After Lorca Jack Spicer

8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer

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•

J ·


3/35

This book

has

b

een

typ ed on

an

IBM Selectr ic bl ah, bl ah, blah,

by

Ro

.bin Cones and

printed

by

Marco Polio for the Government,

with a cover from a photo by ·

bl ah,

blah, blah,

in

March, 1974 .

INTRODUCTION

Frankly I was

quite surprized

when Mr Spicer

LJsked me

to

write an introduction

to this volume.

y reaction to the

manscript he sent me (and

to

he

series

of

let ters that are now

a

part of

i t

was

and

is f undam e

ntally

unsympathetic. I t seems

to me

the

waste

of a considerable . talent on

so

m

e-

thing which is not worth doing. However, I have

been removed from al l contact with poetry for the

last

twenty years.

The

younger

generatio n of

poets may view with

pleasure

Mr.

Spicer

s

execu

-

t ion of

what seems

to

me a

diff icul t and

unreward-

ing

task

.

I t

must be

made

clear

at

th

e s tar t

that these

poems are not t ranslations. In even the most

l iberal

of

them Mr. Spicer seems to derive

pleas-

ure in insert ing or

subs

t i tut in g one or two words

which compl

etely change

the mood ·

and often

the

meaning of the poem as I had wr.tten

i t

. More

often he takes one of my poems

ind adjoins

to half

of i t

another

half

of

his own,

giving

rather

the

effect of an

unwilling

centaur . (Modes t y forbids

me

to speculate

which end of the

animal

is mine.)

Finally

there are almost

an

equal

number of poems

that

I did not write at al l (one

supposes

that

th

ey must be his

)

executed in

a somewhat

fanciful

imitation

of

my earl

y style . The reader

is given

no indication which of the poems

belong

to which

c

ategory

, and I have

further

complicated the

prob

-

l em

with

malice

aforethought

I must

admit)

by

se

nding Mr.

Spicer severa

l poems

written after

my

de

ath

which he

has also t ranslated

and included

here. Even

the

most

fai thful

student of my work

will be hard

put

to decide what is and what is not

Ga

rcia

Lorca as,

indeed,

he would i f he were to

look

into my present rest ing place . The analogy

is imp

ol i te ,

but I fear the impolit eness is de-

se

rv ed.


4/35

The le t te rs

are

another

problem. When

Mr

0

Spicer began

sending

them to

me

a few months

ago,

I recognized

immediately

the programatic let ter

-- the le t ter

one

poet writes to another

not

in

any

effort to communicate with him, but rather as

a young man whispers his

secrets

to a scarecrow,

knowing that

his

young lady is

in

the

distance

l istening. The young lady

in

th is case may

be

a

Muse,

but the scarecrow nevertheless quite

natu-

ral ly

resents

the

confidence. The

reader, who

is not

a

party

to

th is singular t ryst ,

may

be

amused by what he overhears .

The

dead

are

notoriously

hard

to

sa t isfy .

Mr.

Spicer 's mixture may

please

his

contemporary

audience

or

may, and this is more

probable, lead

him to

write

better poetry

of

his own. But I am

strongly

reminded as I

survey

th is

curious amal-

gam

of a cartoon

published

in

an

American maga-

zine

whil

e I was

visi t ing

your

country

in

New

York. The

cartoon

showed a

gravestone

on which

were inscribed the words: HERE LIES N OFFICER

ND A

GENTLEMAN.

The

caption below

i t read:

I wonder

how

they

happened to

be buried

in

the

same

grave?

Federico Garcia Lorca

Outside Granada, October

1957

JUAN R MON JIMENEZ

A Translation for

John

Ryan

In the white endlessness

now,

seaweed, and

sa l t

lie lost

his

imagination .

The color white. He walks

Upon

a

soundless

carpet

made

Of pigeon

feathers.

Wi.thout

eyes or

thumbs

lie

suffers

a dream not moving

But the

bones

quiver .

In the

white endlessness

I ow pure

and

big a wound

llis

imagination

lef t .

Snow,

seaweed,

and sa l t .

Now

In the white endlessness .


5/35

BALLAD OF THE LI TTLE GIRL

WHO

I NVENTED

TH

E UNJV E RSE

A

Tr a

n s l a t io n f

or

Ge

or ge Stanl

ey

J as mine f l ower a nd a

bull

wi

th his

thro at sl a

shed.

In f i ni t e

si

dewa lk. Map . Room. Harp .

Sunris

e .

A l i

t t l

e gi r l pr et ends a

bull

made of j as mi ne

And

th e bull is a bl oody

twi l i

ght that be llows .

If

th

e sky

coul

d be a l

i t t l

e boy

Th e

ja smin es

cou1d t a ke

half

th e

night to

th

emselve

And

th

e bull

a b lu e bullrin g

of

hi s own

With h

is

he

ar t

a t

th

e

fo

ot

of

a s ma

l l

column .

But

th

e sky i s an el ephant

And

t he

ja s

min es

are

wa t

er

without b

loo

d

And th e l i t t l e girl i s a bouquet of ni ght f l ower s

Lo s t on a big dark

si

dewa

lk.

Be

tw

een

th

e j asmine and t he bu

l l

Or th e h

ooks

of t he s l eepi ng peop l e of mar b l e or

In th e jasmi ne , c l ouds and an e l ephant--

Th e skel et on of a l i t t l e g i r l t ur

ni n

g .

ll 11

I

Lorca ,

Th ese l e t te rs

ar

e

to be

as t emporary as

po e t r y is to be

permanent

. They will

0s tnbl is h the bulk, the

wastage

that my sour-

• t

oma hed contemporaries demand

to

help them

.w:il l ow and

digest

th e pure word.

We wi

s up our rhetor ic he re so that i t will

not

1pp ar i n our poems . Let i t be consumed

p11ro g

raph

by paragraph , day by day,

unti l

11 0 h i.ng of i t is l e f t in our poetry and

no th i ng of our poetry is l e f t in

i t

I t

is

pt i

se

ly because these let ters are unnes-

.i

1

l

Y

that

they

must

be

written.

ln my las t l e t t e r I spoke of the tradi-

tion. The fools that read these let ters

wi 11 think by this we mean what

t radit ion

•ms

to have meant lately

-- an histor ica l

pa chwork whether made up of Elizabethan

qu t a t i ons, guide books

of

the poet s hom e

t <

wn, or obscure hints

of

obscure bi

ts

of

11w gic published by Pantheon) which is used

l <

cover

up the

nakedness

of t ll e bare word.

l l nd i t ion means much more than

that .

I t

111

ans generations

of

different poe ts in

Ii

f ere

nt countri

es pati e

ntl

y telling th e

sn me s tory,

writing

the s ame poem,

gaining

ri

nc l

l

os in

g

som

e th i ng with

ea

ch transformation

-

but, of

cours

e , n

eve

r

reall

y

losing

a

ny-

thing . This ha s nothing to do

with

calmnes s ,

tempe

rm

ent, or any thing e l s e.

In ve ntio n is mer el y th e enem y of poetry .

See how weak prose i s . I invent a word

I i

kc

i nvention. Th ese parag

raph

s could be

tr a n s l a t ed, tran sformed by a chain of

f i f ty

11 t s i n f i f t y l a

ri

g

uages, and

th ey s t i l l

ul d be t emporar y, untrue ,

unable to

yield

th subs

tance

of a s ingle image .

Pros

e in -

v nts --

poetr

y d

is closes

.


6/35

A ma d man is ta lking to hi ms e l f in th e ·

room

next

to mine. He speaks in prose.

Presently shal l

go

to

a

bar

and

there

on e

or two poets will

speak

to me and to th em

and we

will

t r y to des troy

each

other or

a t t r c t

each

other or even l is ten

to each

other

and nothing will happen

because

we will

be

speaking in

pros e .

will

go

hom

e

dr unken and dissatisf ied and sleep -- and

my dreams will be prose . Even the

subcon-

s cious is not patient enough

for

poetry.

You

are

dead and

th

e

dead

are

very

patient .

Love

Jack

BALLAD

OF THE SEVEN PASSAGES

A Translation for Ebbe Borregaard

au


7/35

DEBUSSY

A

Translation

for

the

University

My

shadow moves

s i len t ly

Upon the in the ditch .

Upon my shadow are the frogs

Blocked

off from

the

stars.

The shadow demands from

my

body

Unmoving images.

My

shadow skims

the water l ike

a huge

Violet-colored

mosquito.

A hundred crickets

t ry

to mine gold

From

the

l ight in

the

rushes

A

l ight

born

in

my heart

Upon the

ditch

reflected.

FROG

A Translation for Graham

Mackintosh

1 · l l

the

novels

I '

ve read

ind

is going to

a

climax

\11d

climax

means a splash in the

pool.

ll1H111g

Boong . Boong.

, d your nose can ' t hardly breathe.

• ber

w

b Lack

those

pinetrees

were that fir

liurncd .

1

hat

black forest . And the noise

( p nsh)

Ill

i

s ingle green needle .


8/35

BUSTER KEATON'S RIDE

A Translation for Melvin Bakkerud

ROOSTER: Cockledoodledoo

(Buster Keaton enters carrying four

children

in his · arms.)

BUSTER

KEATON

(takes out a wooden

dagger and

k i l l s

them) :

My

poor

children

ROOSTER:

Cockledoodledoo

BUSTER

KEATON

(counting the corpses on the

'

One, two, three,

four

. (Grabs a

and goes . )

(Among

the old rubber t i res

and cans

of

a Negro eats a straw hat.)

BUSTER

KEATON:

What a

beautiful

af ternoon

(A parrot

f lu t ters

around in the sexless

BUSTER

KEATON: I l ike

riding

a

bicycle.

THE OWL: Toowit toowoo

BUSTER KEATON: How beautiful ly these

birds

sing

THE

OWL

Hoo

BUSTER

KEATON:

t ' s love l y

(Pause

. Buster Keaton

ineffably crosses the

rushes and l i t t l e f ields of

ry e

. The

land-

scape shortens i t sel f beneath

the

wheels

of

his machine . The bicyle

has

a single dimen-

sion . t is able to enter books and to

ex-

pand i t se l f even into operas and coalmines .

The bicycle of Buster Keaton

does

not have a

riding seat of caramel

or sugar

pedals l ike

the

bicycles bad men ride . t is a bicycle

l ike a l l bicycles except for a

unique

drench-

ing

of innocence. Adam and Eve

run by,

t 1ightened

as

i f they were carrying a vase

t

I I

of

water

and, in

passing,

pet the

bi-

l Y I of

Buster

Keaton . )

'. ll

KEATON: Ah,

love, love

( l\11ster Keaton fal ls to the

ground.

The bi-

escapes him.

t

runs behind two

n

rmous gray

butterf

l

ies

. t skims madly

hulf an inch from the ground.)

ll

ll

'i'l'l:ll KEATON: I don ' t

wan

t to ta lk. Won ' t

111 body please say something?

VOICE: Fool

(I

le

continues walking. His eyes, in f in i te and

s

ad l ike

a newly

born

animal, dream of

l i l ies

und angels

and

silken belts . His

eyes

of a

mad child

. Which are most

faithful.

Which

LJre most

beautiful .

The

eyes

of an

ostrich.

llis human

eyes with

a secure

equipoise with

melancholy. Philadelphia

is

seen in the dis-

tance . The inhabitants of that city now

know

hat the old poem of a

machine

is able

to

encircle

the big roses of

the

greenhouse

but not at all to comprehend the poetic dif-

ference between a bowl of hot

tea and

a

bow

l

of cold

tea. Philadelphia

shines in the

distance

. )

(

An

American

girl

with eyes

of

celluloid

comes

through the

grass . )

: AMERICAN:

Hello.

(Buster Keaton

smiles

and looks at the shoes

of the gir l . Those shoes We do not have to

admire her sho_

s.

t would take a

crocodile

to

wear

them . )

llU

STER KEATON: I would have liked

l'll

E AMERICAN

(breathless):

Do you

carry

a sword

de cked with myrtle

leaves?

(

Bu

s te r Keaton

shrugs his

shoulders

and

l i f t s

his _ foot.)


9/35

THE AMERICAN: Do you have a ring with a

stone?

(Buster Keaton twists slowly and l i f t s an

in-

quiring

le

g . )

THE

AMERICAN: Well?

(Four

angels

with wings of a heavenly

gas

bal-

loon

piss among the flowers . The

ladies

of

the town play a piano as i f they were

riding

a bicycle. The waltz, a moon, and

sevent

ee n

Indian

canoes rock the precious heart

of

our

friend. As

the greatest surprise

of

a l l

autumn

has

invaded th e garden

l ik

e water ex -

p lodes a

geometrical

clump of sugar . )

BUSTER KEATON

(sighing):

I would hav e l

iked

to

have been a swan. But I

can' t

do what I would

have l iked. Because

--

What happened to

ha t? Wh ere is my collar of l i t t l e white

mohair neckti

e? What a disgrace

(A

young gir l

with

a wasp

waist

and a

high

collar comes

in

on a

bicycle.

She has the

head of a ni

ghtingale.)

YOUNG GIRL:

Whom

do I have the

honor

of

saluting

?

BUSTER

KEATON

(with a bow): Buster Keaton .

The young girl faints and fal ls off the bi-

cycle. Her legs on the ground t r emble

l ike

two

agoni

zed

cobras.

A gramophone

plays

a

thousand

versions of

the

same song --

"In

Philadelphia

they have

no ni

ghtingales ".

BUSTER

KEATON

(kneeling) : Darling Miss Eleanor ,

p

ardon

me

(lower)

Darling

(lower s t i l l

)

Darling (lowest) Darling.

(T

he

l i

g

ht

s

of Philadelphia

fl icker and go

out in

the faces

of

a

thousand policemen

. )

11/\LLAD

OF THE SHADOWY PIGEONS

A Translation for Joe Dunn

h1

•

I ranches of laurel

w 1wo shadowy pigeons .

111 them was the sun

lhl i lh r the moon .

I

I I • neighbours, I asked

them,

Wlt

111

nm

I

buried?

I

y

ai l said

the sun .

y raw, said

the

moon.

11 I I

who had been

walking

illi

the earth at my

waistline

1w two eagles { marble

11 I

11

naked

maiden

.

on was the other

111 th

e

maiden

was no

one.

I

I I I c

eagles,

I

asked

them,

\\Ii

I

am I

buried?

1

y

t a i l ,

said

the

sun.

I

y

craw,

sai d

the

moon.

1111 th e branches of l aurel

11w

two naked

pigeons.

111 1• one was the other

11d

th

e

both

of them no

one.

•


10/35

SUICIDE

A

Translation for Eric

Weir

At ten o c lo ck in th e

morning

The young man could not remember .

His heart

was

stuffed

with

dead

wings

nd linen flowers.

He

is

conscious that there is nothing

l

eft

In

his mouth but

one

word.

When

he removes

his

coat soft ashes

Fall from

his

arms .

Through th e window he

sees

a tower

He sees

a window and a tower.

His

watch has run

down in

i ts

case

He

observes

the

way i t was looking at him .

He sees

shadow

stretched

Upon a

whit

e si lk cushion .

nd

the

s t i f f geome t r ic youngs ter

Sh

at ters th

e

mirror with

an

ax

The

mirror submerges every thin

g

In

a grea t

spurt

of shadow .

11 \C '1US

A

Tr a

ns lation for

Don

Allen

1che d

gree

n murmur.

I i

g

ree wants

to

extend me i ts

branches.

I I

1 11 pa nther i t s shadow

I

11

·

my poet shadow .

n has words with the do

gs

.

i i mist aken and begins ov

er

.

t

rday

tomorrow

black

and

green

I

1p ar ound my

circle

of

laur

e

l

Wl 1 would you lo ok for

my

xc

hanged my

heart?

/\nd the figtree shout s at me and advanc

es

11

nib le an

d ext

ended

.


11/35

A

DIAMO

ND

A Translation

for Robert

Jones

A diamond

Is

th

e

re

At the heart of the moon or the branches or my

nakedness

And th ere is nothing

in

the

No

th

i ng

in

the

whole

mind.

Th e poem is a seagull resting on a pier

of

th e ocean.

A

do g

howls

a t the moon

A dog

howls a t

th e branches

A d

og

how l s at the

nakedness

A

dog howling

with

pure

mind .

I

ask for

th

e

poem

to be

as

pure

as

a

seagull

' s

be

l l

y.

The universe fal ls

apart

and disclos es a diamond

The words ca l l ed seagull ar e peacefully floati ng

out

where

the

waves

are

The dog is dead there with th e moon, with the

branches,

with my nakedn

ess

And th

ere

is

nothing

in

th e

un

iverse

Nothi ng in

the

who

l e mind.

1

: LITTLE HALFWIT

A

Translatio

n for Robin Blaser

1

1d, Afternoon

1 t

wa

sn t

there .

1 '

rnoon

w

as

ano

th er

thing

hl r il h d gone somep la

ce

.

I

d

the

l ight

s

hru

gged

i t s

sho

uld

ers

1

o

l i t t

l e gir l

I

1

rnoon

But

this

is

useless,

i s

untrue,

this

h

as

to

i t

I

a

moon

of

lead.

The other

WI

never

get

h

er e

.

t

fl d the

l ight that

everyone

sees

t•t y d at being a

sta tu e.)

t

•

other

one

was

t iny

11tl a t e pomegranates .

th i s one is big an d green and I m not able

I n grab her in my arms or dress

her.

1 n ' t she ever coming? What was she?

(fi nd the l ight as

i t

went

along

, as a joke

•\•par a t ed the l i t t l e halfwit from his own

sha

dow

. )


12/35

VERLAINE

A

Transl

a tion

for

Pat Wilson

A

song

Which I shall never sing

Ha s

fallen

asleep on my l ips.

A song

Wh ic h I shall never sing--

Above th e honeys uckle

Ther

e ' s a firefly

And

th

e

moon

s tings

With a

ra

y into the water--

At

that tim

e I l l

imagine

The song

Which I shal l n

ever

s

in

g .

A so ng full

of

l ip s

And

f ar

-o

ff

washes

A song full

of lo

s t

Hours

in

th e

sha

dow

A

so

ng of a star tha t s a l iv e

And endur i ng day .

lh 11· Lorca ,

Wh n I tran s

la te

one of

yo

ur poems and I

11 1111 a ross words I do

not understand,

I al-

w11 \

guess at

their

meanings . I

am

inevi tably

1 A rea l ly perfect poem (no one yet

ha

s

w

l n

one)

could be

perf

e

ctly

t ranslated by

11

pvr

son

who

did not know one word of the

l Huage i t was

writt

en in. A rea l l y per f ect

1111•

h

as

an inf initely smal voc

abular

y.

I t

is very

diff icul t . W want

to

t rans-

i t 1 he immediate object,

the imm

e

diat

e e

mo-

1 Ion

to the

poem - - a nd ye t

the

immediate

1

1I1

v:tys

has hundreds

of i t s

ciwn

words clinging

i t ,

short-lived

and tenacious as barnacles .

11

I i.t is wrong to scrape them off

and sub-

l I ute others. A poet

is

a

tim

e m

ec

hanic

1111t

a n embalmer. The words

around th

e imme-

oll s hrivel and

decay

l ike

flesh

around the

l1ody . No mummy-sheet of trad i

t ion

can be use d

s top the

process

. Obj e

cts,

words must be

I 1• I across

time

not pres e

rved a

$ ain s t i t .

ye l l "Shit" down a c l i f f at an

ocean

.

v

•n

in

my

l ifetime

the immediacy of that word

¥ I IJ fade. I t will be dea d as "Alas . But i f

I put the

real

c l i f f

and

the r ea l

ocean

into

t

' poem,

th

e word

"Shit"

wi l

1

r ide

along with

th •

m

travel

the

ti me -machine unti l c l i f f s and

ns di

sap

pe ar .

Mos t of my

f r i

ends lik e words

too

we l l .

y

se

t th em under the bl i

ndin

g l

ight

of th e

pt ·m and t r y to extract eve r y pos s

ib l

e conno-

l

1

io n from

each

of

th e

m

ever y t emporar y pun,

1 ry direct or indirect connectio n --

as

i f

i 1vord could become an object by mere addition

I r consequences . Others

pick

up words from

th s t r ee t s , from

th e

i r bar s , from their

11ffic es and display th em pr o

udl

y in th e i r

IHJ ms

as

i f they were shouting , See what I

ltnv

e co l l

ec

t ed from

th

e Am

er

ican langu

age

.

at

my

butt

er

f l i es

,

my

s t amps , my old

•,h

e s "

What

do

es

one do

with

a

l l

this

crap?


13/35

:

Words

ar

e wha t

st icks

to th e

real

W

th em t o pus h th e real t o dr ag th e re I .e use

th e poe m. They are wha t we ho

ld

on w: thrnto

e l se . They ar e as va luable in th e

m

se ves as rope with no th i ng to be t ied t o .

--

the pe r f ec t poem has an

i n

fi

ni t e l y smal l

voca

bu lary.

Lov

e ,

Jack

J

THE

B LL

AD OF

THE

DE D WOODCUTTER

A

Tr

ansl a

t ion fo

r

Lou is

Marbur y

\

•

a

us

e

th

e f i gt r ee was sapl ess

I t

has cracked at the root .

Oh, y

ou have

f a l len

down

on y

our

head

u have fa l l en on your

head.

\ ca us e the oaktree was root less

has cracked a t th e

br

anch .

Oh, you have fal len

down

on your head

u have fal len on

your

h

ea

d .

II Caus e I walked thr ough the bran ches

I

ha

ve scr

a tched out my heart .

(

h

you have

fal len

do

wn

on y

our

he

ad

You have fa l l en on your head .


14/35

TH

E B LLAD OF WEE PI NG

A Tr ansl at io n for Bob Conn

or

I have

closed

my wi ndow

Because

I do not want to hear the weep

in

g

But behind th e gray wa l l s

Nothing can be hear d but w

ee

ping.

A few dogs

mi

g

ht

b

ark

A few ange

ls mi

ght s in g

Th er e mi ght be room f or a

thou

sand

violin

s i n

t he palm

of

my hand.

But

the

weeping

i s

a

bi g

do g

The

we

epin

g

i s a

bi

g

ange l

Th

e

w

eeping

is

a

big

v

iolin

Th e

t ears put

a

mu

zzl e on

th e

a i r

nd

nothing

can

be heard but

w

ee

pin g .

LB

A

Transla

t i o n f or Russ

Fi

t

zgera ld

ff your hand had bee n meaningl ess

ot a s i ngle blade

of

gras s

Wuld sp r

in

g fr

om th

e ea

rth

s sur f

ac e

.

ilas y t o wr i t e , t o ki s s

--

No I sai d

re a

d your paper

Ue th er e

Li ke the earth

en sha

dow

cov ers th e wet gras s .


15/35

SONG OF

THE

POOR

A Translation

Ay que trabajo

me

cues ta

quererte como

te quiero

Because I love you

the

table

And

the

heart

and

th

e l a

mplight

Feel

sorry

for m e .

Who

buy from me

That small

be

l t

I have

And th at sadness of white thread

To w

ea

ve handke

rchi

efs?

Because

I l ove you the

ceiling

And the

h

ea r t

and the

air

Feel sorry for me.

Ay que t r a

bajo

me cuesta

querer te

como te

quiero

ODE

FOR WALT

WHITMAN

A

Translation for

Steve Jonas

Along

Eas

t

River

and the Bronx

Th e kids were singing, showing

off

thei r bodies

At the

wheel,

at

oi l

the rawhide, and the hammer.

N

Ln

e ty thousand miners were drawing

si lver out of

boulders

While c

hildre

n made

perspective drawings of s ta i r

-

ways .

llut no one went to sleep

No

one wanted to be a

r iver

No

one lo ved the big l

eave

s , no one

Th e blue tongue of th e coas t l in e .

Along East Ri ver

into

Que ens

Th e kids were

wrestling

with industry.

Th

e

Jews

sold

circumcision

' s

ro se

l o the faun of th e river .

l'he s ky flowed through the bridges and roof tops- -

r ds of

buffalo

the wind was pushing.

Bu t none

of

them would st ay .

No one

wanted

to

be

a cloud.

No

one

I

oked for th e

ferns

()r th e y

ello

w wheel of

th

e drum.


16/35

But i f th e moon com es out

Th e pull eys wi l l s l i d e ar ound to

disturb

th e sky

A

l imit of

n

ee dl

es

will

f ence

in your

memory

And

ther e will

be

coffins to carry

out your

un employe

d.

Ne

w Yor k of mud,

New Y

ork

of

wi r

e fen

ces

and d

ea

th

hat angel

do

you

ca

r r y hi dden

in your cheek

?

h

a t pe r f ect vo ic e will t e l l you

th

e

t ruth

about

whea

t

Or the

terr ibl

e s l

ee

p of yo ur we

t-dream

ed anemone s

Not for one moment beauti f ul old W l t Whitm an

Have I stopp ed see

in

g yo ur b

ea

rd full of

butt

e

r f l

i

Or your shoulders of cordur oy worn

Or your muscle s of a v i r

gi

n Ap

o ll

o

Or yo ur v

oi

ce lik e a co lumn of as hes

An

c i e

nt

and b

ea

ut

i f

ul as

th

e f

og.

You gave

a c

ry

l i ke a

bi

rd

With

his

pri ck pi erced th ro ugh by a nee dl e

En emy of sa t yrs

Enem

y of th e gr ape

And lov

er of bodi

es

under

ro

ugh c

loth.

Not for one

mo

ment t ig

ht-c

ocked bea ut y ,

Who in mo

unt

a in s of coa

l

adv er t i sements

ro ads

llad dreamed of be

in

g a r

iver

and of sl ee pi ng l ik e

one

With a par t icu lar comrade, one

who

co

uld

put in

your bosom

The young pain of an i gnorant l eopard .

Not fo r on e mome

nt

blood-Adam, mal e ,

a

n a

lon

e

in th

e

se a

beautiful

Old Walt Whitm an.

Beca

us

e on th e rooftop s

Bu

nched

to

ge

ther

i n

bars

Po ur

in

g o

ut

i n cl u s t ers from t oi l e t s

be

tw

een th e l egs

of

t ax i

-d

r iv ers

Or

spinnin

g upon

pl

a

tform

s of whi skey

The

coc

ksuck

er s

W

l t

Whitman,

we

r e c

ount

i ng on y

ou.

l ha t one a l

so

, a l so. And th ey •. h r ow th em

se

1

ves

dow n on

ur

burnin

g vi r gin bea rd

lllonds

of

t he

No

r th negr oes fr o m th e s eas hor e ,

Crowds of s hout s and

ges

tu

res

Like ca t s or snakes

l he

cocksuckers

, W

l t

\ /hi t

ma n

th e co

cks

uckers ,

Nuddy wi th t

ears

, m

ea

t for

th

e wh ip ,

I

oth or boo t of th e cowboys .

l hat

one

a l so , a l

so

. Pain t ed

f i

ngers

• prou t out a l ong t he beach

of yo

ur

drea

ms


17/35

And you giv a f r i end an appl e

h i c h t a s t es

faintly of

ga

s-fumes

And th

e sun sings a song for the bel l

ybuttons

Of t he l i t t

le

bo ys

who

play gam

es

below br i dg es.

But you we r en t looking for th e scratched eyes

Or th e bl ack swa

mp-countr

y wher e

childr

en ar e

sinkin

g

Or

th e

fr o

zen

spit

Or th e wounded ur

v s l ike

a

to

ad s paunch

Which c

ocks

uck

ers

wea r

in bars

and n ig ht - c l u

bs

the moon b

ea ts

th em al ong th e co rner s of

t err

or.

You wer e

lookin

g f

or

a naked man

wh

o

a r i ver

Bul l and dr eam a conn

ec t i

on bet wee n

t he seaw ee d,

Be f a th er f or yo ur agony,

your

d

ea

th s came

l ia

And

mo

an i n

th

e

f l

am

es

of your hidden equa

to r

.

Fo r it

is

ju s t th at a man not

In th e f

ores

t

of

bl

oo

d of th e

fo

l l owing mo

rn i

ng.

Th e sky

coas

t l in es

And some bodies mu st not r e

pea

t themsel

ves

a t

s unr ise .

Agony , agon y , dream , l eaven, and dr

eam

.

That is th e world , my friend , agony , agony .

The dead decompose th em

se

l ves under th e cl o ck

of

t he

ci t ies

.

Wr ent er s weep ing , with a mi l l

io

n gray

rats

.

The r i ch g

iv

e to th

eir

g i r l

fr ie

nds

Ti ny i l lum i nat ed dyi n

gs

And l

ife

i s not nobl e, or good, or sacr ed.

A

man

is

a

bl

e i f he

wi

sh

es

t o l

ea

d h

is

d

es

i r e

Thro ugh v in of cora l or the cel es t ia l naked.

;rom

orro

w

his

l

oves

wi l l be

ro c

k and

Ti

me

A bree ze

that com

es s l

eep in

g

th ro

ugh

th ei

r c l

us

t

ers

.

That is why I do not

cry

out , o ld W

l t

Whitma

n,

Aga ins t the

l i t t l

e boy who w

r i

t es

f

gi r

l

s name on his

pi l l

ow,

r t he ki d who put s on a dr ess

In t he

darkness

of a

cl

ose t

r

th

e lo nely

men

i n

bars

ho dr in k wi

th

sickness th e wa t ers of

prost i tu t io

n

Or

th

e men

wi

th

gr

ee

n eyel

ids

W

o lov

e men and scald th

eir

l ip s

in

s i l en

ce

,

u t agains t th e re s t of you, cocksucker s of ci t ie s ,

ll

ar d-up and dirty - brained,

Mot her s of mud, harpi es ,

dr

eamless ene

mi

es

Of

th

e Love

th

a t dis t

r ibut es

cr own s of g

ladne

ss .


18/35

Against

the res t of

you

always who

give

Drippings of sucked-off dea th wi th sour poison.

Against

the

rest

of yo

u always

Fai

r ies of

Nor

th America

Pajaros

of

Havana,

Joto

s of Mexico,

Sarasas of Cadiz

Apios of Sevil le

Cancos

of Madrid

Adelaidas of Portuga l

Cocksuckers

of al l

th e

world

assassins

of

Slaves of wome

n

l

apdogs

of thei r dr essi ng

Op

e

nin

g their

flys in parks with

a

fever

of fa ns

Or ambushed i n th e rigid l and

scapes

of poison .

Let

th ere be no mercy . Dea th

Trickl es from al l

of

your eyes

,

groups

I ts

e l f l ike

gray

flowers on

beaches

of mud.

Let th

ere be no mercy. Watch ou t for th em .

Let th e bewildered , th e pure ,

The

classical

the

appointed the

praying

Lock

the

of

th is

Bacchanalia.

And

yo

u ,

beautiful

Walt \ lhitman, sleep on t

he

ba

of tn e Hudson

With your beard toward the po l e and

yo

ur pa lm s o

Soft cla

y

or

snow, yo ur t ongue

is

invoking

C 1nrades to keep vigil

over

your

gazelle

without

body .

l

ee p

th e

re is

nothing

lef t

here.

A

dance

of

walls shakes

across the

prair ies

And America drowns

i t se l f

with machines and weeping.

I

t the hard

air

of

midnight

, away

al l th

e flowers and le t ters

from

the

ar c

h

in

which you sleep

And a l i t t l e black boy

announce to

the

white

men

of

g

ol

d

l h

c

arr iva

l

of the reign

of

the

ear of

wheat

.


19/35

AQUATIC PARK

A

Tr

ansl at ion for

Jack

Sp i cer

A gr

ee

n boat

Fi shing i n blu e wa ter

Th

e g

ull

s

c ir

cl e th e pier

Ca l l in

g th e i r hunger

A wind

r is

es from th e wes t

Li ke th e

pa

ss

in

g of de

s ir

e

Tw

o boys pl ay on th e bea ch

Laughin g

Thei r gang l in g l egs . cas t sha dow s

On

th

e we t s

and

The

n

Sprawl i ng

in

th e b

oa

t

A beauti f ul bl ac k f is h.

F EST

A Tr ansl at i on for Joe Dunn

Yo

u want me t o t e l l you

The

se cr

et of

sp

r i n g

time

And I r el at e to

that se cr

et

Like a hi gh-branching f i r t r ee

Wh

ose thou sand l i t t l e f inger s

Point a thou

sa

nd l i t t l e r oads .

wi l l t e l l you never my love ,

Because th e r i ve r run s s l owly

Bu t I sha l l put i nto my branching voice

J he as hy sky

of

your gaze .

Tur

n me ar o

und

brown

child

Be ca r ef

ul

of my needl

es

.

Turn me ar ound and a round i l ay ing

At th e we

l l

pump 6f l ove .

Th

e se cr et of spr in gt i me . How

wish I co

ul

d t e l l you


20/35

Dear

Lorca,

I would

l ike to mak

e poems

out of real

objects.

The lemon to

be

a lemon

that

the read -

er could cut

or

squee

ze

or

taste -- a

real

lemon

l ik

e a newspaper in a collage is a real newspaper

I would l ike the

moon

in

my

poems

to

be a real

moon, one which could be suddenly covered with a

cloud

th

at

has

nothing

to do

with the poem

--

a

moon

ut ter l

y independent of

images.

The imagi-

nation

pictures

are real . I would

l ike

to poin t

to the real, disclose i t to

make a

poem that

no sound in

i t

but the

pointing of a

finger.

e

have

both

tr ied

to be independent

of

i mages (you the s tar t and I only when I

gre

old

enough

to

t i r e of trying

to

make things con-

nect) , to

make things

visible

rather than to

ma

k

pictures

· of them phantasia non imaginari).

easy i t

is

in

erotic

musings or in the truer

imagination of a dream to invent a beautiful boy,

How dif f icu l t to take a boy

in

a blu e bathing

suit th a t I have watched as casuall y as a t ree

and

to

make him visible

in

a poem

as

a t ree

i s

visible, not

as an image

or

a p i

cture

but

as

some thing al ive

--

caught forever in the struc-

tur e of words . Live moons, l iv e

lemons, l ive

boys

in bathing su i ts .

The poem is a

collage

of

th e real.

But

thin

gs

d

ecay

,

reason argues

.

become

garbage

. The piece of l emon yo u she l lac

t o

th

e canvas begins to d

eve lop

a mol d, th e new s

paper

t

ells

of

incredibly

ancien

t

events

in

for-

gotte n

sla

ng,

th

e bo y becomes a

gr a

ndfather . Ye

but the garbage of th e real s t i l l reaches out

i nto th e current world making i t s

objects,

in

turn,

visibl e

--

l

emo

n

ca l l

s

to - l

emo

n,

newspape r

to

newspaper, boy

to

boy. s thing s decay they

bring th eir equivalents into bei ng.

Things

do not connect; they correspond.

rhat

is what makes

i t possible

for a poet to t ranslate

real

objects,

to bring them across languag e

as

easi

ly

as he can bring them across time.

That

t ree you saw

in

Spain is a t ree I could never have

seen in

California,

that lemon

has

a different

sme l l

and a different

tas t

e ,

BUT

the answer

is

this --

every place and every time

has

a real ob-

je c t to correspond with your real object -- th a t

lemon may become th is lemon, or i t may

even

be -

come this piece of seaweed, or this part icular

co

lor of

gray

in

th is

ocean. One does not need

to

imagine

that

lemon;

one

needs to discov

er

i t

.

Even

these le t ters

. They

correspond

with

s

omething

I don t know

what) that

you

have writ-

ten perhaps as

unapparently

as that

lemon

corre-

s p

onds to

this piece of seaweed)

and, in turn,

some

future poet will write som

e

thing

wh

ic

h

orresponds

to

th

em.

That

is

how we dead men

wri

te to

each

other.

Lov

e ,

J

ac

k


21/35

N RCI SS US

A Translation for Basil King

Poor Narcissus

Your dim

fragrance

nd th e dim h

ea

r t of the river

I want

to stay

at your edge

Flower of

love

Poor

Narcissus

Nipp l

es and sleeping f ish

Cross your whit

e

eyes

So ngbirds and

but te rf l

ies

Japanese mine

I so

t a l l

b

es

ide you

Flower of

lov

e

Poor

Narciss

us

How wide-awake the frogs are

They won t stay

out of

th e su r face

In

whi ch you r madness a nd

my

madn

ess

Mirrors

i t se l f

Poor

Narcissu

s

My sorrow

Se l f of my

sorrow.

HE DIED T SUNRISE

A

Tr

anslation for Allen Joyce

NL

ght of

four

moons

nd a single tre

e

WLth a s ing l e shadow

A

nd

a single bird .

look into

my body

for

Th e

tracks

of your l ips

A s

tream

kisses th e wind

i

thou

t

touch.

ca

rry t he

No

you

ga

ve me

Cl e

nch

ed i n my palm

Like some thing made

of

wax

n a

lmo

s t-white lemon.

ight

of

four

moons

nd a single t r ee

A th e poin t

of

a nee

dl

e

s my

lov

e spinning.

•


22/35

B LL D OF THE

TERRIBLE

PRESENCE

A Translation for Jo e Laseur

I want the river lost from

i ts

bed

I wa

nt

the wind lost from i ts va

l leys

I want the night

to

be

th

e

re without

eyes

nd my heart without the

go

lden

flow

er

So

that

the oxen

talk

with big l

eaves

nd

the

earthworm

is de

ad

of shadow

So

that

the teeth

of th e skull glisten

nd

the

yellows

give a comple te

colour to

silk .

I can

look a t

the agony

of

wounded ni g

ht

Struggling, twisted up against noontime

I

can

stand

all

th

e

sunsets

of

g

reen poison

nd

the

wornout rainbows

that

time suffers

But don t

mak

e

your

clean body

too

visibl e

Like

a black cactus

opened

out

among

rushes

Let me go in an anguish of s tar clusters

Lose me. But don t show me that cool flesh.

B LL D OF

SLEEPING SOMEWHERE ELSE

A

Tr a

nslat ion

for

Ebbe

Borregaard

The pine

needles fal l

Like an

ax

i n the fores t

Can you h

ear

them crumbl e

There where

we are

s l

eeping?

The windows

are

close

to

the

wall

Here i n the d

ark

ness the y remain open.

(When I saw you

in

th e morning

y arms

were

full

of paper.)

Five

hundr

ed miles away

The moon is a ha tc h et of s i lv er .

(

When

I saw

yo

u

in

th

e mo

rnin

g

My eyes were full of paper )

Here th e walls are firm

They

do

not

crumble

and r emai n

certain

.

(When I saw you

in

th e

mornin

g

y hea r t was

full of

paper.)

Five hundre d miles away

The sta rs

are

gl ass

that

is br

eaking

.


23/35

The windows sag on the wall

I feel cold glass in th e blank e ts .

Child,

you

are too t a l l

for this

bed.

The

pine needles

fa l l

Like an ax in the forest.

Can you hear th em crumble

There where

we are sleeping?

f

Dear

Lorca,

When

you had

finished

a poem what did

i t

want you

to

do with i t? Was i t happy enough

merely to exist

or did

i t demand

imperiously

that

you share i t with somebody

l ike

the

beauty

of a

beautiful

person forces him to

search the

world for

someone that can declare

th a t

beauty?

And where did

your

poems find

eople?

Some poems

are easi ly

laid. They will

give themselves to anybody and anybody phys-

ical ly

capable

can

receive

them. They

may

be

beautiful

we have both writt en some

that

were

but

they

are meretricious

. From

th

e

moment of their

conception

they inform us in

a dulce t voice

that ,

thank

yo

u,

they

can

take

ar e of themse

lves.

I

swear that i f

one

of

hem

were hidden

ben ea th my car

pet,

i t would

s

hout

out and

seduce

somebody. The quiet

poems

are

what I

worry about

-- th e ones that

must

be seduced

. They

could

t r.

jvel

abo ut

wi

th

me for years and no one notice

hem . And yet, properly wed, they are mor e

b

ea

utifu l than their

whorish

cousins .

But I am speaking of the f i rs t n ig h t when

l eave my apartment almost breathless, search-

ing

for

someone

to

show

the

poem

to.

Often

now

there

is no one .

y

fellow poets

(those

showed my poetry to

ten years

ago are

as

l i t -

l e

interested in my

poetry

as

I am

in their

s .

V e both compare

the

poems shown

(unfavorably,

of course) with the poems we were

writing

t en

yea rs ago when we could le arn from

eac

h other .

V are

pol i t e but

i t

is as i f we were trading

naps

hots

of our

children

-- old

acquaintances

who disapprove of

eac

h other s wives . Or were

u more generous, Garcia Lorca?


24/35

There are

the young, of course. I

have

been reduced

to

them (or my poems have) la tely.

The advantage

in

them is that they haven't yet

decided

what

kind

of poetry they

are going

to

write

tomorrow

and

are

always looking

for some

device of yours to use. Yours, tha t s the

trouble . Yours and

not the

poem s. They

read

the poem once to catch the marks of

your

style

and then again,

i f

they

are

at al l pretty, to

see i f

there

is any

reference to

them

in

the

poem .

That

s a l l . know. I

used to

do i t

myself .

When you

are in love

there is no

real prob

-

lem . The

person

you love is

always

interested

because he knows that the poems are always

aboui

him. I f only because each poem

will

someday be said to

belong

to

the

Miss X or

Mr

Y

period

of the poet s

l i fe

. I may not be a

better

poet

when I am in

love,

but I am a

far

less

frustrated

one

.

y

poems

have

an audience .

Finally there are friends. There

have only

been

two of them

in

my

l i fe who could read

my

poems and

one

of

that

two really

prefers to

put them

in

print

so

he

can see

them better.

The other is far away.

All th is is to explain

why

I dedicate

each

of

our

poems

to

someone.

Love,

Jack

NARCISSUS

A

Translation for

Richard

Rummond

Child,

How you keep fal l ing into rivers .

At

the

bottom

there's a rose

And in the rose there's another river.

Look at

that

bird

. Look

That yellow bird .

y

eyes have fal len

down

Into

the

water.

y God,

How they

re slipping Youngster

-- And I m

in

the rose myself .

When

I was

los t in

water I

Understood but won't te l l you.


25/35

BALLAD OF THE DE D BOY

A Translation for Graham Mackintosh ··

Every afternoon in Granada

Every

afternoon a boy dies

Every afternoon the river s i t s

i t s e l f

down

To ta lk things over with i t s neighbours.

All

the

dead wear

wings

of

moss.

The wind and the

bright

wind

Are two pheasants

who fly around towers

And the day is a boy with a wound in him.

There

wasn t a touch

of

lark in

the

sky

When I met you at the wine cavern

Or a fragment of cloud near the earth

When you drowned on

the

river .

A giant of water went slopping

over

the

mountains

And

the spun around with dogs and l i l ies .

Your

body

with the violet

shadow

of

my hands

Was

dead

there

on the

banks an

archangel co l d .

J

SONG

FOR

SEPTEMBER

A Translation for Don Allen

In

the

distant night the children are singing:

A l i t t l e r iver

And a colored fountain

THE

CHILDREN When

will our

hearts come

back

from

your

holiday?

I: When

my

words

no longer

need me.

THE CHILDREN You have

le f t

us here to sing

the

death

of your summer

A l i t t l e river

And a colored fountain

What September flowers do you hold

in

your

hand?

I: A bloody rose and a white l i ly

THE CHILDREN Dip them in

the

water of

an

old

I:

song

A l i t t l e river

And

a colored fountain

What are you tast ing in your

thirsty mouth?

The

flavor

of the bones of my big skul l .

THE CHILDREN Drink

the

kind water of an old

song


26/35

A l i t t l e river

And a

colored

fountain

Wh

y have you gone so very

far

from th e death of

your

summer?

I:

I

am look

i ng

for

a

magic

a l clockworkman .

THE

CHILDREN:

And how

wi l l you

find

the highway

of

poets?

I:

The fo untain and a river an d an old song.

THE CHILDREN : You are

going

very far.

I:

I am go

in

g very far ,

farth

er than my

poe

ms,

farther th an the mount

ai

ns,

far ther

than

th

e

birds

. I

am go ing to ask Christ

to

give

me

back

my childhood,

r ipe

with

s unburn and feathers

and

a wooden sword.

THE CHILDREN : You h

ave

l

ef

t

us

here to s i ng

the death of yo

ur

s

umm er

. And you will never

return.

A

l i t t l

e river

And

a color ed fountain

And

yo u will n

ever return.

BUSTER

KEAT

ON RIDES AGAIN: A SEQUEL

A Tr a n s l at ion for Th e Big Cat Up

Ther

e

BUSTER

KEATON (e

nt e

r in

g a

long dark corridor)

:

This

must be Room

73

.

PIGE

ON:

Sir

, I am a

pigeon

.

BUS

TER KEATON (taking a dict ionary out of hi s

back

poc

ke t ) : I

don t

unders tand what anybody is ta lk-

ing a

bout.

No

one

r ides

by on a

bi cyc

l e. The

corridor

is

quite s i l ent . )

PIGE

ON: I

have to

go t o the

bathr

oom.

BUSTER KEATON:

In

a mi nut e.

Two chambermaids come by car r

ying

towels. They

give one to th e pigeon

and one

t o Buster Kea

ton

)

1s t CH M E

RMAID: Wh

y do you

suppos

e

hum

an beings

have l ips?

2nd CH M E RMAID : Not hing l ike tha t ent ere d my head .

BUSTER KEATON : No . Th ere were suppose d t o be thr

ee

cham ber m

aids.

He

t

akes

out

a ch

essboard

and be

gins

p l

ayi

ng

upon

i t

. )

PIGEON : I cou ld love yo u i f I were a dove .

BUS

TER

KE

TO

N bit ing

the

chess

board

) :

When

I was

a chi ld I was put

in j i l for

not giving

informa

-

t ion

t o th e pol ic e .

3 CHAMBERMAIDS : Yes .

BUSTER

KEATO

N: I am not a Ca

tholi

c .

PI G

EON: Don t

yo u bel i eve that

God di

ed?

BUSTER

KEATON

c

ryin

g) : N

o.

4 Spanish dancer s com e in . They are mostly

ma l e . )


27/35

1

s t

SPANISH

DA NCE

R: I have a l i t t l e

my as s .

4 Cl AMBERMAIDS :

Oh

(Bus t er Keaton forgets his po l i t eness and

becomes a Ca tholic . He takes ma ss, says

ll

o l y Mary Mother of God, and dis tr ibu t

es

rosar ie s to al l the policemen in the room.

lie hang s by his

heels

from a crucifix . )

VIRGIN MARY

(coming

in abruptl

y) :

Bust

er Keaton

yo u have bumped The Ca

r .

BUSTER

KEATON

: No .

(A l co

hol

corhes in

wearing

the

disguise

of

a coc

kro ach.

I t is blu e . I t crawls si -

l en

t l

y up Bus t er

Keaton

s le g . )

BUSTER KEATON: No

.

(A

lc

o

hol and the

Virgin Mary

perform

a

dance . They both pretend to have been

lovers.

)

BUSTER KEATON: I will never see e i th er of you

in Rockland . I am

not

go i ng to Rockla nd.

(He takes th e chess boar d and i nv e

nt

s a new

a lphab

et

. )

VIRGIN

Ho

ly

of God

Pray

For

Us Si nn er s

Now

At The Hour Of Our Death.

ALCO IOL: Dada is as dada do es .

VIRGIN MARY

D

id

. (She

fa l ls

i nto

BUSTER

KEATON: I wonder

love

in th e un iv e rse .

(Suddenly, at th

e

las t

poss ib l e

tim

e be fore

th

e cu

r ta in fa l ls ,

somebody

kisses

th e

Virgin

M

ary,

and Bus t er Keaton, and eve ry -

body. )

ALCOHOL : I f I w

er e

n t ton e

-dea

f I would si

ng.

BUSTER KEATON (sadly): I announce a new world .

(Three l i t erary

cr i t ics

di

sg

uised as

cha

mber

-

maids bring down the

curtain. Buster

Kea ton, bleeding , br

eaks

through th e cur-

ta in. He s t ands in the

middl

e of th e stage

holding a fr es h pomegranate

in

hi s arms.)

BUSTER KEATON (even more

sadly)

: I announc e

the

death of Orpheus.

(Everyone comes

in

.

Polic

emen , wa i t resses ,

and

Irene

Tav e

ner

.

Th

ey

perform

a

compli

-

ca t ed

symbolic

dance. Alcohol nibbl es at

th

e legs of

every

dancer. )

BUSTER KEATO

N (

bl eeding

profusely) : I

love

yo

u.

I

lov

e

yo

u. (As a l

ast

effo r t

he throws

the

bl eeding pomegranat e from his heart. ) No

kidding, I

lo

ve

yo

u.

VIRGIN MARY (taking him into her arms) : You

hav e bumPed th e

ca r

.

(The

ga

udy b

lu

e cur t ain, s

i l

e

nt

and

al ive

l ik

e th e mouth

of

a seagul l , cover s every -

thin

g . )


28/35

THE B LL D OF ESC PE

A

Translation

for Nat Harden

I h

ave

become lost many

time

s a

lo n

g

th

e

ocean

With my ears

f i l led

with newly cut flowers

W th my

tongue

full

of lovin g

and

agony

I hav e become lo s t many times a long th e ocean

Like

I lo s e myself

in th

e hear t s

of so me

boys.

There is no

night

in

which i v

in

a kiss

One does not feel th e smiles of th e fac e

less

people

And there is

no

one in touching some thing rec en t

born

Who can quite

forge

t the motionl

ess

sk ulls

of

horses.

Becaus th e roses a lw

ays

search i n th e forehea d

For a

hard

l

an

dscape of bone

nd

th

e hands

of

a

man

have

no ot

h

er

pu

rpose

Than

to

be

l ike

th e roots th a t

fields.

Like I l

ose

myse l f in the hea

r t

s of some boys

I hav e become

lo

s t many

times along

the

ocean

Along the

vas tn

ess of water I wand er s earching

n end to the v s that have t r ied t o

com pl

e te

VENUS

A

Translation

for

nn

Simon

The

dead

gir l

In

the

windin

g

shel l of th

e bed

Na ked of the l i t t l e wind

and

flowers

Surges

on

into

pere

nn i

a l l ig ht.

The

world

stayed be hind

Lily of cotton and shadow.

I t pe

eked t imidly out of th e mi r

ror

Looking on at that infini te passage .

The dea d

gir l

Was eaten from inside by love.

In th

e unyi e ldingn

ess of

seafoam

She l

ost

her hair .


29/35

FRIDAY THE 13TH

A Translation for

Will

Holther

At the

base of

the

throat

is a

l i t t l e machine

Which makes us

able

to say

anything.

Below

i t are carpets

Red, blue, and green-colored.

I say the flesh is not

grass

.

I t is

an empty

house

In

which

there

is

nothing

But

a

l i t t l e

machine

And

big,

dark

carpets.

SONG

O TWO WINDOWS

A Translation for James Broughton

Wind, window, moon

I open the window to the sky

Wind, window, moon

I

open

the

window to

the

earth)

Then

From

the

sky

The voices

of

two gir l s .

In the middle of my mirror

A girl is drowning

The voice of a singl e gir l .

She holds cold f ire

liKe

a g

lass

Each

thin

g

sh

e watches

Has become doubl e .

Cold f i r e

is

Cold

f i r e is .

•

In

th e middl e of my mirror

A gir l is drowning

The voic e of a

singl

e gir l

A

branch of ni

ght

Enters

through

my

window

A great

dark bran

ch

With brac e l e t s of water

Behind a blu e mirror


30/35

So

meone i s drowning

The wounded instants

Along the clock

--

pass .

I s t i ck my h

ead out of th

e window

a nd I see a chopper of wind ready to cut

i t off

. Upon that invisible guil lotine

h

ave

mounted

th

e h

eads without eyes of

al l

my desires,

and th e odor of l e

mon

f i l l s

al l

of

th

e

in

s t ant whil e th e wind

changes to a flow er of gas .

At th e pool there has

di

ed

A gi r l of wa t er

She has pushed th e earth aside

Like a r ipe apple

Down

from her head to

her

thighs

A f is h crosses her, ca

l l in

g

soft l

y

The wind vhi spers , Darlin g

But

is un

abl e to awaken

her

The pool ho ld s l oose l y

I t s rider

of

some th ing

And in the air i t s gray nipples

Vibra t e with f

rogs

.

God, 1ve hai l you . ·e will make payments

To Our Lady

of Water

For

th

e gir l i n tlrn pool

Dead below th e r ipples .

I will

soo

n

put

at her

side

Two sma

l l go ur d

s

Because th ey

can keep afloat ,

Yes , even in water.

De

ar

Lor

ca

,

Lon e

l in ess is

necessa

ry for

pu re

poetry.

h en someone intrudes into th e

poet

' s l i fe

(a nd any sudden

personal

contact , whether

in

the bed

or

in the i s an i ntru sio n) he

loses hi

s

balance

for a momen t

sl ips

i

nto

bei ng who he is , uses

hi

s poetry

as

one would

u

se

money

or sympathy

. The person who writes

th e poe

t r

y

emerges

, t

entative

ly , l ik e a her-

mit crab from a

conch shel

l . The

poet, for

that i nsta

nt,

ceases

to

be a dead

man

.


31/35

I

for

exampl e ,

could

n

ot

finish th e

las t

l e

t t er

I

wa

s

writing

you

abo

ut

so

unds . You

were

lik

e a friend in a dis tant ci t y to whom

I was suddenly unabl e to write

not

bec ause

th e

fabric

of my l i f e had changed but

be cause

I was suddenly t emporari l y , not

in

the

fabric

of my

l ife.

I· could

not

t e

l l

you

about i t

b

ec a

u

se

both i t and I were momentary.

Even th e objects change . The seagulls

th e greenness

of th

e

ocean

th e

f ish --

th

ey

·

b

ec o

me

thin

gs

to be t r

aded

for

a smi l e or

the

so

und

of

conversation

--

counters

rather

than

objects . Nothing

exce

pt the big l ie

of th e personal - - th e l i e in which

th

ese ob-

j ec t s do

not

be

l i

eve .

That instant I

sai d.

I t m

ay la

s t

for

a

minute

a ni ght

or

a month, but

this

I pr o -

mi se yo

u

Garcia

Lorca

th e

lo n

e

l in

ess re turns .

The

poe

t enc

ys

ts the

intruder.

The obj ec ts

come b

ack to th eir own places

si l e

nt

and

un-

s

milin

g . I

agai

n begi n

to write

yo u a l et t er

on th e so und of a poem . And th i s

imme

dia t e

thing , th i s personal adventur e , will not have

b

ee

n

t r

an

sferre

d

into th

e

poem l ike

the waves

and th

e

birds were will

a t

best

show i n

th e

lov

e ly pat tern of

cracks

i n some poem

where a

utob iograp

hy

sha

t t

ered but did not

quite des

t r

oy th e surfac e .

nd

the encysted

emot

ion

will

i t se l f

become a n

object

,

to

be

t r

a n

sferre

d at

las t

i

nt

o

poetry

l ike

th

e waves

and

th

e

birds.

And I will agai n become

your

specia l

com

-

rad e.

L

ove

Jack

THE MOO

N

ND

L

DY DE TH

A

Translation for Helen dam

The moon h

as

mar b l e t ee th

How

old and sa d

she

looks

There is a

dry

river

There is

a hi l l

without

grass

There

is

a d

ead

oak

t r

ee

Near

a dr y river .

Lady Dea

th

wrinkled

Goes looki ng fo r custom

At

the

h

ee

l s

of

a crowd

Of t enuous phantoms .

Nea r th e dea d oak t ree

Near

th

e

dry r iver

There

is

a

fa ir

wi

th

out t rumpets

nd t

ents

made of shadow.

She

sells

th em dry pain t

Made of wax and torture

Wicked and twisted

Like

a witch in

a story .

There

is a

dry

river

There is

a

hi l l

without

There

is

a d

ead

oak

t ree

1

ear

a

dry

river.

grass


32/35

The

moon

Is

tossing

money

Down through

the black a ir

.

Near the dead oak t ree

Near the

dry

river

There is a fa i r

without

trumpets

And tents

made of shadow.

AFTERNOON

A

Translation for

Jo hn Barrow

The sky asks af ternoon

for

a word.

I t

is

1:36.

A bl ack cloud

Ha s

crossed

one of

th

e white clouds .

13 empty

boats

And

a

seagull

.

The

bay

asks afternoon

for

a word .

The wind is blowing

Southwes t at nine miles an hour

I

am

in l ove with an

ocean

Whose heart is th e

colour

of wet

sand

.

At 1: 37

13 empty boats

And a

seagull

.

Afternoon

asks the

ocean

Why does a man die?

I t is 1:37

13 empty boats

And a seagull.


33/35

D

ear

Lorca ,

Th is is the last l e t ter . Th e connection

between

us

which had bee n fading away with

the summer, is

now f in

a

l l

y broken. I turn in

anger and

dis

sat i s f

action

t o the things of my

l

j fe

and you retur

n

a disembodied but con-

t agious to the printed pag e. I t is

over th i

s intimate communion with

the

gho st

of Garcia Lorca , and I

wond

er now

how

i t was

ever able to hap pe

n.

I t was a game, I sho

ut

to

myself. A game.

Th

ere

ar e

no

an

gels

, gh

osts

or

e

ven

sha dows .

I t

was a game made

out of

summer

and freedom

and a n

ee

d

for

a

p6etr

y that would

be

more

th

an th e expr

ession

of my hatreds and des i r es .

I t was a game l ike Yeats spooks

or

Blake s

sex l

ess serap

him.

Yet

i t

was there. The poe

ms are th

e re ,

th e memory not of a vis ion but a kind

of

cas ual

friendship

with an und

ramatic

ghos t

who

occasionally loo

ked through

my eyes

and

whispered

t o me, not

rea

l l

y more important

then t han my other

friends

but now achieving

a diff er ent l eve l

of rea l i ty

by bei ng

missing.

Today, alone by

myself

i t

is lik

e having lo s t

a pai r of eyes and a l over.

at i s

real

I suppo

se

,

will

e

ndur

e .

Poe s mechanical chessp l

ayer

was not

the

l ess

a mi r

acle for

having a man i n

side

i t and

whe

n

th e man

departed

the games

i t

had played were

no

less

b

ea

ut i fu l . The a nal ogy

is

false of

course but i t

holds both a

promise

and a

warnin g for

eac

h of us.

I t is

October now.

Summer is over

.

l

-

mo

s t eve r y

trace of

the

month

s that p:\oduced

th

ese

poems has

been obli tera

t ed . Onl

} . ex

-

planatio ns are

possib

l e only

Saying goodbye

to

a

ghost is

more f inal

than

say ing goodb

ye

to a

lover.

Even

th

e

dead return but a gho s

t

once

loved depart-

ing wil 1 nev er reappear.

Lov e

Jack


34/35

R D R

A Postscript for Marianne Moor e

No one exactly

knows

Exactly

how

clouds ,

look

in the sky

Or the shape

of the

mountain s below them

Or the direction in

which

fish

swim.

No one

exactly

knows .

The eye

is jealous of whatever

moves

nd th

e

heart

Is too far buried in the sand

To

t e

l l

.

Th ey

are

going

on a

journey

Those deep

blue creatures

Passing

us as

i they were sunshine

Look

Those f

ins

, tho

se

c lo

se

d

eyes

Admiring

ea c

h l as t drop of

th

e ocean .

I

crawled into

bed with sor row

that

n ight

Couldn t t

ouc

h

hi

s i ngers .

See th

e splash

Of th e water

Th e no

isy

movement of c

loud

Th e push

of

th e humpbacked

mountains

Dee p at the sa nd s edge


35/35

After Lorca Jack Spicer

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