Mi Abuela Panchita

At First She Came To Me Pure

   At first she came to me pure,
dressed only in her innocence;
and I loved her as we love a child.

   Then she began putting on 
clothes she picked up somewhere;
and I hated her, without knowing it.

   She gradually became a queen,
the jewelry was blinding ...
What bitterness and rage!

   ... She started going back towards nakedness.
And I smiled.

   Soon she was back to the single shift
of her old innocence.
I believed in her a second time.

   Then she took off the cloth
and was entirely naked ...
Naked poetry, always mine,
that I have loved my whole life!

by Juan Ramon Jimenez
translated by Robert Bly

Sister

Sister,
what should I have done?

Your laughter
unraveled our Master's Lent.
Your Mongolian eyes
shut out the light

(slits of black stone).


(Where was our Savior?
Is this what older brothers
should be?)

As you rose --
the final arc --
day unveiled 
the balance of God's hand.
Night scurried
into the thicket
of the wicked world.

(What was its name --
oh, Great God?)

You imbued me
with power.
I became a Danite,
son of Manoah,
and faced him
with an ass's bone.
I would not let him grind.
Sister, not this time,
I would not let him cleave.

On the day of rest,
I brought you home
and prayed for you --
your resurrection.
But you were lost,
entombed in clay,
and I was left
with my laments.

Now,
a man,
full of iniquity,
I await your knock.
Sister,
please don't weep.
Day is done,
and twilight is a thousand candles
God burns for you.

The Bones of My Father

1

There are no dry bones

here in this valley. The skull

of my father grins

at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie,

the bones of my father

are buried in the mud

of these creeks and brooks that twist

and flow their secrets to the sea.

but the wind sings to me

here the sun speaks to me

of the dry bones of my father.

      2

There are no dry bones

in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys

young / black / men with knees bent

nod on the stoops of the tenements

and dream

of the dry bones of my father.

And young white longhairs who flee

their homes, and bend their minds

and sing their songs of brotherhood

and no more wars are searching for

my father’s bones.

      3

There are no dry bones here.

We hide from the sun.

No more do we take the long straight strides.

Our steps have been shaped by the cages

that kept us. We glide sideways

like crabs across the sand.

We perch on green lilies, we search

beneath white rocks...

THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE

The skull of my father

grins at the Mississippi moon

from the bottom

of the Tallahatchie.

BY ETHERIDGE KNIGHT

i hear a stream

5 am
i hear a stream
birds bitching over the first worm
(been eating sardine for 2 hours
'til it stuck in my throat)

remember
when i first touched my queen's
pink wicked lips
she burned incense & faced mecca
said she loved arab flesh

i adore worldly stuff
don't you know
she smiled crookedly
a nasty grin
i swallowed her brown nipples
black olives

you're a salty fellow aren't you
she pushed me away
i flicked my tongue
rose on my tiptoes
expanded & swayed
bled desire through my eyes
i was horn toad
& she danced on the sharp tips
of my prehistoric horns

my lips ache
she moaned
& scratched her crotch
a smoke signal
dispersed too quickly
couldn't read it

on my way home
almost ran off the overpass
crushed the front right side
of my old ram
sat by the roadside
& watched
the tail of a lizard
wondered
if it was my spirit
frantic to escape

must be 5 am
down a dark ally
between titsworth & seminary
old man jesús
drags his cart of aluminum cans
somewhere
i hear a stream

but it could be fire

Pepe

saturdays
pepe is suave
with his victor mature hat
tan khakis
brown winged tipped shoes
durango shirt
a camel suspended
between his lips

saturdays
after work
pepe drives to the city
goes to la taqueria
were he eats tacos de lengua
with nopal & queso blanco
drinks cerveza y tequila
argues white sox & cubs baseball
with strangers
plays rancheras & polkas & cumbias
dances with young girls from mexico
guatemala
honduras
colombia

pepe always invites the girls
to el cine
takes in a double feature
of el santo
el santo in the diabolical mind
el santo in the mummies of guanajuato

on saturdays
pepe sits on the bed of his truck
& listens to foreign voices emanating
from the dim lights of blue island
disconnected footsteps
of aliens
exotic smells of the city
of big shoulders
earth settling
into a peculiar rhythm

on saturdays
pepe speaks to the moon
knows how close it is to him & his family
knows how far they are from one another
pepe tells of el enmascarado de plata
of the vengeance of crying women
of killers from other worlds
of vampire women
he speaks of many things
but never of love or family

pepe speaks long into the evening
till twilight falls
his eyes lost on the moon
his heart roaming the cobblestones
of guanajuato

LAST TOAST

I drink to our ruined house
To the evil of my life
To our loneliness together
And I drink to you—
To the lying lips that have betrayed us,
To the dead-cold eyes,
To the fact that the world is brutal and coarse
To the fact that God did not save us.

by Anna Akhmatov
Translated from the Russian by Katie Farris and Ilya Kaminsky

Sometimes a Man Stands Up During Supper

Sometimes a man stands up during supper
and walks outdoors, and keeps on walking,
because of a church that stands somewhere in the East.

And his children say blessings on him as if he were dead.

And another man, who remains inside his own house,
stays there, inside the dishes and in the glasses,
so that his children have to go far out into the world
toward that same church, which he forgot.

By Rainer Maria Rilke

translated by Robert Bly

translated by Robert Bly

One Day

He drives 10 miles an hour down Galena Boulavarde. Sunlight filters through a canopy of trees, reflecting off the hood like the nervous blinking of an omniscient god. They don't speak, and he plays Dylan loud enough to drown out the heavy silence. She gazes out the window at houses she once dreamed they would one day own. He looks straight ahead, occasionally glancing at the beautiful flower beds lining the street. He remembers the flower poem he wrote for her, adorned with metaphors of unadulterated love, but that was so long ago.

She chews gum and occasionally pops it. There was a time when it was cute, but it became an irritant after a while, and now, it was just part of who she was. She pops the gum twice and smirks. He thinks, I don't give a shit.

It's just as well they don't talk. They are masterful wordsmiths, hammering out the deadliest wordponry in existence. Stiletto knives that pierce to the core of one's being, daggers that thrust into one's psyche, and broadswords that hack a skull wide open. They skillfully parry and strike areas that bleed out nice and slow. He reaches over and turns up the volume on the radio to drown out the impending cataclysm.

He remembers a night when the southern wind raided the peach orchard, covering the land in blossoms. The stars appeared like angels peering through the veil of night, envious of man's imperfections and free will. He recalls the scent of peaches, the aroma of wet soil, and the sweet, salty taste of her mouth. He can still feel her hair tangled in his fingers, the warmth of her body, and the enchanting words that made their moment magical. The moon cast its sovereign light over them, illuminating two beings in love.

She gives him a quick glance, chews another stick of gum, and rapidly snaps, pops, snaps. She flicks the wrapper away, eases into the hot vinyl seat, and allows her thoughts to drift.

He remembers a day on a ridge, where the lush green landscape unfolded, disappearing into the infinite blue sky. He recalls the cacophony of hawks, bluejays, robins, ravens, cardinals, cicadas, and crickets and how it mystically transformed into a symphony, a wondrous gift, from an unknown realm. Lost in the splendor, relieved of the emptiness that threatened to consume him, a pearl seemed to drop from the heavens and land in his palm. He was a blue-collar worker, an average Joe seeking answers in a universe too vast to comprehend. He wondered why he was granted such a blessing. He felt he didn't deserve it, but he accepted it. He remembers.

He pulls to the curb and meanders over to a cluster of peach trees. A cardinal is singing, and as he searches the treetop, his gaze falls on a perfect fruit. It dangles at the tip of a limb that seems to touch the clouds. The wind currents seem to lift him and set him on a branch, where he perches like the sparrows that often congregate in his skull and guide him in his dreams. As he plucks it, he tumbles. Awash in light, he is swept onto the lush green and softly comes to rest. He is grateful for everything, for the things in life that make no sense, for the mysteries he will never fully understand.  

He ambles across the lawn and, upon reaching the car, offers her the peach. She acknowledges him with a slight nod, accepts the fruit, and cradles it as if it's the last piece of fruit on Earth. He recalls a day on a ridge where the green countryside unfolded and vanished into the infinite blue. He remembers the gift.

The breeze tousles her hair, creating ringlets out of her auburn locks, and he notices how vibrant the world around him is. He drives away in silence, the fragrance of sweet peaches permeating his being, his thoughts streaming into space, his body buzzing. He recalls a day on a ridge and the precious fruit. He remembers the gift.

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood By William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 



The earth, and every common sight, 



To me did seem 



Apparelled in celestial light, 



The glory and the freshness of a dream. 



It is not now as it hath been of yore;— 



Turn wheresoe'er I may, 



By night or day. 



The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



  



The Rainbow comes and goes, 



And lovely is the Rose, 



The Moon doth with delight 



Look round her when the heavens are bare, 



Waters on a starry night 



Are beautiful and fair; 



The sunshine is a glorious birth; 



But yet I know, where'er I go, 



That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



  



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 



And while the young lambs bound 



As to the tabor's sound, 



To me alone there came a thought of grief: 



A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 



And I again am strong: 



The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 



No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 



I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 



The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 



And all the earth is gay; 



Land and sea 



Give themselves up to jollity, 



And with the heart of May 



Doth every Beast keep holiday;— 



Thou Child of Joy, 



Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy. 



  



Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call 



Ye to each other make; I see 



The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 



My heart is at your festival, 



My head hath its coronal, 



The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. 



Oh evil day! if I were sullen 



While Earth herself is adorning, 



This sweet May-morning, 



And the Children are culling 



On every side, 



In a thousand valleys far and wide, 



Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 



And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:— 



I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 



—But there's a Tree, of many, one, 



A single field which I have looked upon, 



Both of them speak of something that is gone; 



The Pansy at my feet 



Doth the same tale repeat: 



Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 



Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



  



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 



The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 



Hath had elsewhere its setting, 



And cometh from afar: 



Not in entire forgetfulness, 



And not in utter nakedness, 



But trailing clouds of glory do we come 



From God, who is our home: 



Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 



Shades of the prison-house begin to close 



Upon the growing Boy, 



But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 



He sees it in his joy; 



The Youth, who daily farther from the east 



Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 



And by the vision splendid 



Is on his way attended; 



At length the Man perceives it die away, 



And fade into the light of common day. 



  



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 



Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 



And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 



And no unworthy aim, 



The homely Nurse doth all she can 



To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 



Forget the glories he hath known, 



And that imperial palace whence he came. 



  



Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 



A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! 



See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 



Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 



With light upon him from his father's eyes! 



See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 



Some fragment from his dream of human life, 



Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art 



A wedding or a festival, 



A mourning or a funeral; 



And this hath now his heart, 



And unto this he frames his song: 



Then will he fit his tongue 



To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 



But it will not be long 



Ere this be thrown aside, 



And with new joy and pride 



The little Actor cons another part; 



Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 



With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 



That Life brings with her in her equipage; 



As if his whole vocation 



Were endless imitation. 



  



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 



Thy Soul's immensity; 



Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 



Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 



That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 



Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— 



Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 



On whom those truths do rest, 



Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 



In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 



Thou, over whom thy Immortality 



Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 



A Presence which is not to be put by; 



Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 



Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 



Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 



The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 



Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 



Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 



And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 



Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



  



O joy! that in our embers 



Is something that doth live, 



That Nature yet remembers 



What was so fugitive! 



The thought of our past years in me doth breed 



Perpetual benediction: not indeed 



For that which is most worthy to be blest; 



Delight and liberty, the simple creed 



Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 



With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— 



Not for these I raise 



The song of thanks and praise 



But for those obstinate questionings 



Of sense and outward things, 



Fallings from us, vanishings; 



Blank misgivings of a Creature 



Moving about in worlds not realised, 



High instincts before which our mortal Nature 



Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 



But for those first affections, 



Those shadowy recollections, 



Which, be they what they may 



Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 



Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 



Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 



Our noisy years seem moments in the being 



Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 



To perish never; 



Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 



Nor Man nor Boy, 



Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 



Can utterly abolish or destroy! 



Hence in a season of calm weather 



Though inland far we be, 



Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 



Which brought us hither, 



Can in a moment travel thither, 



And see the Children sport upon the shore, 



And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



  



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 



And let the young Lambs bound 



As to the tabor's sound! 



We in thought will join your throng, 



Ye that pipe and ye that play, 



Ye that through your hearts to-day 



Feel the gladness of the May! 



What though the radiance which was once so bright 



Be now for ever taken from my sight, 



Though nothing can bring back the hour 



Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 



We will grieve not, rather find 



Strength in what remains behind; 



In the primal sympathy 



Which having been must ever be; 



In the soothing thoughts that spring 



Out of human suffering; 



In the faith that looks through death, 



In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 



Forebode not any severing of our loves! 



Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 



I only have relinquished one delight 



To live beneath your more habitual sway. 



I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 



Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 



The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 



Is lovely yet; 



The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 



Do take a sober colouring from an eye 



That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 



Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 



Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 



Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 



To me the meanest flower that blows can give 



Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

h