Light

M. J. Fraser Into the mist we wander Far and wide, we ponder About all that's been, what's yet to be For all around it's hard to see When the mists of yesterday rise and enclose Like water latched, stuck where it froze Ever present the clouds enwrap Thin tendrils, yet somehow they trap Perhaps ahead a light breaks through And mist retreats as it's wont to do And so we walk forward Moving ever toward The light.

Poets! Towers of God!

Rubén Darío

1867 –

1916

translated from the Spanish by Thomas Walsh and Salomón de la Selva.

Poets! Towers of God

Made to resist the fury of the storms

Like cliffs beside the ocean

Or clouded, savage peaks!

Masters of lightning!

Breakwaters of eternity!

Hope, magic-voiced, foretells the day

When on the rock of harmony

The Siren traitorous shall die and pass away,

And there shall only be

The full, frank-billowed music of the sea.

Be hopeful still,

Though bestial elements yet turn

From Song with rancorous ill-will

And blinded races one another spurn!

Perversity debased

Among the high her rebel cry has raised.

The cannibal still lusts after the raw,

Knife-toothed and gory-faced.

Towers, your laughing banners now unfold.

Against all hatreds and all envious lies

Upraise the protest of the breeze, half-told,

And the proud quietness of sea and skies …

----

Torres de Dios! Poetas!

Pararrayos celestes,

que resistís las duras tempestades,

como crestas escuetas,

como picos agrestes,

rompeolas de las eternidades!

   La mágica Esperanza anuncia el día

en que sobre la roca de armonía

expirará la pérfida sirena.

Esperad, esperemos todavía!

   Esperad todavía.

El bestial elemento se solaza

en el odio a la sacra poesía,

y se arroja baldón de raza a raza.

La insurrección de abajo

tiende a los Excelentes.

En caníbal codicia su tasajo

con roja encía y afilados dientes.

   Torres, poned al pabellón sonrisa.

Poned ante ese mal y ese recelo,

una soberbia insinuación de brisa

y una tranquilidad de mar y cielo …

Poetry is This Screaming Madwoman

Giannina Braschi

1953 –

translated from the Spanish by Tess O’Dwyer

(ars poetica)

Poetry is this screaming madwoman. Everything seems poetry. Madmen

gaze high. Everything seems madness. Madmen fear no moon, fear no fire.

Burns of flesh are poetry. Madmen’s wounds are poetry. The witch’s crime

was poetry. Magic knew how to find its poetry. The star wasn’t poetry

before the madwoman discovered it. Discovery of fire in the star. Discovery

of water with sand. Neither poetry nor prose. Salt is for fish, salt is for

death, the poem is not among the dead. Remember, but don’t write it. Love

her duendes and act as her Lazarus, but don’t wake her. Sleepwalker

among cats, thief among dogs, man among women, woman among men,

blasphemous toward religion, fed up with poverty. Tear out poetry’s voice.

Don’t let her find you, hide. Disregard her, ignore her, forsake her. Don’t

touch her wounds, she’ll scorn you. Back away. Scorn the poem. Develop

without her. Give her the necessary distance. Let her feel conceited. Then

insult her for not having written with power. Deride her dreams, slap her

eyes. Kneel down and ask her forgiveness. Take the poem from her belly.

Sleep beside her, but don’t avert your eyes. Listen to what she tells you in

dreams. Acknowledge her when you see her spell the names of hell.

Descend with her into hell, climb her streets, burn within her history. There

are no names, no history. The volcano erupts and rushes toward the poem.

I can’t do anything but bash her against a rock. I can’t do anything but

embrace her. I can’t do anything but insult her dreams, and she can’t do

anything but open the poem for me, just a crack, a crack in silence, without

watchmen or maidens, with a fowl and an owl to keep distant, to keep

silent, to show up barefoot. And she couldn’t do anything but crash against

the rocks, and the wind couldn’t do anything but blow her locks, and time

couldn’t do anything but eternalize her moment. And poetry is nowhere in

the castle. She disappears through the trapdoor, escapes with the fire that

burns her and dissolves in water.

 

La poesía es esta loca que grita

(Ars poetica in Spanish...)

La poesía es esta loca que grita. Todo parece poesía. Los locos miran alto.

Todo parece locura. Los locos no le temen a la luna, ni le temen al fuego.

Las quemaduras del cuerpo son poesía. Las heridas de los locos son

poesía. El crimen de la bruja fue poesía. La magia supo encontrar su

poesía. No era poesía la estrella antes de que la loca la descubriera.

Descubrimiento del fuego en la estrella. Descubrimiento del agua con la

arena, no es poesía ni es prosa. La sal es de los peces, la sal es de la

muerte, no está el poema en la muerte. Recuerda, pero no lo escribas.

Ámale los duendes, y sírvele de Lázaro, pero no la despiertes. Sonámbula

con los gatos, ladrona con los perros, hombre con las mujeres, mujer con

los hombres, blasfema con la religión, harta con la pobreza. Arráncale la

voz a la poesía. No dejes que te descubra, escóndete. No la pienses ni le

des importancia, abandónala. No le toques las heridas, te despreciará.

Apártate. Despréciale el poema. Desenvuélvete sin ella. Dale la ncesaria

distancia. Deja que se siente engreída. Entonces insúltala, por no haber

escrito con fuerza. Entonces ultrájale los sueños, abofetéale los ojos.

Arrodíllate y pídele perdón. Sácale el poema del vientre. Duérmete a su

lado, pero no la dejes de mirar. Escucha lo que en sueños te dice.

Reconócela cuando la veas deletrear los nombres del infierno. Desciende

con ella al infierno, sube por sus calles, arde dentro de su historia. No hay

nombres ni hay historia. Se precipita el volcán y la lava está deseosa de

introducirse en el poema. No puedo menos que estrellarla contra una roca,

no puedo menos que abrazarla. Ni puedo menos que insultarle los sueños,

ni puede menos que entreabrirme el poema, a medio decir, en silencio, sin

centinelas ni doncellas, con una lechuza y un buho para guardar la

distancia, para guardar el silencio, para presentarsedescalza. Y ella no

pudo menos que estrellarse contra la roca, y el viento no pudo menos que

soplarle los cabellos, y el tiempo no pudo menos que eternizar su

momento. Y la poesía no está en todo el castillo, desaparece por la puerta

defuga, se va con el fuego que la quema y se disuelve en agua.

To the Sonnet

Ameen Rihani

1876 –1940

Though cribbed and gyved, thou canst within thy 

          walls 

Unfold a wondrous wealth of worlds unseen,

And flood the soul’s abyss with moon-light sheen,

As well as darken passions’ gilded halls ; 

Thy fourteen outlets are so many falls 

From which gush out the prisoned joy, or 

         spleen— 

The silvery cascades, or the billows green,

And either a sea of bliss or grief recalls. 

Thou goddess of the gems of Fancy’s deep, 

Though few thy facets, they reflect the whole 

Of inner-self in multi-shaded hues ; 

Thou art the couch of dreams that never sleep ; 

Thou art the phoenix of the poet’s soul,

As well the crystal palace of his muse.

To Magic

The world has to be filled with magic,

All the sages,

Write in their pages,

Of the wonders,

That they ponder.

This magic comes in blessings,

Which take on different forms,

Each life has many magicks within it.

Every aspect has many different outcomes.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc