Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
You didn't yet use chanel. . .
You didn't yet use chanel
you used avon still
it was that afternoon below the trees
afternoon of such wind and rain clouds
you wore your green dress
with stripes green and greener and greener
so slight
and I brought three pesos and huarache sandals and a book I believe
that east slope
we kissed clear and the leaves on the tree stirred themselves
and the dry leaves on the ground of dry leaves too stirred
and the dry leaves crunched beneath our hugging bodies. . .
Ricardo Yanez
tr. by Krista Ingebretson
You didn't yet use chanel
you used avon still
it was that afternoon below the trees
afternoon of such wind and rain clouds
you wore your green dress
with stripes green and greener and greener
so slight
and I brought three pesos and huarache sandals and a book I believe
that east slope
we kissed clear and the leaves on the tree stirred themselves
and the dry leaves on the ground of dry leaves too stirred
and the dry leaves crunched beneath our hugging bodies. . .
Ricardo Yanez
tr. by Krista Ingebretson
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Seven Strophes
I was but what you'd brush
with your palm, what your leaning
brow would hunch to in evening's
raven-black hush.
I was but what your gaze
in that dark could distinguish:
a dim shape to begin with,
later--features, a face.
It was you, on my right,
on my left, with your heated
sighs, who molded my helix,
whispering at my side.
It was you by that black
window's trembling tulle pattern
who laid in my raw cavern
a voice calling you back.
I was practically blind.
You, appearing, then hiding,
gave me my sight and heightened
it. Thus some leave behind
a trace. Thus they make worlds.
Thus, having done so, at random
wastefully they abandon
their work to its whirls.
Thus, prey to speeds
of light, heat, cold, or darkness,
a sphere in space without markers
spins and spins.
A Song
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car,
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.
I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?
Joseph Brodsky
I was but what you'd brush
with your palm, what your leaning
brow would hunch to in evening's
raven-black hush.
I was but what your gaze
in that dark could distinguish:
a dim shape to begin with,
later--features, a face.
It was you, on my right,
on my left, with your heated
sighs, who molded my helix,
whispering at my side.
It was you by that black
window's trembling tulle pattern
who laid in my raw cavern
a voice calling you back.
I was practically blind.
You, appearing, then hiding,
gave me my sight and heightened
it. Thus some leave behind
a trace. Thus they make worlds.
Thus, having done so, at random
wastefully they abandon
their work to its whirls.
Thus, prey to speeds
of light, heat, cold, or darkness,
a sphere in space without markers
spins and spins.
A Song
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car,
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.
I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?
Joseph Brodsky
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Her Lips Are Copper Wire
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes
telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate
(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)
then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent
Jean Toomer
1923
whisper of yellow globes
gleaming on lamp-posts that sway
like bootleg licker drinkers in the fog
and let your breath be moist against me
like bright beads on yellow globes
telephone the power-house
that the main wires are insulate
(her words play softly up and down
dewy corridors of billboards)
then with your tongue remove the tape
and press your lips to mine
till they are incandescent
Jean Toomer
1923
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
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