The Other Shore of the Sea
–Pablo Neruda
It is time, love, to break off the somber rose,
shut up the stars and bury the ash in the earth;
and, in the rising of the light, wake with
those awaking, or go in the dream, reaching the
other shore of the sea which has no other shore.
Photo by Roksolana Zasiadko on Unsplash
Days Late in March
-Henrik Nordbrandt
Days move in one direction
faces in the opposite.
Incessantly they lend each other light.Many years later it is difficult
to decide which were days
and which were faces . . .And the distance between the two things
seems more impassable
day by day and face by face.It is this I see in your face
these bright days in late March.
Original
Dage sent i marts
Dage bevæger sig i én retning
ansigter i den modsatte.
Uophørligt låner de hinandens lys.Mange år efter er det vanskeligt
at afgøre hvad der var dage
og hvad der var ansigter . . .Og afstanden mellem de to ting
føles mere uoverskridelig
dag for dag og ansigt for ansigt.Det er det jeg ser på dit ansigt
Disse lysende dage sent i marts.
Academy of American Poets
–Tomaž Šalamun
Photo by Martin Péchy on Unsplash
Mills
–Tomaž Šalamun
Photo by Dillon Lobo on Unsplash
In the Tongues of Bells
–Tomaž Šalamun
I decant a blossom. It goes before you.
You’re filled with Uriah. Green, tiny and pressed.
Blueness is a furious cake, a round
cake where yearning sleeps. Are the balls
the balls of the earth? At wells
and fountains? At Atlas’ pillar?
You say that you’d be my property.
You’d lose everything instantly.
I still wouldn’t notice you anymore, injured.
I choose from the thickness. Honey collects
cries. And when the body thickens and you get up
because I dress you, because I congeal you.
I erase you back in the past. I draw
a white flap, shine a white flap.
Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash
Parting
–Gane Todorovski
you’re leaving and not looking back
the age-old fear of turning into stone
now germinates in you like pain
that something passes and you’re left aloneyou’re leaving and you carry much
in that mute threat of yours
without a note, forgiveness, or farewell
cold marble, dry-eyed, no remorse.You’re leaving hurriedly and without voice
and flapping like a startled bird:
you disappear beyond return and soon
become a shadow, neither seen nor heard.
January
–Charles SimicChildren’s fingerprints
On a frozen windowOf a small schoolhouse.
An empire, I read somewhere,Maintains itself through
The cruelty of its prisons.
