning.
It was a winter night, the usual slant rain falling.
I had paused to light up a cigarette, to watch the lone Guard
stamp her feet, blow uselessly into her cupped, gloved hands.
In the colonnade of the National Library a man was standing,
a man neither old nor young, his head bare, half turned towards
the lights in the parliament house, the high blank windows.
I saw him reach inside his long loose coat, take out a notebook.
I crossed the road, gathering my own long coat around me,
stood in behind him, looked over his shoulder. He took no notice.

One after another I saw him strike them out from a long list of names:
Senators, Deputies, Ministers. One after another the names
dissolved on the page, a scant dozen remaining. I watched him
ink in a question mark after each of these, neat and precise.
He put the book away, sliding it down carefully into a deep pocket;
he turned and looked at me, nothing like pity in those hollow eyes.
He sighed, then squared his shoulders, lifted his face to the rain
and was gone. Gone as if he had never been. But I saw him,
I know who he was, I witnessed that cold, exact cancellation;
walked on, walked home, thoughtful, afraid for my country.

From: https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/poem-the-angel-of-history-by-theo-dorgan-1.1325711

Date: 2013

By: Theo Dorgan (1953- )

Tuesday, 13 February 2018

Mattering by Patty Seyburn

My liege, my legion of
bad habits batters the
diminishing rank and
file of my decency.
What would you have me do?
I judge, curse, rue, malign,
run out of cereal.
Everyday world depends
hardly at all on the
details of atoms or
galaxies — a lesson
in stratification —
and the feeling, woe is
me, must be mutual.

From: http://www.thewritingdisorder.com/poetry-patty-seyburn.html

Date: 2013

By: Patty Seyburn (1962- )