Posts tagged ‘2013’

Friday, 25 August 2017

You Poem by Marianne Morris

you (walking up the road)
you, you (bird with a hole in its wing)
you you you (thought under pressure)
you you (didn’t see what I was) you you you
(now see what I was) you you (a space
opening up between me and myself)
you you (a breath I took through being alone)
you you you (thought reduced to doubling) you
(blatant reformulation of) you you you (and me,
me, reformulating) you (a praxis) you (not
singing exactly) you you (can be forgiven for
everything) you (absolutely everything) you
(draw the lines according to what) you
(forgive, arrive late to the games) you
(a staging of battles) you you (just wanting more)
you you (of a nonspecific bounty) you you
(more and then less of me) you (music rising)
you you (up the stairs my thoughts climb)
you you (impose a structure onto the impossible)
you you (eternal suspension).


Date: 2013

By: Marianne Morris (1981- )

Sunday, 11 June 2017

Canto XIII: Suiceder from “The Chomedy” by Ollie Evans

No none not nothing
is no thing thought
but nothingness.

Noting this he credits
me incrementally
with one caught

in knots in what
I thought could not
in noting nothing

be taught but torn
in truth from a twist
that saps and hurts.

From: Evans, Ollie, The Chomedy. Corrupted Canticles after Dante’s Commedia, 2013, Red Ceiling Press: London, p. 14.

Date: 2013

By: Ollie Evans (19??- )

Monday, 20 March 2017

Description of Rufo the Dragon from “The Life of Saint Margaret” by Wace

One day Margaret was saying her prayers,
As was her custom,
When from a corner she saw a dragon emerge;
It was black and horrible in appearance,
And it spewed forth burning fire through its nose.
Around its neck it bore an iron chain, completely black,
It had a beard of gold and teeth of silver,
And its eyes were sparkling like a serpent’s.
It gave off a great stench all around it
And in its hand it carried a sharp sword.

From: Blacker, Jean, Burgess, Glyn S. and Ogden, Amy V. (eds. and translators), Wace: The Hagiographical Works. The Conception of Notre Dame and the Lives of St Margaret and St Nicholas, 2013, Brill: Leiden and Boston, p. 201.

Date: c1135 (original in Norman French); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Wace (c1110-after 1174)

Translated by: Jean Blacker (1952- ), Glyn Sheridan Burgess (1943- ) and Amy Victoria Ogden (1970- )

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Raising the Alarm by Meleager of Gadara

Help! He is gone. That wild boy, Love, has escaped!
Just now, as day was breaking, he flew from his bed and was gone.
Description? Sweetly tearful, talks forever, swift, irreverent,
Slyly laughing, wings on his back, and carries a quiver.
His last name? I don’t know, for his father and mother,
Whoever they are, in earth or heaven, won’t admit it.
Everyone hates him, you see. Take care, take care,
Or even now he’ll be weaving new snares for your heart.
But hush—look there, turn slowly. You don’t deceive me, boy,
Drawing your bow so softly where you hide in Zenophile’s eyes.


Date: 1st century BCE (original in Greek); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Meleager of Gadara (1st century BCE)

Translated by: Thomas McEvilley (1939-2013)

Tuesday, 14 February 2017

Radiocarbon Dating by Anja König

It’s no longer done,
comparing a woman’s body to a landscape –
buttock hillocks, dales and deltas –

politically incorrect. But I want you
in charge of manning up an expedition to undefined
white spaces on my map. I want you

to use your scientific training, evaluate
my forestation, measure the circumference of both
polar caps. You can examine drilling cores

to reconstruct my seismic history. The positions
of tectonic faults, degree of liquefaction
of the crust and mantle imply

tremors are possible and could be more
than modern settlements can handle.

You can still shift your paradigm, embrace
a post-colonial sentiment and keep your footprint light.


Date: 2013

By: Anja König (19??- )

Sunday, 11 December 2016

Walk On and Forget by Rubén Darío (Félix Rubén García Sarmiento)

That is my curse: to dream.

Pilgrim who searches in vain
for a road better than your own,
why do you want me to give you my hand
if my sign is the same as your own?

You’ll never arrive at your destination;
you carry death in you like a maggot
that eats away at what you have that’s human …
at what you have that’s human and divine!

Walk peacefully, o wayfarer!
you’re still so far from that unknown
country of which you dream …

… And to dream is a curse. Walk on and forget,
for if you insist on dreaming, you insist
on fanning the flames beneath your life.


Date: 1911-1914 (original in Spanish); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Rubén Darío (Félix Rubén García Sarmiento) (1867-1916)

Translated by: Stuart Cooke (1980- )

Saturday, 22 October 2016

A Nightingale Migrates by Thomas Ironmonger

Heat – where the river swells and flaps
like a flock of white birds taking flight.
Red – where the clouds with thunder
crack, and the sky’s cool gin mixes into the night.
Here – as drunken fruits fall and explode into
the furrowed orchard aisles as the dark forest crows inside
two slight lungs drink breath
to load the songs they will carry for miles; over the
hedgerows, over the stiles; over
the bright brown African roads.


Date: 2013

By: Thomas Ironmonger (19??- )

Tuesday, 4 October 2016

Portrait of Our Death by Katharine Kilalea

There were four of us, following a dirt road which began
in the foothills and went right up into the mountains
where a little cottage was waiting for us. We were driving
slowly, packed in a blue hatchback, and it was getting late

and the rain, which had started earlier, had begun to really
pelt down. And then, coming round a sharp corner, we lost
our grip, the wheels skidded, wrestling with the thick
white rain, the mud.

The driver, my friend, said “whoa” like you’d say to a horse,
and lifted his hands from the wheel. And I remember
as the car began to spin the mountains turned green,
and as it edged slowly towards the end of the road,

we leaned, as you do in films with a car at the edge of a cliff,
watching through the windows, mesmerised, as the valley opened up
in a passionate, open-mouth kiss. We should just have tumbled in,
but instead were left unfallen, not yet dead, with the radio still playing.

The driver, my friend, looked green. Our Death was not (as we’d
imagined) the blue car descending the steep gorge-without-ladder,
slipping like a dangerous dress-strap or a crap hand of cards
flung down in disgust. We’d stopped too soon,

left still as rocks, as upturned beetles wriggling their legs,
or the roadside cows chewing slowly. The driver, my friend,
lit a cigarette and sat down. The rain looked on with big cow-eyes.
Not-dying is suddenly being very hungry

and wet brown shoes caked in mud but not caring
and the mountains feeling slow and the heavy grey clouds
like a washerwoman sprinkling cotton before ironing it flat.
Our Death was pure mathematics—

the steep angle of the cliff which didn’t meet the speed of the car—
Our Death was a thing measured in increments, about 66% death
and 33% not-death (just a bit deathy). Probably, we decided,
the mosquitoes in this heat would’ve sucked us dry

before our death got to us anyway. It was just a slip of the wheels,
we said, a skid, perhaps we’d made too much of its nearness.
Our Death was just a minor character, someone who appeared
about ten miles after a town called River-Without-End, then went on.

And we felt quite energetic after that. It was hot. It was exciting,
what didn’t happen that afternoon. We went hiking
and found a waterfall and fell from it
into deep black pools, lying underneath.


Date: 2013

By: Katharine Kilalea (19??- )

Monday, 26 September 2016

Vākh 124 by Lal Ded (Lalleshwari)

Some, who have closed their eyes, are wide awake.
Some, who look out at the world, are fast asleep.
Some who bathe in sacred pools remain dirty.
Some are at home in the world but keep their hands clean.


Date: c1350 (original in Kashmiri); 2013 (translation in English)

By: Lal Ded (Lalleshwari) (1320-1392)

Translated by: Ranjit Hoskote (1969- )

Sunday, 25 September 2016

Banks of a Canal by Seamus Justin Heaney

(Banks of a Canal, near Naples, painting by Gustave Caillebotte, c1872)

Say ‘canal’ and there’s that final vowel
Towing silence with it, slowing time
To a walking pace, a path, a whitewashed gleam
Of dwellings at the skyline. World stands still.
The stunted concrete mocks the classical.
Water says, ‘My place here is in dream,
In quiet good standing. Like a sleeping stream,
Come rain or sullen shine I’m peaceable.’
Stretched to the horizon, placid ploughland,
The sky not truly bright or overcast:
I know that clay, the damp and dirt of it,
The coolth along the bank, the grassy zest
Of verges, the path not narrow but still straight
Where soul could mind itself or stray beyond.


Date: 2013

By: Seamus Justin Heaney (1939-2013)