Thanksgiving Poems – 10 / 10 / 2011
Posted: October 10, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English | Tags: Thanksgiving poems Comments Off on Thanksgiving Poems – 10 / 10 / 2011.
Alexander Best
GIVE THANKS
.
Green growth in a clay pot, citrus peel,
cat’s paw.
Rakes, staves, a busted clock.
Clackety spinning of rusty wheels.
Nuts and bolts in a bashed-up box,
kicked across the floor.
Hair-raising feelings. A bare ass to the world.
Clear. Early.
Cool air, and straight-back chair.
Cat’s ear. Basket, of rough weave, trumpet-shaped.
Heavy tasks. Leaves, a stump, some stuff.
Unknown Men and Women.
Hammered tray and coffee pot of
brass / wood, looks like a
sputnik with minaret.
Cat’s chin, offered upward.
A pyramid of lemons. A big-wide
cracked maple bowl
(flung as the lover fled, spent winter
face-down in puddle-deep yard).
Cat sleeping, after the hunt…
no longer hot and full of craft.
Cotton, wool, gravel,
soil of several consistencies.
Sandy-shale pumice for ‘seasonal’ foot.
Rain, sun and cloud,
of course. Remorse.
Being human.
All cats, contented and cross.
Agéd treetrunks whose bark suffers loss,
cement and copper, dross.
Stones in groups, free-thinking boulders,
grasses tufted tiny and tall.
Porridge-of-bricks.
And, put to no purpose:
wedges, clods, mud.
Fragrance, the Body.
Cats-as-judges. Purring-song.
Pig and cow, fowl,
Sardines grilled, and memory of
flash-fried scallops.
A meal set down before me.
Snoozes. Solitude.
Ripe hollering, and
Crude.
Kind people.
Passionate ones.
Sad or angry anybodies.
Cat’s nose.
INVISIBLE HOME
.
The cast-iron gate at the top of the fire escape swings open, swings shut. The skinny girl who lives across the way skips down the metal stairs in her hideous, clunking platform shoes.
The ugly, charming bulldog scampers around the flat tar-and-pebble roof; sniffs, snorts, and whines. Its master opens the door a sliver; inside’s a muddle lit by two computer screens. The dog walks itself in a cold dark built of specific small noises; scratches at the door then disappears.
The clunking girl returns; dances, graceless and free, up the fire escape; the gate talks on its hinges.
Voices banter, in burnt or polished tones. Footfalls approach, on ice, mud and trash;
boots crunch over starchy snow. Regular strangers, alley trudgers.
These…the night sounds through a gap in my window.
Is my face neutral – or grim ?
My face shows nothing, as I sink and rise into the hours of sleep.
Smiling, I am smiling; borne along these sounds of night,
glad to be here, exactly now.
_____
THE VIVID PICTURE
.
Curls of incense, gusts of cold air, meet in a little room.
Means the world to me, this space; and all objects in it
– broken, brassy – are beautiful.
Here, the eye everywhere falls on
Something that soothes the human animal.
And you, my darling, are come to me – at last –
And you came in your own way, taking me by surprise,
Like the tender return of the wanderer-cat; or the
Kind face of the January sun.
And a crow’s voice tells-it-like-it-is this visionary morning.
You’ve let me touch your body…and it’s a
Reaching-Home after long absence; a
Perfect walk in darkness, the jig of a blind man with his sugar cane.
You and I, we can still speak !
Your field-and-forest feet cover mine richly,
and the whole of us is a vigorous stalk.
You laid your head on my thigh,
Remembered my body’s health to me.
And like a great journey in progress,
Being is strong throughout my limbs.
Lying a-bed after pure-ancient Moment, our
Body arrives at the place of the Soul. And
It’s happened together.
Shall we rest ?
Upon a chunk of earth, Heart takes its ease.
Home is invisible, but
Today I caught a glimpse. And
I’m gonna ’scribe it
Before the vivid picture fades.
CAN’T PUT IT IN WORDS BUT I’LL TRY
.
Can’t put IT in words but I’ll try…
Didn’t mind being had, hung out to dry. There
Is food in mouldbread, good’s come of bad, I’ve no
Beefs / bitter gripes. And besides:
’T’were a suspect load I dragged.
We’re grown now…berry’s bit, dice sown, and how.
Are green and grey; in places, brown.
My chores ( + questionable deeds ) are done.
Was clever as a knife…carved a jigsaw life.
Spat nails in righteousness, squandered hate
(wrong, delicious) down to the
Last hot penny, glad it’s spent.
Cried a great cry, very late in the day,
And dipped a biscuit in water.
And something worthwhile, many-hued-and-fine,
Came clean via palm-packed cakes of
Sand, peppered-pinecones, ashes and fat.
Crush my spirit, there’s more of us yet, and
Whisk the thick-and-thin mix.
Will not keep telling lies. There’s a mouthful.
Crows: be commas, colons, punctual dots.
Underscore me, and lend me your sceptical weight.
Some plans won’t fly.
Dearly beloved / abandoned, we are
Scattered here today…
Can’t put IT in words but
I’ll try.
.
(2002-2003)
Poema para El Día de Acción de Gracias
Posted: October 9, 2011 Filed under: English, Olga García Echeverría, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas para el Día de Acción de Gracias, Thanksgiving poems Comments Off on Poema para El Día de Acción de Gracias
Olga García Echeverría:
“Quemando Tortillas”
Corazón, no esperes tortillas
recién hechas a mano, redondas
y perfectas como la cara de la luna
las mías, si algún día llego a hacerlas
saldrán cuadradas como hojas de papel
dices tú que en otros tiempos
las mujeres enamoraban con el sudor
el calor y la energía de sus manos
tantas gotas de deseo
envueltas en masa de maíz
de niña me gustaba hacer tortillas
de tierra, me gustaba lo húmedo del olor
y lo negro que se me metía bajo las uñas
mi cocina ideal era un mundo sin paredes
un lugar entre plantas y hierbas, bajo un cielo
que parecía espejo del mar
ahora de mujer
quiero darte mi esencia de comer
que me sientas viva en tu boca
pero la idea de hacer tortillas a mano
¡me choca! aburrida quemaría
una tras otra
una tras otra
lo que quiero es entregarme entera
caminar descalza
bailar bajo un cielo
chorreado de estrellas
en vez de tortillas
haré poema tras poema
recién hechos a mano de mujer
calientitos y blanditos
color chichiltic
sabor a mango
tamaño a luna entera
redondos y perfectos
como la espiral
de tu ombligo
la palabra, como el maíz, mi amor
también es indígena
_____
Olga García Echeverría es una escritora, también una maestra.
Vive en Los Angeles, California.
Olga nos muestra que ¡La Poesía es Comida del Alma!
_____
“Burning Tortillas”
Darling, don’t expect
fresh, hand-made tortillas,
perfect circles like the face of the moon
Mine, if one day I
get around to making them, will come out
square,
like sheets of paper
You tell me that in olden times
women used to fall in love with the
sweat – heat – the energy of their own hands
so many drops of desire
enveloped in that cornflour
As a little girl I loved making “mudpies” out of
earth, loved the damp smell
and the black that got under my fingernails
my ideal kitchen was a world without walls
among plants and herbs, a sky above me
that seemed like a mirror of the sea
Now as a grown woman
I want to give you my essence – to eat – so that you’ll
feel me – alive – in your mouth
But the very idea of making tortillas – and by hand –
well, it annoys me ! Bored, I’d burn the lot,
one after another
after another
What I really want is to
give myself over entirely to
walking barefoot
dancing under a sky
gushing with stars
Instead of tortillas you’ll get
poem after poem – hot off the press – made of
A Woman who’s a little sizzler and kind-a tender,
chichiltic-coloured, mango-flavoured
Poems full-moon-sized, round and perfect like the
spiral of your navel
Because words, like corn, my love,
are also Native in us…
_____
Olga García Echeverría is a writer and teacher, in Los Angeles, California.
She demonstrates that: Poetry is Food for the Soul !
Translation/interpretation from Spanish into English by Alexander Best
“Sopa Azteca”– receta en forma de una décima
Posted: October 9, 2011 Filed under: Josefina Beverido de Risso, Spanish | Tags: Poemas para el Día de Acción de Gracias, Thanksgiving poems Comments Off on “Sopa Azteca”– receta en forma de una décima
Josefina Beverido de Risso
“Sopa Azteca”
I
Diez tortillas en tirita,
de preferencia atrasadas,
epazote, hojas moradas,
caldo, un litro necesita.
Crema espesa, una tacita,
ajo, aceite, Knorr y sal,
chipotle seco, tal cual,
tres cuartos de jitomate,
media cebolla, aguacate,
queso jarocho es usual.
II
Si quiere una sopa azteca
que sepa y se vea exquisita,
le daré unos tips ahorita
y no esté batida o seca.
Fría la tortilla en manteca
o en aceite del normal,
escurra junto al comal.
Mientras, en cazo muy hondo,
con algo de grasa al fondo,
cueza recaudo habitual.
III
Ponga jitomate, un ajo,
cebolla, todo molido,
a dejarlo convertido
en un puré de agasajo.
Cuélelo, tire el cascajo,
hierva bien a fuego lento,
y ya llegado el momento
el caldo de pollo añada,
la yerba muy bien lavada
y sazone al cien por ciento.
IV
Aparte para el final
la tortilla ya dorada
y, por cierto, desgrasada,
a que esté en su punto ideal.
Luego prepare el total
de ingredientes del listado,
coloque queso rallado,
chipotle seco, aguacate,
media crema desenlate,
en trastes por separado.
V
En sopero muy vistoso,
justo en el fondo, hasta abajo,
ponga de tortilla un fajo,
cubra con caldo sabroso.
Preséntelo apetitoso,
con adornos exprofeso:
bañe primero con queso,
agregue aguacate en raja,
encima un chipotle encaja,
crema da fin al proceso.
VI
Así, calientita, humeante,
perfectamente adornada,
será bastante adulada
por sencilla y elegante.
Hasta el mejor restaurante,
invita a la maravilla
que es la sopa de tortilla;
con ella entera, crujiente,
sin batir, tan sugerente,
que al mejor comensal pilla.
*
“Sopa Azteca” es un poema-receta por Josefina Beverido de Risso,
de su libro: “Recetario de cocina en décimas espinelas”
(Instituto Veracruzano de Cultura, 2007).
Josefina nos muestra que !La Comida es Amor!
_____
Nawal Naffaa: “Slip”
Posted: October 2, 2011 Filed under: Arabic, English, Nawal Naffaa Comments Off on Nawal Naffaa: “Slip”_____
“Slip”
I count up the corpses and aircraft
Falling in pieces from the news
I count the bullets that are exhumed,
The bullets that are buried
And the bullets preparing
To be shot loose.
I follow the ritual of food.
I finish my plate
By eating the plate
After a backbreaking day of the work I do.
When did I get this heartless?
Tomorrow, I’ll make room in a corner of your chest
Where I can cry
And I just might exhume the corpse out of my chest
And prepare a ritual
Of proper burial.
اعُدّ الجثث والطائرات
المتساقطة من نشرات الاخبار
اعد الرصاصات المنزوعة
الرصاصات المدفونة
والرصاصات الجاهزة
للاطلاق
واتابع طقوس الطَعام
آتي على الطبق
آكل الطبق
بعد يوم عمل شاق!
متى اصبحت قاسية هكذا؟
غداً أفسِحُ لي ركناً في صدركَ
كي ابكي هناك
فقد انزِع الجثث من صدري
وأُعِدّ طقوساً لائقةً لدفنها
_____
Palestinian poet Nawal Naffaa was born in 1970.
She writes in Arabic.
To create in two “languages” – painting and poetry – holds
great meaning for her and she often strives to merge the two
via “painting within writing – using metaphor in poetry”.
“Slip” captures – in strong, simple metaphors – the
“stunning” effectiveness, the “numbing” capability,
in acts of war.
*
For this translation from Arabic into English
we are grateful to A. Z. Foreman.
Visit his site: http://www.poemsintranslation.blogspot.com
“Supplica a mia Madre” – PierPaolo Pasolini
Posted: October 2, 2011 Filed under: English, Italian, PierPaolo Pasolini Comments Off on “Supplica a mia Madre” – PierPaolo Pasolini_____
“Supplica a mia Madre”
È difficile dire con parole di figlio
ciò a cui nel cuore ben poco assomiglio.
Tu sei la sola al mondo che sa, del mio cuore,
ciò che è stato sempre, prima d’ogni altro amore.
Per questo devo dirti ciò ch’è orrendo conoscere:
è dentro la tua grazia che nasce la mia angoscia.
Sei insostituibile. Per questo è dannata
alla solitudine la vita che mi hai data.
E non voglio esser solo. Ho un’infinita fame
d’amore, dell’amore di corpi senza anima.
Perché l’anima è in te, sei tu, ma tu
sei mia madre e il tuo amore è la mia schiavitù:
ho passato l’infanzia schiavo di questo senso
alto, irrimediabile, di un impegno immenso.
Era l’unico modo per sentire la vita,
l’unica tinta, l’unica forma: ora è finita.
Sopravviviamo: ed è la confusione
di un vita rinata fuori dalla ragione.
Ti supplico, ah, ti supplico: non voler morire.
Sono qui, solo, con te, in un futuro aprile…
(1962)
_____
“Prayer to my Mother”
It’s so hard to say in a son’s words
what I’m so little like in my heart.
Only you in all the world know what my
heart always held, before any other love.
So, I must tell you something terrible to know:
from within your kindness my anguish grew.
You’re irreplaceable. And because you are,
the life you gave me is condemned to loneliness.
And I don’t want to be alone. I have an infinite
hunger for love, love of bodies without souls.
For the soul is inside you, it is you, but
you’re my mother and your love’s my slavery:
My childhood I lived a slave to this lofty
incurable sense of an immense obligation.
It was the only way to feel life,
the unique form, sole colour; now, it’s over.
We survive, in the confusion
of a life reborn outside reason.
I pray you, oh, I pray: Don’t die.
I’m here, alone, with you, in a future April…
(1962)
_____
PierPaolo Pasolini (1922-1975)
was a controversial Italian film director,
newspaper columnist, novelist and poet.
He embraced Communism while at
the same time being a Celebrity. He
viewed the new (1970s) “consumer society”
of Italy and its main “tool” – Television –
as destroyers of Italian grass-roots culture
and regional dialects.
Internationally he is praised as an “auteur”
film director, beginning with 1961’s “Accattone”.
But it can be argued that Pasolini the poet was
the superior artist…
“En el lado sentimental” – Billie Holiday
Posted: October 1, 2011 Filed under: English, Spanish, Translator's Whimsy: Song Lyrics / Extravagancia del traductor: Letras de canciones traducidas por Alexander Best Comments Off on “En el lado sentimental” – Billie Holiday
“On the sentimental side”
(Johnny Burke and Jimmy Monaco,
composers – as sung by Billie Holiday, 1938)
.
If you wonder why I’m near you,
Even though I’ve been denied,
I’m inclined to be a little
On the sentimental side.
.
I suppose I should forget you,
If I had an ounce of pride,
But I guess I can’t help being
On the sentimental side.
.
I should act gay,
Laugh it off and say Farewell,
Say it just didn’t wear well
– but I’m not that way…
.
I’m in hopes you’ll think it over,
And perhaps be satisfied
With a simple sort of person
On the sentimental side.
_____
“En el lado sentimental”
– canción popular americana del año 1938,
cantada por Billie Holiday
.
Si te maravillas que estoy aquí – cerca de ti,
Aunque he sido denegado,
Es porque me inclino a ser
Un poco sentimental.
.
Se supone que tengo que olvidarte,
Si yo tuviera una pizca de orgullo,
Pero no puedo evitar
Ser sentimental.
.
Yo debería hacerme alegre,
Reírme y decir: Adiós.
Decir: No importa que no duró nuestro Amor
– pero esto no es como soy… …
.
Espero que tú reflexiones sobre todo,
Y, quizás, te contentes
Con un tipo simple
– sí, que soy yo –
Alguien sentimental.
. . . .
Traducción al español: Alexander Best
Imagen: Foto colorizada de Billie Holiday – de los años 30
Image: colourized black and white photograph of Billie Holiday – from the late 1930s
John Clare: The Gipsy Camp + The Braggart
Posted: September 30, 2011 Filed under: English, John Clare Comments Off on John Clare: The Gipsy Camp + The Braggart
ZP_Julia and Bernie McDonagh_Irish Travellers_photographed by Alen MacWeeney in the 1960s
The Gipsy Camp
.
The snow falls deep; the Forest lies alone:
The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,
Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;
The Gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak, which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close, with snow like hovel warm:
There stinking mutton roasts upon the coals,
And the half roasted dog squats close and rubs,
Then feels the heat too strong and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare,
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away:
‘Tis thus they live – a picture to the place;
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.
. . .
The Braggart
.
With careful step to keep his balance up
He reels on warily along the street,
Slabbering at mouth and with a staggering stoop
Mutters an angry look at all he meets.
Bumptious and vain and proud he shoulders up
And would be something if he knew but how;
To any man on earth he will not stoop
But cracks of work, of horses and of plough.
Proud of the foolish talk, the ale he quaffs,
He never heeds the insult loud that laughs:
With rosy maid he tries to joke and play,–
Who shrugs and nettles deep his pomp and pride.
And calls him ‘drunken beast’ and runs away–
King to himself and fool to all beside.
* * *
John Clare (1793-1864) was an English poet active mainly
in the 1830s and ’40s. Coming from a poor rural
family in Northamptonshire, he spent most of his life as
a field hand, hired labourer, and observant vagabond.
Except for one excursion to London, where briefly he
was flavour-of-the-season – “The Peasant Poet” –
(an inaccurate, sentimental moniker) – he stuck close
to his county, covering many miles on foot, even
wandering “back home” from Northborough Asylum
where he would spend the last twenty years of his life.
Alexander Best: Five Poems Inspired by John Clare
Posted: September 30, 2011 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on Alexander Best: Five Poems Inspired by John ClareAlexander Best
FIVE POEMS
INSPIRED BY JOHN CLARE
(2002)
.
THE BEGGAR
.
The beggar keeps his coarse hair in a braid:
A bell-rope length of several colours made.
and grey or sunburnt are his torso’s hues,
and lady’s sandals make the soundest shoes.
In season’s heat he trails around a coat
Of winter’s weight; he’s pungent as a goat.
His voice is dumb, his body fairly hums;
He’s like a monk, avoids the other bums.
His fingers tabulate a host of fears;
He quivers with the ringing in his ears.
The patient few observe him after dark
and see he takes old cig’rette butts apart;
and twists them up into a grimy page
and sucks upon the thing a pleasant age.
Beggar he is, though never asks a penny.
About his life are strange opinions many.
. . .
THE DRAGONFLIES
.
As summer’s end progresses, so do they:
The Great-Lakes Dragonflies at duty play.
By hundreds in tall grass they mate and sun
and shimmer in the sex act till it’s done.
and some are luminescent, slim as pins;
Enamel drops of life poise at their ends.
and male and female grip — the shape’s a heart;
As if to silk the frankness of this earth.
Though Love in Nature’s not one minor role
— it’s breadth: orchestral movement of the whole.
and in the list’ning heat they do their thing;
They reproduce their kind, to grasses cling.
and mower’s blade ne’er touched this place all year;
T’was man’s neglect brought gorgeous insects here.
THE ADDICT
.
He lives for life’s caprice and easy mood,
Constructing selves that seem of solid good.
and when he lands a job, works hard enough,
and loves the toiling group, the hearty laugh.
Then shirks his people, culprits “buddy”, vents;
and frigs off, scores, and does whate’er he wants.
Is slow to answer mother overwrought
and quick to anger, should the lover doubt.
Invents some fine excuse — a reg’lar fiend;
Can always trust the trusting, stupid friend.
He squanders all his gifts; the wallet takes;
Then shrills his hurt when later brung to task.
Discov’ry of his stealth’s a stunning sting,
Oh, loveliness and charm — his very being.
The tether’s end he’ll reach — a noose, ere long?
and lies and cheats and still he carries on…
. . .
THE CROWS
.
I always fear they’re vanquished till I hear them…
Then, halting in my tracks, I know I love them.
For several frozen months their voice is silent
— it’s tough, you see, for they’re my psychic pilot.
In winter’s final days they start their talking
And by their dialogues is summer’s clocking.
At first their “caw” is bluntest proclamation:
We are the overseers of tarnation.
Come warm spring afternoons and much of summer,
They speak like castanets and make me slumber.
With comic delicacy they “clippety-clack”
And always keep their distance, handsome-black.
If crows came close, would people in pursuit…
With rocks and pellet-guns and steel-toe boot.
What is it ’bout this bird inspires hate?
The proud and practised crows, black-handsome, great,
Stand highest up of buildings, stroll and call
Then something puts them silent in the Fall.
. . .
ENCLOSURE
.
There’s solace in the knowledge: I am here;
This open-air “enclosure” gives me scare.
Who hacked these limbs, who hid the foot-shaped paths?
I crane my neck, I scratch and spit; swear oaths.
A satchel’s on the ground, inside’s a blade;
My Heart is wild, a poison’s in the blood.
I’ve clutched at straws and thatch, fistfuls of grass;
Will weeds apply to choke the gap and gush.
And slow my ’motions, feelings hot run cold.
( I hardened all my hopes as best I could. )
And sorrow is the marrow of my being;
Tomorrow is a narrow road I’m steering.
My love’s a Way that now is lost to me;
At last, the poet swallowed by his theme…
. . . . .
Author’s note:
In these poems I have tried to look upon Man and Nature
in 21st-century urban life with the same keen eye and
sensitivity as John Clare’s poems of rural life did in the 1830s
and ’40s.
“Enclosure”, while here representing the confusing state of
doomed or hopeless love, is also a reference to the fencing-in
of common pastures (The Enclosures), the removal of
ancient paths and the felling of old tree-groves – upheavals in
England’s countryside during The Industrial Revolution –
traumatic for Clare, who felt a deep communion with the land.
Un Sueño Diferido: Langston Hughes
Posted: September 26, 2011 Filed under: English, Langston Hughes, Spanish | Tags: Black poets Comments Off on Un Sueño Diferido: Langston Hughes
A Dream Deferred
.
What happens to a dream deferred ?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun ?
Or fester like a sore –
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat ?
Or crust and sugar over –
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.
Or does it explode ?
*
Un Sueño Diferido
.
¿Qué pasa de un sueño diferido?
¿Se marchita
como una pasa en el sol?
¿O se encona como una llaga –
y entonces corre?
¿Apesta como carne putrida?
¿O endurece y se vuelve dulce –
como un postre con jarabe?
Tal vez solo se hunda
como una carga pesada.
¿O explota?
_____
Gracias al Super Forero de Sevilla, España,
por su traducción al español
_____
Langston Hughes (1902-1967) was a Black-American
poet and novelist at the forefront of The Harlem
Renaissance. Born in the small town of Joplin, Missouri,
he would later capture in his poems the vibrancy of his
adopted home – New York City.
Written in 1951, the minute-long “A Dream Deferred”
is perhaps the most famous American poem of the
20th century.
_____
Langston Hughes (1902-1967) fue un novelista y
poeta Negro, de Los Estados Unidos.
Nació en el pueblo pequeño de
Joplin, Missouri, pero Hughes se hizo en la vanguardia
del Renacimiento de Harlem. Abarcan sus poemas la
vitalidad y la urgencia de su ciudad adoptiva
– Nueva York.
“Un Sueño Diferido” (escrito en 1951) es, quizás,
el poema de Los Estados Unidos el más famoso del siglo XX.
Zócalo Poets 