Inspirational Others

‘Unclothed, you are true, like one of your hands’

2011-05-30T21:39:00.001+01:00

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

2011-03-17T15:13:00.001Z

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

Tanka

2010-11-04T10:48:00.000Z

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

The World and I

2010-10-27T21:03:00.000+01:00

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.

The Owl Cries at Night

2010-10-13T19:59:00.002+01:00

- 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.

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

2010-09-20T11:19:00.001+01:00

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

Joyful Heart, Winged Heart

2010-06-30T19:04:00.000+01:00

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

The Flea

2010-06-29T12:34:00.000+01:00

by John Donne

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
'Tis true, then learn how false fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee

John Donne

Tanka

2010-04-16T17:05:00.001+01:00

by Ono no Komachi

My longing for you --

too strong to keep within bounds.

At least no one can blame me

when I go to you at night

along the road of dreams.

Ono no Komachi
The Ink Dark Moon, trans. by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratami (Vintage October1990)

We grow accustomed to the Dark

2009-10-11T19:57:00.000+01:00

by Emily Dickinson

We grow accustomed to the Dark --
When light is put away --
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Goodbye --

A Moment -- We uncertain step
For newness of the night --
Then -- fit our Vision to the Dark --
And meet the Road -- erect --

And so of larger -- Darkness --
Those Evenings of the Brain --
When not a Moon disclose a sign --
Or Star -- come out -- within --

The Bravest -- grope a little --
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead --
But as they learn to see --

Either the Darkness alters --
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight --
And Life steps almost straight.

Pour ne pas mourir

2009-07-13T23:34:00.007+01:00

by Patrick Dubost (excerpt from Pour ne pas mourir)

1
J'écris pour ne pas mourir.
7
Je demande « Quelle heure est-il ? » et je me sauve sans attendre la réponse pour ne pas mourir.
8
Bazarder systématiquement les souvenirs, s'attacher au présent jusqu'à l'impossible, ne plus respirer, ne plus vivre pour ne pas mourir.
18
Accumuler, additionner, entasser. Des listes d'objets, des listes de mots, des listes de livres. Des kilomètres d'écrits pour ne pas mourir.
27
Tisser, au fil dans ans, un prodigieux manteau de solitude pour ne pas mourir.
30
Je marcherai volontiers sur les mains pour ne pas mourir.
34
On tombe amoureux tous les cent mètres, depuis l'enfance, pour ne pas mourir.
39
Le silence contient tous les ingrédients de la mort pour ne pas mourir.
43
Photographie en noir et blanc d'un homme endormi, couleurs en dedans pour ne pas mourir.
52Cultiver un jardin d'erreur pour ne pas mourir.
53
Applaudir en silence pour ne pas mourir.
57
Le mot « aimer » cousu de fils très fins dans la doublure pour ne pas mourir.
62
Les musées saturés d'objet pour ne pas mourir.
71
Lire à voix haute et sans prendre sa respiration comme s'il y avait une issue ou peut-être une clef ou peut-être une solution ou peut-être un obstacle à franchir pour ne pas mourir.
75
On joue de l'éphémère comme d'un instrument de musique pour ne pas mourir.
78
Fou mais pas trop pour ne pas mourir.
79
Plus je suis amoureux plus je me tais plus je suis amoureux pour ne pas mourir.
84
Courir plus vite que la poésie pour ne pas mourir.
88
Le monde vu depuis les coulisses pour ne pas mourir.
90
L'enfant qui refuse de se laisser photographier ignore qu'il se bat pour ne pas mourir.
93
Une bouteille (vide) à la mer pour ne pas mourir.

To his lost lover

2009-05-15T13:49:00.003+01:00

by Simon Armitage

Now they are no longer
any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list
of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.
For instance… for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush
through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.
How they never slept like buried cutlery –

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,
or made the most of some heavy weather –

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,
or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips
to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,
or tasted the fruit

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird
in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,
or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house
before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,

the another,
or knew her

favourite colour,
her taste, her flavour,

and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,
or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair

into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive
of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved

when he might have, or worked a comb
where no comb had been, or walked back home

through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,
where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand

to his butterfly heart
in its two blue halves.

And never almost cried,
and never once described

an attack of the heart,
or under a silk shirt

nursed in his hand her breast,
her left, like a tear of flesh

wept by the heart,
where it hurts,

or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,
or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.

Or christened the Pole Star in her name,
or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,

a pilot light,
or stayed the night,

or steered her back to that house of his,
or said “Don’t ask me how it is

I like you.
I just might do.”

How he never figured out a fireproof plan,
or unravelled her hand, as if her hand

were a solid ball
of silver foil

and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,
and measured the trace of his own alongside it.

But said some things and never meant them –
sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.

And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,
about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

I Live My Life in Widening Circles

2009-04-28T12:21:00.004+01:00

by Rainer Maria Rilke

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

From Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, trans. by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

---------

Ich lebe mein Leben im wachsenden Ringen

Ich lebe mein leben im wachsenden Ringen,

die sich über die Dingen ziehen.
Ich werde den letzen vielleicht nicht volbringen,
aber versuchen will ich ihn.

Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,

und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;
und ich weiß nocht nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm
oder ein großer Gesang.

Rainer Maria Rilke (Paris, 1913)

How to Disappear

2009-04-21T10:20:00.002+01:00

by Amanda Dalton
(from "How to Disappear, Bloodaxe Books, 1999)

First rehearse the easy things.
Lose your words in a high wind,
walk in the dark on an unlit road,
observe how other people mislay keys,
their diaries, new umbrellas.
See what it takes to go unnoticed
in a crowded room. Tell lies:
I love you. I'll be back in half an hour.
I'm fine.

The childish things.
Stand very still behind a tree,
become a cowboy, say you have died,
climb into wardrobes, breathe on a mirror
until there's no one there, and practice magic,
tricks with smoke and fire --
a flick of the wrist and the victim's lost
his watch, his wife, his ten pound note. Perfect it.
Hold your breath a little longer every time.

The hardest things.
Eat less, much less, and take a vow of silence.
Learn the point of vanishing, the moment
embers turn to ash, the sun falls down,
the sudden white-out comes.
And when it comes again - it will -
just walk at it. walk into it, and walk,
until your know that you're no longer
anywhere.

Ithaka by Constantine P. Cavafy

2009-03-03T17:59:00.006Z

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

--------

(Greek original)

Ιθάκη

Σα βγεις στον πηγαιμό για την Ιθάκη,
να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος,
γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις.
Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας,
τον θυμωμένο Ποσειδώνα μη φοβάσαι,
τέτοια στον δρόμο σου ποτέ σου δεν θα βρεις,
αν μεν' η σκέψις σου υψηλή, αν εκλεκτή
συγκίνησις το πνεύμα και το σώμα σου αγγίζει.
Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας,
τον άγριο Ποσειδώνα δεν θα συναντήσεις,
αν δεν τους κουβανείς μες στην ψυχή σου,
αν η ψυχή σου δεν τους στήνει εμπρός σου.

Να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος.
Πολλά τα καλοκαιρινά πρωϊά να είναι
που με τι ευχαρίστησι, με τι χαρά
θα μπαίνεις σε λιμένας πρωτοειδωμένους,
να σταματήσεις σ' εμπορεία Φοινικικά,
και τες καλές πραγμάτειες ν' αποκτήσεις,
σεντέφια και κοράλλια, κεχριμπάρια κ' έβενους,
και ηδονικά μυρωδικά κάθε λογής,
όσο μπορείς πιο άφθονα ηδονικά μυρωδικά,
σε πόλεις Αιγυπτιακές πολλές να πας,
να μάθεις και να μάθεις απ' τους σπουδασμένους.

Πάντα στον νου σου νάχεις την Ιθάκη.
Το φθάσιμον εκεί ειν' ο προορισμός σου.
Αλλά μη βιάζεις το ταξείδι διόλου.
Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλά να διαρκέσει
και γέρος πια ν' αράξεις στο νησί,
πλούσιος με όσα κέρδισες στο δρόμο,
μη προσδοκώντας πλούτη να σε δώσει η Ιθάκη.

Η Ιθάκη σ'έδωσε τ' ωραίο ταξείδι.
Χωρίς αυτήν δεν θάβγαινες στον δρόμο.
Άλλα δεν έχει να σε δώσει πια.

Κι αν πτωχική την βρεις, η Ιθάκη δε σε γέλασε.
Έτσι σοφός που έγινες, με τόση πείρα,
ήδη θα το κατάλαβες οι Ιθάκες τι σημαίνουν.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης

The Measure of a Man

2009-03-01T19:26:00.003Z

Not, "How did he die?" but "how did he live?"
Not, "What did he gain?" but "What did he give?"
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth
Not, "What was his station?" but "Had he a heart?"
And "how did he play his God-Given part?
Was he ever ready with a word of good cheer,
To bring a smile, to banish a tear?
Not, "What was his church?" nor "What was his creed?"
But "Had he befriended those really in need?
Not, "What did the sketch in the newspaper say?"
But "How many were sorry, when he passed away?"
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.

(Anon)

Prayer by Carol Ann Duffy

2009-02-11T13:28:00.003Z

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade I piano scales console
the lodger looking out across a Midlands town.
Then dusk, and someone calls a child's name
as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radios prayer -
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

Carol Ann Duffy, Mean Time (Anvil, 1993)

A Thought for Today:

2009-02-02T10:01:00.002Z

Laughter and tears are meant to turn the wheels of the same machinery of sensibility; one is wind-power, and the other water-power.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., poet, novelist, essayist, and physician (1809-1894)

Melodeon on the Road Home

2009-01-16T15:07:00.003Z

by Jen Hadfield

I love your slut dog,
as silent with his three print spots
as a musical primer.
He sags like a melodeon
across my spread knees.
When I did my fingers
into the butterfly hollows
in his chest, he pushes my breasts
apart with stiff legs.
Isn’t it good to be hearing your dog’s tune
on the broad curve out of town,
a poem starting,
pattering the breathless little keys.
To see more than me, I flick
the headlamps to high beam
and it’s as if I pulled an organ stop–
black light wobbling
in the wrinkles of the road,
high angelus of tree.

The Pen

2008-11-18T12:00:00.003Z

By Solomon Ibn Gabirol

Naked without either cover or dress,

Utterly souless, and hollow--

from its mouth come wisdom and prudence,

and in ambush it kills like an arrow.

ABU AYYUB SULAIMAN IBN YAHYA IBN JABIRUL, born Shelomoh Ben Yehudah Ibn Gabirol, in either 1021 or 1022, in Malaga, to an undistinguished family that may have fled the collapsing capital of the Umayyad Caliphate, Córdoba, with the same wave of refugees that included Shmuel Ha-Nagid, who would go on to become the period's first great Hebrew poet. At some point his father moves the family north to Saragossa, and Ibn Gabirol--or, in Arab circles, Abu Ayyub Sulaiman Ibn Yahya Ibn Jabirul--is raised in that important center of Islamic and Jewish learning. Ibn Gabirol's father dies while the precocious son is still in his early teens, and the young man is looked after by a Jewish notable at the Saragossan court, Yequtiel Ibn Hasan al-Mutawakkil Ibn Qabrun.
In 1039 Yequtiel is killed, and Ibn Gabirol loses his patron. He leaves Saragossa sometime after 1045, and most scholars assume that he goes south, to Granada, to the court of HaNagid, who is, at that point, governor (nagid) of the region's Jews, prime minister of that Muslim ta'ifa (party state) under its Berber king, and commander-in-chief of the Granadan army. He writes secular verse, and later in life he is supported by his writing for the synagogue, composing radical and, in comparison with his court-centered verse, remarkably self-deprecating piyyutim, or liturgical poems. Apart from his diwan and his philosophical masterwork, The Fountain of Life, he produces a short but striking ethical treatise, On the Improvement of the Moral Qualities, and claims in one of his poems to have written some twenty books--now lost--on philosophical, linguistic, scientific, and religious topics.

Albert Camus

2008-11-11T11:39:00.001Z

As usual I finish the day before the sea, sumptuous this evening beneath the moon, which writes Arab symbols with phosphorescent streaks on the slow swells. There is no end to the sky and the waters. How well they accompany sadness!

Albert Camus (1913-1960), American Journals (1978, trans. 1988). Written July 3, 1949 while crossing the Atlantic en route to South America.)

Against Travel

2008-11-09T20:19:00.000Z

by Charles Tomlinson

These days are best when one goes nowhere,
The house a reservoir of quiet change,
The creak of furniture, the window panes
Brushed by the half-rhymes of activities
That do not quite declare what thing it was
Gave rise to them outside. The colours, even,
Accord with the tenor of the day—yes, ‘grey’
You will hear reported of the weather,
But what a grey, in which the tinges hover,
About to catch, although they still hold back
The blaze that's in them should the sun appear,
And yet it does not. Then the window pane
With a tremor of glass acknowledges
The distant boom of a departing plane.

Charles Tomlinson, “Against Travel” from Selected Poems 1955-1997. Copyright © 1997 by Charles Tomlinson. Source: Selected Poems: 1955-1997 (1997).

I Have Longed To Move Away

2008-11-03T09:10:00.002Z

by Dylan Thomas

I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.

Tanka

2008-10-06T22:50:00.006+01:00

Fujiwara no Teika (1162 – 1241)

http://www.tankasociety.com/Gresham.html

The black hair through which

I used to run my hand for her;

Now strand by strand

It rises before my mind

When I lie down alone.

Tanka Poetry

2008-10-06T22:38:00.009+01:00

From a lecture by Dr. Hisashi Nakamura: "Japanese Women in Tanka Poetry: from the 4th to the 13th century"

As far as one can see,

No cherry blossoms

Or crimson leaves-

A thatched hut by a bay

In the autumn dusk.

"Tanka means “short poem” or “short song”. A tanka consists of 31 Japanese syllables. They are usually divided into syllabic units of 5-7-5-7-7. The tanka poems I will introduce tonight have been translated by me into English. When tanka poems are translated into English it is almost impossible to reproduce the number of syllables that occur in the Japanese. However, when original tanka are written in English it is possible to use the 5-7-5-7-7 syllable form. ." from a lecture by Dr. Hisashi Nakamura
"Japanese Women in Tanka Poetry: from the 4th to the 13th century"

My Last Duchess - Robert Browning

2008-10-02T21:16:00.004+01:00

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myselfthey turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace — all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked
Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

"My Last Duchess" puts in the mouth of a Duke of Ferrara, an art patron of the Renaissance, a description of his last wife, whose happy nature and universal kindliness were a perpetual affront to his exacting self-predominance, and whose suppression, by his command, has made the vacancy he is now, in his interview with the envoy for a new match, taking precaution to fill more acceptably. Frà Pandolf, and Claus of Innsbruck, are imaginary. Historical background and story behind this poem

The name -- of it -- is "Autumn"

2008-09-13T11:36:00.001+01:00

The name -- of it -- is "Autumn" --
The hue -- of it -- is Blood --
An Artery -- upon the Hill --
A Vein -- along the Road --

Great Globules -- in the Alleys --
And Oh, the Shower of Stain --
When Winds -- upset the Basin --
And spill the Scarlet Rain --

It sprinkles Bonnets -- far below --
It gathers ruddy Pools --
Then -- eddies like a Rose -- away --
Upon Vermilion Wheels

by Emily Dickinson

Autumn Song

2008-09-13T11:35:00.000+01:00

Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.

Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?

by Sarojini Naidu

Alba -Ezra Pound

2008-08-15T19:36:00.003+01:00

As cool as the pale wet leaves

 of lily-of-the-valley

She lay beside me in the dawn

Rumi

2008-08-05T17:56:00.003+01:00

You came suddenly like resurrection,
like an infinite blessing
and my thoughts burned like trees on fire.
You came today like God Himself,
generous and full of grace,
holding the key to my freedom in your hands.
Both traveller and the road,
the beginning and the end.
You are the gatekeeper of the Sun.
For so long I have lived in pain, suspended
between my longing and my need for bread.
Now that You have risen in my heart
and taken over my thoughts,
I am breaking the pen and leaving the paper.

My Sun has risen!

(trans. M Mafi and M. Kolin, Hidden Music 2001)

Rumi

2008-08-05T17:51:00.002+01:00

Seek the wisdom
that will untie your knot
seek the path
that demands your whole being.
Leave that which is not, but appears
to be
seek that which is, but is
not apparent.

(Trans. M. Mafi and M. Kolin -Hidden Music)

Rain (Rapa Nui) by Pablo Neruda

2008-06-29T15:43:00.003+01:00

No, better the Queen not recognize
your face, it's sweeter
this way, my love, far from the effigies, the weight
of your hair in my hands. Do you remember
the Mangareva tree whose flowers fell
in your hair? These fingers are not like
the white petals: look at them they are like roots,
they are like stone shoots over which the lizard
slides. Don't be afraid, we will wait for the rain to fall, naked,
the rain, the same as falls over Manu Tara.

But just as water inures its strokes on the stone,
it falls on us, washing us softly
towards obscurity down below the hole
of Ranu Raraku. And so
don't let the fishermen or the wine-pitcher see you.
Bury your twin-burning breast on my mouth,
and let your head of hair be a small night for me,
a darkness of wet perfume enveloping me.

At night I dream that you and I are two plants
that grew together, roots entwined,
and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,
since we are made of earth and rain. Sometimes
I think that with death we will seep below,
in the depths at the feet of he effigy, looking over
the ocean which brought us here to build and make love.

My hands were not ferrous when they met you, the waters
of another sea went through them as through a net; now
water and stones sustain seeds and secrets.

Sleeping and naked, love me: on the shore
you are like the island: your love confused, your love
astonished, hidden in the cavity of dreams,
is like the movement of the sea around us.

And when I too begin falling asleep
in your love, naked,
leave my hand between your breasts so it can throb
along with your nipples wet with rain.

(Trans. Anthony Kerrigan)

From the Irish by Ian Duhig

2008-06-13T19:39:00.002+01:00

According to Dinneen, a Gael unsurpassed
in lexicographical enterprise, the Irish
for moon means the white circle in a slice
of half-boiled potato or turnip. A star
is the mark on the forehead of a beast
and the sun is the bottom of a lake, or well.

Well, if I say to you your face
is like a slice of half-boiled turnip,
your hair is the colour of a lake's bottom
and at the centre of each of your eyes
is the mark of the beast, it is because
I want to love you properly, according to Dinneen.

Romance Sonambulo by Federico García Lorca

2008-06-10T22:47:00.001+01:00

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.

But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

(Trans. by William Logan)

The Question Answered by William Blake

2008-06-05T20:27:00.000+01:00

What is it men in women do require

The lineaments of Gratified Desire

What is it women do in men require

The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

If the Owl Calls Again by John Haines

2008-06-01T17:58:00.001+01:00

at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,

I'll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wing and glide
to meet him.

We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.

And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,

while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.

And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,

fulfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.

I will leave your White House by Anna Akhmatova

2008-05-30T18:09:00.000+01:00

I will leave your white house and tranquil garden.
Let life be empty and bright.
You, and only you, I shall glorify in my poems,
As a woman has never been able to do.
And you remember the beloved
For whose eyes you created this paradise,
But I deal in rare commodities -
I sell your love and tenderness.

Trans. by J. Hemschemeyer

Anna Akhmatova

2008-05-30T18:06:00.000+01:00

Anna Akhmatova (June 23 [O.S. June 11] 1889 — March 5, 1966) was the pen name of Anna Andreevna Gorenko, a Russian poet with a largely credited influence on Russian poetry.

Akhmatova's work ranges from short lyric poems to universalized, ingeniously structured cycles, such as Requiem(1935-40), her tragic masterpiece about the Stalinist terror. Her work addresses a variety of themes including time and memory, the fate of creative women, and the difficulties of living and writing in the shadow of Stalinism.
Akhmatova was born at Bolshoy Fontan in Odessa, Ukraine. She was educated in Tsarskoe Selo (where she first met her future husband, Nikolay Gumilyov) and in Kiev. Anna started writing poetry at the age of 11, inspired by her favourite poets: Racine, Pushkin, and Baratynsky. As her father did not want to see any verses printed under his "respectable" name, she chose to adopt the surname of her Tatar grandmother as a pseudonym.

The Giraffe by Nikolai Gumilyov

2008-05-25T17:38:00.001+01:00

Today, I see, your gaze is particularly forlorn,
And your hands particularly thin, embracing your knees.
Listen: far away, far away, on Lake Chad,
A refined giraffe is roaming.
His proportions are harmonious and his legs are long,
And a bewitching pattern adorns his skin;
Nothing dares compare with it, save the moon,
Fragmented and flowing on the liquid of broad lakes.
He juts out like the many-colored sails of ships,
And his gait is floating, like joyous birdflight.
I know this earth has seen many wonders
When at sunset he hides in a marble grotto.
I know the happy stories of secret lands,
About the dark maiden, about the passion of the young chief,
But you have breathed in the heavy mists for too long -
You will believe in nothing, except rain.
And how I would tell you about tropical orchards,
About elegant palms, about the scent of extraordinary grasses…
You're crying? Listen… far away, on Lake Chad,
A refined giraffe is roaming.

(Trans. by Katharine Gilbert)

XLIV - Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers -Elizabeth Barrett Browning

2008-05-17T11:21:00.000+01:00

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers
Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.
So, in the like name of that love of ours,
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine,
Here's ivy!--take them, as I used to do
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

Zen Poems of Ryokan

2008-05-14T19:16:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I sit quietly,
Listening to the sound of falling leaves.
Peaceful indeed is the life of a monk,
Cut off from all worldy matters.
Then why do I shed these tears?

I am so aware
That it's all unreal:
One by one, the things
Of this world pass on.
But why do I still grieve?

(trans. John Stevens , Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf,
Shambala, 2004)

Ryokan

2008-05-14T19:05:00.000+01:00

The Zen poet Ryokan (1758-1831) was born in Nigaata, Japan, and lived most of his life as a hermit Soto Zen Buddhist monk. Ryōkan is remembered for his poetry and calligraphy, which present the essence of Zen life. The practice of Zen and appreciation of Zen art is now universal, Ryokan's life and spirit speak to lovers of poetry, religion and beauty everywhere.

How Everything Adores Being Alive -by Mary Oliver

2008-05-05T11:44:00.001+01:00

What
if you were
a beetle,
and a soft wind

and a certain allowance of time
had summoned you
out of your wrappings
and there you were,

so many legs
hardening,
maybe even
more than one pair of eyes

and the whole world
in front of you?
And what if you had wings
and flew?

inti the garden.
then fell
unto the un-tipped
face

of a white flower,
and what if you had
a sort of mouth,
a lip

to place close
to the skim
of honey
that kept offering itself -

what would you think then
of the world
as, night and day,
you were kept there -

oh happy prisoner -
sighing, humming,
roaming,
that deep cup?

Mary Oliver

2008-05-05T11:37:00.000+01:00

Oliver was born to Edward William and Helen M. V. Oliver on September 10, 1935, in Maple Heights, Ohio, a semi-rural suburb of Cleveland.

Oliver’s poetry is grounded in memories of Ohio and her adopted home of New England. Influenced by bothWhitman and Thoreau , she is known for her keen observances of the natural world. Her poems are filled with imagery from her daily walks near her home in Provincetown, Massachusetts: shore birds, water snakes, the phases of the moon and humpback whales. Maxine Kumin calls Oliver "a patroller of wetlands in the same way that Thoreau was an inspector of snowstorms" and "an indefatigable guide to the natural world." Oliver has also been compared to Emily Dickinson, with whom she shares an affinity for solitude and interior monologues. Her poetry combines dark introspection with joyous release. Although she has been criticized for writing poetry that assumes a dangerously close relationship of women with nature, she finds only the self is only strengthened through an immersion with nature. As her creativity is stirred by nature, Oliver is an avid walker, pursuing inspiration on foot. For Oliver, walking is part of the poetic process. Oliver is also known for her unadorned language and accessible themes. (wikipedia)

Sonnets XIII, Part II Sonnets to Orpheus Rainer Maria Rilke

2008-04-24T09:25:00.002+01:00

Anticipate every farewell. You must put it behind
you as this passing winter will pass.
Yet, among the winters one winter will come so endless
that overwintering it proves that your heart can survive.

Share in her death with Eurydice. Ascend in your song
and in praise ever-ascending combine with the pure.
Be, among Shades here in the Realm of Declining,
A ringing glass until, ringing, you shatter.

Be! yet at the same time remember the code of not-being,
Endless dimension for every innermost vibration;
See you fulfill it this once and once-only-time.

To the things we make use of, to the whole shabby unspeaking
Sore supplied by rich Nature, surpassing addition
Gladly account your own self and cancel the sum.

......

Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter

dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.

Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,

daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.

Sei immer tot in Eurydike –, singender steige,

preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.

Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,

sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.

Sei – und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,

den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,

daß du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.

Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen

Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,

zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.

John Donne

2008-04-16T13:38:00.001+01:00

Thou canst not every day give me thy heart,
If thou canst give it, then thou never gavest it ;
Love's riddles are, that though thy heart depart,
It stays at home, and thou with losing savest it ;
But we will have a way more liberal,
Than changing hearts, to join them ; so we shall
Be one, and one another's all

John Donne

Encounter in the Chestnut Avenue by Rainer Maria Rilke

2008-04-14T11:06:00.000+01:00

He felt the entrance's green darkness

wrapped cooly round him like a silken cloak

that he was still accepting and arranging;

when at the opposite transparent end, far off,

through green sunlight, as through green window panes,

whitely a solitary shape

flared up, long remaining distant

and then finally, the downdriving light

boiling over it at every step,

bearing on itself a bright pulsation,

which in the blond ran shyly to the back.

But suddenly the shade was deep,

and nearby eyes lay gazing


from a clear new unselfconscious face,

which, as in a portrait, lived intensely

in the instant things split off again:

first there forever, and then not at all.

Rainer Maria Rilke

2008-04-14T11:05:00.001+01:00

Rainer Maria Rilke (4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926) is considered one of the German language’s greatest 20th century poets. His haunting images focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety- themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.

The Poetry of Kahil Gibran

2008-04-13T11:44:00.000+01:00

Love has no other desires but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

Kahil Gibran

2008-04-13T11:42:00.002+01:00

Gibran Khalil Gibran bin Mikhael bin Saâd, (January 6, 883 –April10,
1931) artist, poet and writer, born in Lebanon during the Ottoman Empire, and spent most of his life in the United States. He is the third bestselling poet in history after Shakespeare and Lao Tsu.

Sonnet XLIII (Edna St. Vincent Millais)

2008-04-12T21:34:00.000+01:00

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

2008-04-12T21:24:00.001+01:00

Edna St. Vincent Millais

Poet and playwright

Born in Rockland, Maine, graduated from Vassar College (1917) having already won fame with the publication of Renascence (1912), the title poem of her first volume Renascence and Other Poems (1917), which exhibited technical virtuosity and startling freshness. She then moved to Greenwich Village in New York, where she wrote poetry and plays, as well as journalistic pieces.

In late 1912 she spent some time in Vienna, Austria, travelled through Italy and Albania, and went to Paris where she met Djuna Barnes. Her work include: A Few Figs from Thistles (1920), and Second April (1921). While living in Greenwich Village, she became associated with the Provincetown Players, for whom she wrote The Princess Marries the Page (1918), Aria da Capo (1919), and Two Slatterns and a King (1921), all one-act satirical fantasies. The Lamp and the Bell (1921) is a five-act poetic drama.

Other works were: The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems (1923, Pulitzer Price), The Buck in the Snow (1828), Fatal Interview (1931), Wine for These Grapes (1934), Conversation at Midnight (1937), Huntsman, What Quarry? (1939), Make Bright the Arrows (1940), The Murder of Lidice (1942),

Her Collected Sonnets appeared in 1941, Collected Lyrics in 1943, and Collected Poems in 1956. Her Letters where published posthumously, as well as Mine the Harvest (1954) a collection of 66 of her poems.

(Matt & Andrej Koymasky)

Neruda's Sonnet XVII

2008-04-12T15:04:00.000+01:00

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of the carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

by Pablo Neruda

Veinte poemas de amor y una cancion desesperada

Sonnet XVII

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de si, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendio de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber como, ni cuando, ni de donde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asi te amo porque no se amar de otra manera,

sino asi de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mia,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueno.

Pablo Neruda

Goethe's Blissful yearning

2008-04-12T13:50:00.000+01:00

Tell a wise person, or else keep silent,

because the mass man will mock it right away.

I praise what is truly alive,

what longs to be burned to death.

In the calm water of the love-nights,

where you were begotten, where you have begotten,

a strange feeling comes over you,

when you see the silent candle burning.

Now you are no longer caught in the obsession with darkness,

and a desire for higher love-making sweeps you upward.

Distance does not make you falter.

Now, arriving in magic, flying,

and finally, insane for the light,

you are the butterfly and you are gone.

And so long as you haven't experienced this: to die and so to grow,

you are only a troubled guest on the dark earth

Goethe

2008-04-12T13:47:00.000+01:00

Goethe, was a precocious youngster. At an early age he had already acquired some knowledge of Greek, Latin, French and Italian. He had likewise acquired from his mother the knack of story telling; and from a toy puppet show in his nursery his first interest in the stage.

Goethe's early education was somewhat irregular and informal. When he was about 16 he was sent to Leipzig, to study law. He apparently studied more life than law and put in his time expressing his reactions through some form of writing.

Finally, in 1770 Goethe went to Strassburg, this time really intent on passing his preliminary examinations in law. Along with his study of law, he studied art, music, anatomy and chemistry. A strong friendship with the writer, Herder, was likewise no part of Goethe's experience at this time, a contact which was of considerable importance in these formative years.

In 1771 Goethe returned to Frankfurt, nominally to practice law, but he was soon deep in work on what was to be his first dramatic success, Götz von Berlichingen. While this was actually the story of a robber baron of the 16th century it really represented Goethe's youthful protest against the established order and his demand for intellectual freedom. Its success made its hitherto unknown author the literary leader of Germany.

Goethe's invitation in 1775 to the court of Duke Karl August at Weimar was a turning point in the literary life of Germany. He became manager of the Court Theater, and interested himself in various other activities, so that for a period of some ten years not much actual writing was done.

The writing of Faust, however, that best known of Goethe's works, extended over practically the whole of Goethe's literary life, a period of 57 years. It was finally finished when Goethe was 81. Faust is in reality a dramatic poem rather than a piece for the stage.

Others of Goethe's works which have stood the test of time include: Clavigo, Egmont, Stella, Iphigenia in Tauris and Torquato Tasso.

†Form an article originally published in Minute History of the Drama. ed. Alice B. Fort & Herbert S. Kates. New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1935. p. 70.

Lorca's "Before the Dawn"

2008-04-12T13:24:00.001+01:00

But like love
the archers
are blind

Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm lily.

The keel of the moon
breaks through purple clouds
and their quivers
fill with dew.

Ay, but like love
the archers
are blind!

Federico García Lorca

Federico Garcia Lorca

2008-04-12T13:17:00.001+01:00

Born in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada, Spain, June 5,1898; died near Granada, August 19,1936, García Lorca is Spain's most appreciated and revered poet and dramatist. His murder by the Nationalists at the start of the Spanish civil war brought sudden international fame, accompanied by an excess of political rhetoric which led a later generation to question his merits; after the inevitable slump, his reputation has recovered (largely with a shift in interest to the less obvious works). He must now be bracketed with MACHADO as one of the two greatest poets Spain has produced this century, and he is certainly Spain's greatest dramatist since the Golden Age.

As a poet, his early reputation rested on the Romancero gitano (Madrid, 1928; tr. R. Humphries, The Gypsy Ballads of García Lorca, Bloomington, 1953), the poems of Poema del Cante Jondo (Madrid, 1931), and Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Mejias (Madrid, 1935; tr. A. L. Lloyd, in Lament for the Death of a Bullfighter, and Other Poems, London, 1937), all profoundly Andalusian, richly sombre in their mood and imagery, and disquieting in their projection of a part-primitive, part-private world of myth moved by dark and not precisely identifiable forces; but, beneath the flamenco trappings, there is a deeper - perhaps personal - anguish, as well as a superb rhythmical and linguistic sense (the Llanto is one of the four best elegies in the Spanish language). Critical interest has since shifted to the tortured, ambiguous and deliberately dissonant surrealist poems of Poeta en Nueva York (Mexico City, 1940; tr. B. Belitt, Poet in New York, London, 1955), and to the arabesque casidas and gacelas of Divein de Tamarit (NY, 1940). An early major anthology in English is Poems (tr. S. Spender & J. L. Gili, London, 1939).

As a dramatist, early romantic pieces with social implications such as Mariana Pineda (Madrid, 1928; tr. J. GrahamLuidn & R. L. O'Connell in Collected Plays, London, 1976) and the comic invention of La zapatera prodigiosa (first performed 1930, amplified 1935, pub. Buenos Aires, 1938; The Shoemaker's Prodigious Wife in Collected Plays) established him in the public eye, while his fostering of popular theatre gave him a left-wing reputation which contributed to his death

His reputation as a playwright rests, however, mainly on the three 'folk tragedies', Bodas de sangre (Madrid, 1935; Blood Wedding), Yerma (Buenos Aires, 1937) and La casa de Bernarda Alba (Buenos Aires, 1940; The House of Bernarda Alba: all three tr. J. Graham-Lujan & R. L. O'Connell, in III Tragedies, NY, 1959, incorporated into Collected Plays), whose settings recall the Romancero gitano, as do the unspecified dark forces (associated with earth, blood, sex, water, fertility/infertility, death, and the moon) which appear to manipulate the characters in Bodas de sangre and Yerma. Both these plays are richly poetic, with an almost ritualized primitivism (Lorca was highly superstitious, and his dark forces were not mere dramatic ploys).

La casa de Bernarda Alba is starker: deliberately prosaic, more readily interpretable as social criticism (i.e. of the pressures of convention, the imprisoning effect of mourning customs, the frustration of female sexuality by the need to wait for an acceptable match), but it is so dominated by the title character - who tyrannizes her five daughters - that it emerges as the study of a unique individual rather than a typical woman. Each tragedy has one outstanding female role, those of Yerma and Bernarda having been written for the great tragic actress Margarita Xirgu.

Lorca's technical experimentation (which has affinities with innovators as dissimilar as PIRANDELLO and BRECHT) was immensely versatile, and he had a superb sense for stage-effects to reinforce the web of his recurrent imagery.

Robert Pring-Mill (Fellow of St. Catherine's College, Oxford)
from The Fontana Biographical Companion to Modern Thought