literature

on no work

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On No Work Of Words
–Dylan Thomas

On no work of words now for three lean months in the
bloody
Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body
I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft:

To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given
Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven,
The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft.

To lift to leave from treasures of man is pleasing death
That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath
And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark.

To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice.
Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas
If I take to burn or return this world which is each man’s
work.

Photo by Artem Sapegin on Unsplash

destruction

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Destruction
–Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Translation

Destruição

Photo by James Wainscoat on Unsplash

vigil

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Vigil

–Cecília Meireles

As the companion is dead,
so we must all together die
somewhat.

Shed for him who lost his life,
our tears are worth
nothing.

Love for him, within this grief,
is a faint sigh lost in a vast
forest.

Faith in him, the lost
companion — what but that
is left?

To die ourselves somewhat
through him we see today
quite dead.

Translation

Vigília
Como o companheiro é morto,
todos juntos morreremos
um pouco.

O valor de nossas lágrimas
sobre quem perdeu a vida
não é nada.

Amá-lo, nesta tristeza,
é suspiro numa selva
imensa.

Por fidelidade reta
ao companheiro perdido,
que nos resta?

Deixar-nos morrer um pouco
por aquele que hoje vemos
todo morto.

Photo by 王维家 on Unsplash

perfect evening

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Words for Perfect Evening

–Fred Dings

Photo by Andy Newton on Unsplash

toothbrush – bicycle

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The Toothbrush to the Bicycle Tire

–Sarah Kay

They told me that I was meant for the cleaner life;
that you would drag me through the mud.

They said that you would tread all over me,
that they could see right through you,

that you were full of hot air;
that I would always be chasing,

always watching you disappear after sleeker models—
that it would be a vicious cycle.

But I know better. I know about your rough edges
and I have seen your perfect curves.

I will fit into whatever spaces you let me.
If loving you means getting dirty, bring on the grime.

I will leave this porcelain home behind. I’m used to
twice-a-day relationships, but with you I’ll take all the time.

And I know we live in different worlds, and we’re always really busy,
but in my dreams you spin around me so fast, I always wake up dizzy.

So maybe one day you’ll grow tired of the road,
and roll on back to me.

And when I blink my eyes into morning,
your smile will be the only one I see.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

nightingale pledge

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Nightingale Pledge

–Romalyn Ante

Before God and those assembled here, I pledge:
I will check the screen tracing your heart rhythm –
the beep steady as a bird’s call from the shadows.
I will tie your gown, so faithfully strong
it won’t show your bare back, your leaf-like keloid.
Only filtered air will stroke your unwashed hair.
I will carry out to the best of my ability
my nocturnal duties – the warm Horlicks,
the call bell, the ajar door. I will devote
my midnight listening to you hum a song –
something that lessens the weight of my eyelids.
I will attend to the sound of your bare feet
as they touch the sticky floor. In the morning
I will explain what the cylindrical bottles are for;
without a word, you’ll unbend your arm to me.
My fingertip will search for the strongest vein.
I will not do anything evil. The defib pads
will fly out of the metal drawer, I will slap them
on your chest: one on the right, below the clavicle,
the other on the left, just under the armpit.
I will be the first one to greet you, Welcome back.
Even if I know you’d rather go. I will not reveal
the story of your life, how your daughter left
when she learned of your diagnosis.
I will devote my hours listening to things
you do not say. I will maintain the prestige
of my profession, but release a wild laugh
when I find you pretend choking
on your egg-white tablets
so I will pat your back.

the dawn

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The Dawn

–Ricardo Jaime Freyre

Translation

El alba

Las auroras pálidas,
que nacen entre penumbras misteriosas,
y enredados en las orlas de sus mantos
llevan jirones de sombra,
iluminan las montañas,
las crestas de las montañas rojas;
bañan las torres erguidas,
que saludan su aparición silenciosa,
con la voz de sus campanas
soñolienta y ronca;
ríen en las calles
dormidas de la ciudad populosa,
y se esparcen en los campos
donde el invierno respeta las amarillentas hojas.
Tienen perfumes de Oriente
las auroras;
los recogieron al paso, de las florestas ocultas
de una extraña Flora.
Tienen ritmos
y músicas armoniosas,
porque oyeron los gorjeos y los trinos de las aves
exóticas.

Su luz fría,
que conserva los jirones de la sombra,
enredóse, vacilante, de los lotos
en las anchas hojas.
Chispeó en las aguas dormidas,
las aguas del viejo Ganges, dormidas y silenciosas;
y las tribus de los árabes desiertos,
saludaron con plegarias a las pálidas auroras.
Los rostros de los errantes beduinos
se bañaron con arenas ardorosas,
y murmuraron las suras del Profeta
voces roncas.

Tendieron las suaves alas
sobre los mares de Jonia
y vieron surgir a Venus
de las suspirantes olas.
En las cimas,
donde las tinieblas eternas sobre las nieves se posan
vieron monstruos espantables
entre las rocas,
y las crines de los búfalos que huían
por la selva tenebrosa.
Reflejaron en la espada
simbólica,
que a la sombra de una encina
yacía olvidada y polvorosa.

Hay ensueños,
hay ensueños en las pálidas auroras…
Hay ensueños,
que se envuelven en sus jirones de sombra…
Sorprenden los amorosos
secretos de las nupciales alcobas,
y ponen pálidos tintes en los labios
donde el beso dejó huellas voluptuosas…

Y el Sol eleva su disco fulgurante
sobre la tierra, los aires y las suspirantes olas.

Photo by Thomas Millot on Unsplash

you would know

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You Would Know
–Marvin Bell

That you, Father, are “in my mind,”
some will argue, who cherish the present
but flee the past. They haven’t my need
to ask, What was I? Asking instead,
What am I?, they see themselves bejeweled
and wingèd. Because they would fly and have value,
their answers are pretty but false:
the fixings of facile alchemists,
preferring their stones to brains.
The brain, remember, is not foolproof
either, and does and does until it can’t.
Sodden, quivering, crossed and recrossed,
the mind can become a headstone
or be malice stuffed with fish.
Everything changes so quickly. You who were
are no longer and what I was I’m not.
Am I to know myself, except as I was?
The rest is catchy, self-promising, false.
Oh please write to me, and tell me.
I just want to be happy again. That’s
what I was, happy, maybe am, you would know.

untitled poem

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Untitled Poem
–Alan Dugan

Why feel guilty because the death of a lover causes lust?
It is only an animal urge to perpetuate the species,
but if I do not inhibit my imagination and dreams
I can see your skull smiling up at me from underground
and your bones loosely arranged in the missionary position.
This is not an incapacitating vision except at night,
and not a will of constancy, nor an irrevocable trust,
so I take on a woman with a mouth like an open wound.
I would do almost anything to avoid your teeth in the dirt.
She is desirable, loving, and definite, but when I feel her up
I hesitate: I still feel the site of your absence. It is
as large as the silence of your invitational smile
or the vacancy open in the cage of your ribs. Fuck that,
I say. Why be guilty for this guilt? It’s only birth control.
Therefore I extend my hands tongue and prick to you
through her as substitutions for the rest of my body
in hopes that you’ll be born again as her daughter
before I have to join you as your permanent husband,
but I know you: you want me to come, come as I am,
right now, without her, and to bring along a son.
Photo by Umanoide on Unsplash

then one

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Then One
–A.R. Ammons

Photo by Ross Sneddon on Unsplash