XXVII From: ‘Cien sonetos de amor’ - Pablo Neruda
Unclothed, you are true, like one of your hands,
lissome, terrestrial, slight, complete, translucent,
with curves of moon, and paths of apple-wood:
Unclothed you are as slender as a nude ear of corn.
Undressed you are blue as Cuban nights,
with tendrils and stars in your hair,
undressed you are wide and amber,
like summer in its chapel of gold.
Naked you are tiny as one of your fingertips,
shaped, subtle, reddening till light is born,
and you leave for the subterranean worlds,
as if down a deep tunnel of clothes and chores:
your brightness quells itself, quenches itself, strips itself down
turning, again, to being a naked hand.
----
Desnuda eres tan simple como una de tus manos,
Lisa, terrestre, mínima, redonda, transparente,
Tienes líneas de luna, caminos de manzana,
Desnuda eres delgada como el trigo desnudo.
Desnuda eres azul como la noche en Cuba,
Tienes enredaderas y estrellas en el pelo,
Desnuda eres enorme y amarilla
Como el verano en una iglesia de oro.
Desnuda eres pequeña como una de tus uñas,
Curva, sutil, rosada hasta que nace el día
Y te metes en el subterráneo del mundo
Como en un largo túnel de trajes y trabajos:
Tu claridad se apaga, se viste, se deshoja
Y otra vez vuelve a ser una mano desnuda.
Ode to the Moon
by Tabish Khair
A stab of Moon
between two trees
fireflies impersonating
stars
light
tangled in the branches of the night
on the road to the riverside
where did aloneness end
and loneliness begin
A stab of Moon
between two trees
fireflies impersonating
stars
light
tangled in the branches of the night
on the road to the riverside
where did aloneness end
and loneliness begin
Tanka
On her cheek and mine
although our minds so differ,
like utter strangers,
the pine winds blow equally--
almost as though we were friends
Yosano Akiko 1878-1942
although our minds so differ,
like utter strangers,
the pine winds blow equally--
almost as though we were friends
Yosano Akiko 1878-1942
The World and I
by Laura Riding
This is not exactly what I mean
Any more than the sun is the sun.
But how to mean more closely
If the sun shines but approximately?
What a world of awkwardness!
What hostile implements of sense!
Perhaps this is as close a meaning
As perhaps becomes such knowing.
Else I think the world and I
Must live together as strangers and die—
A sour love, each doubtful whether
Was ever a thing to love the other.
No, better for both to be nearly sure
Each of each—exactly where
Exactly I and exactly the world
Fail to meet by a moment, and a word.
This is not exactly what I mean
Any more than the sun is the sun.
But how to mean more closely
If the sun shines but approximately?
What a world of awkwardness!
What hostile implements of sense!
Perhaps this is as close a meaning
As perhaps becomes such knowing.
Else I think the world and I
Must live together as strangers and die—
A sour love, each doubtful whether
Was ever a thing to love the other.
No, better for both to be nearly sure
Each of each—exactly where
Exactly I and exactly the world
Fail to meet by a moment, and a word.
The Owl Cries at Night
- Freya Manfred's "The Owl Cries at Night," as it appears in her collection Swimming with a Hundred Year Old Snapping Turtle, published by Red Dragonfly Press.
- Freya Manfred
The owl cries at night,
and I imagine her wide gold eyes
and feathered ears tuned
to the trembling woods and waters,
seeing and hearing what
I will never see or hear:
a red fox with one bloody paw,
a hunch-backed rabbit running,
sand grains grating on the shore,
a brown leaf crackling
under a brown mouse foot.
With so much to learn,
I could stop writing forever,
and still live well.
- Freya Manfred
FATE
by Andrei Voznesensky
Fate is above me. Why should I browse?
Sleeping in dosses, an outcast, I rove.
Grief is a cellar,
that opens in every old house.
A ditch is below me and fate is above.
What did I want? Well, a life of contentment.
What did I get? Just a coffin and wreath...
Under the cradle a grave has been latent.
Fate is above me, a ditch is beneath.
Up in the sky my soul, like a hound,
howls, despaired,
the trigger to pull it was keen.
Fate has come over my family background,
and on the earth where fate is my kin.
What have I done, apart from the simple
poems I've written in passing to date?
I've been a lightening conductor for people.
Now I have broken my back. Such is fate.
© Alec Vagapov's translation
Fate is above me. Why should I browse?
Sleeping in dosses, an outcast, I rove.
Grief is a cellar,
that opens in every old house.
A ditch is below me and fate is above.
What did I want? Well, a life of contentment.
What did I get? Just a coffin and wreath...
Under the cradle a grave has been latent.
Fate is above me, a ditch is beneath.
Up in the sky my soul, like a hound,
howls, despaired,
the trigger to pull it was keen.
Fate has come over my family background,
and on the earth where fate is my kin.
What have I done, apart from the simple
poems I've written in passing to date?
I've been a lightening conductor for people.
Now I have broken my back. Such is fate.
© Alec Vagapov's translation
Joyful Heart, Winged Heart
by Nikolay Gumilyov
Joyful heart, winged heart.
in my light small boat
I skim over the freedom of the ripples
all day from dawn to sunset
and love the reflection of the mountains
on the surface of clear lakes.
Formerly a thousand troubles engulfed me,
my heart beat like a beast at bay,
and longed for unknown distances
and longed for... But now
I love the reflection of the mountains
on the surface of clear lakes.
The Pillar of Fire, selected poems -trans. Richard McKane
Joyful heart, winged heart.
in my light small boat
I skim over the freedom of the ripples
all day from dawn to sunset
and love the reflection of the mountains
on the surface of clear lakes.
Formerly a thousand troubles engulfed me,
my heart beat like a beast at bay,
and longed for unknown distances
and longed for... But now
I love the reflection of the mountains
on the surface of clear lakes.
The Pillar of Fire, selected poems -trans. Richard McKane
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