The Spellcast

From the Spanish of Mara Romero Torres

Hey heretics of centuries far

Wounds still open as sigils,

No embargos on earth to mother

And the acoustic of light signals,

Equilibrium floats in silence smothered.

My voice among the ancients

Is spellcast in the witches dream time in between

A nook for the cornered soul

Whereby time is detained

And the word is turned to flesh burning.

Don't spit away the way out

Because the labyrinth unlocks.

Remain still those who predate the grail

Until the echo names you.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Hechizo

​Hay heridas que pueden quedar abiertas durante siglos.

Sin embargo, la tierra sigue pariendo,

y existe la acústica de la luz.

Y el equilibrio flotante del silencio.

​Mi voz en los clásicos

es un hechizo en la madrugada.

Un rincón para el alma

donde el tiempo se detiene

y la palabra se hace carne.

​No busques la salida,

porque el laberinto es la llave.

Quédate en el centro del grito

hasta que el eco te nombre.

The Guitar

From the Spanish of Federico Garcia Lorca

The gush from the gash

Of guitar.

The chalices shatter

At dawn.

The gush from the gash

Of guitar.

The gag is useless.

Tongue impossible

To hold.

Monotonous lament,

The weep of water,

The wail of wind

Over snowfall.

Tongue impossible

To hold.

It mourns for

Distant things.

Exhausted sands

Demanding white camellias.

Its cries are blanks,

Afternoon without tomorrow,

And the first bird

Stilled on its perch.

Oh guitar!

Trade my heart

For five spades.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

LA GUITARRA - POEMA DE LA SEGUIRIYA GITANA (Cante Jondo)

Empieza el llanto

de la guitarra.

Se rompen las copas

de la madrugada.

Empieza el llanto

de la guitarra.

Es inútil callarla.

Es imposible

callarla.

Llora monótona

como llora el agua,

como llora el viento

sobre la nevada

Es imposible

callarla,

Llora por cosas

lejanas.

Arena del Sur caliente

que pide camelias blancas.

Llora flecha sin blanco,

la tarde sin mañana,

y el primer pájaro muerto

sobre la rama

¡Oh guitarra!

Corazón malherido

por cinco espadas.

Rabia: The View from Basra

Lady Rabia al-Adawiyya (717-801) went from slave to Sufi spoken-word poet. 

There’s two loves for the one:

The devotion of desire

And the flame that serves the other.

As for the self with roots in longing

I’m devoured by your presence

Scarce existing outside.

As for the self that shines with gold

It’s you that lift the veil

To allow me to see.

No currency on either side

For my love and its degrees

But we lack lack in Abaddon at the gate.

So if you’re called from want

Of your sun, burn me

With the flame of my carcass crisp.

And if you’re worshipped

For your sun, keep it away,

The key to the gate, from my arms.

But if you’re loved, right here in Basra

In the sun’s reflection

Stay with me as we play among the stars.

 -------------------------------------------------------------

أُحِبُّكَ حُبَّيْنِ

حُبَّ الهَوَى

وَحُبًّا لِأَنَّكَ أَهْلٌ لِذَاكَا

Uḥibbuka ḥubbayni

ḥubba al‑hawā

wa ḥubban li‑annaka ahlun li‑dhākā

فَأَمَّا الَّذِي هُوَ

حُبُّ الهَوَى

فَشُغْلِي بِذِكْرِكَ عَمَّنْ سِوَاكَا

fa‑ammā alladhī huwa

ḥubbu al‑hawā

fa‑shughlī bi‑dhikrika ʿamman siwākā

وَأَمَّا الَّذِي

أَنْتَ أَهْلٌ لَهُ

فَكَشْفُكَ لِيَ الحُجُبَ حَتَّى أَرَاكَا

wa‑ammā alladhī

anta ahlun lahu

fa‑kashfuka liya al‑ḥujuba ḥattā arākā

فَلَا الحَمْدُ فِي ذَا

وَلَا ذَاكَ لِي

وَلَكِنْ لَكَ الحَمْدُ فِي ذَا وَذَاكَا

fa‑lā al‑ḥamdu fī dhā

wa‑lā dhāka lī

wa‑lākinn laka al‑ḥamdu fī dhā wa‑dhākā

اللَّهُمَّ إِنْ كُنْتُ أَعْبُدُكَ

خَوْفًا مِنْ نَارِكَ

فَأَحْرِقْنِي فِي نَارِ جَهَنَّمَ

Allāhumma in kuntu aʿbuduka

khawfan min nārika

fa‑aḥriqnī fī nāri Jahannam

وَإِنْ كُنْتُ أَعْبُدُكَ

طَمَعًا فِي جَنَّتِكَ

فَاحْرِمْنِي مِنْهَا

wa‑in kuntu aʿbuduka

ṭamaʿan fī jannatika

fa‑ḥrimnī minhā

وَإِنْ كُنْتُ أَعْبُدُكَ

حُبًّا لِذَاتِكَ

فَلَا تَحْرِمْنِي مِنْ وَجْهِكَ الْكَرِيمِ

wa‑in kuntu aʿbuduka

ḥubban li‑dhātika

fa‑lā taḥrimnī min wajhika al‑karīm

Threadsuns on Purim

From the German of Paul Celan

Festoon sunning

Adorns the charcoal gray post-void

A palm-

High vibration

Strikes with its light tone: there are

Further psalms to sing inside

More dimensions.

---------------------------------------------------------

Fadensonnen

über der grauschwarzen Ödnis.

Ein baum-

hoher Gedanke

greift sich den Lichtton: es sind

noch Lieder zu singen jenseits

der Menschen.

Excerpts from Cold Season

From the Farsi of Forugh Farrokhzad (1934-1967)

Let us believe

Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season

Let us believe in the ruins of imaginary gardens

In the unemployed crescent scythes,

The imprisoned seeds.

Look how heavy time weighs here

And the moon, like a sad canary

Dies of its own song in a cage

And the season at its threshold emptied of ennui

And Lalezar Street swollen with silence

And multiplying people like alley shadows

Estranged from plants, from breath, from the life.

Time, like ancient serpents, rejects its peel

And the moon is swallowed into night

And I, lost in things, still search for truth

Which lies hidden in the mirror like dust.

Why didn’t I look?

Perhaps all the songs of happiness were lies.

Maybe I was afraid of looking

Because the truth was left like a corpse in my hands.

I greet you, sinfree night!

I greet you night that turns the eyes of desert wolves

Into the bone hollows of faith,

And beside your streams, the crazy trees

Weep like jinns that the water still flows.

My heart still bleeds for the world.

No one thinks of the weeds.

No one thinks of goldfish this new year.

No one believes the garden is dying.

Look and see. 

Here, anyone who speaks 

Severs their own head in the palm of their hands. 

Here, the solar womb is cold 

And the earth is barren.

I greet the night of innocence.

I greet the night that turns

Childlike eyes into cracks in the gate.

------------------------------------------------------------------

ایمان بیاوریم

ایمان بیاوریم به آغاز فصل سرد

ایمان بیاوریم به ویرانه‌های باغ‌های تخیل

به داس‌های واژگون شده‌ی بیکار

و دانه‌های زندانی.

نگاه کن که در اینجا زمان چه وزنی دارد

و ماه، چون قناری غمگینی

که در قفس، به آواز خود، می‌میرد

و آستانه‌ی فصلی که از ملال، تهی است

و کوچه‌هایی که از سکوت، متورم گشته‌اند

و مردمی که در معابر، به شکل سایه، تکثیر می‌شوند

و از گیاه، از تنفس، از حیات، بیگانه‌اند.

زمان، چون مارِ پیری، پوست می‌اندازد

و ماه، در حفره‌ی شب، فرو می‌رود

و من، در میانِ اشیاء، به جستجوی حقیقتی هستم

که در آینه، چون غباری، پنهان است.

چرا نگاه نکردم؟

گویی تمامِ ترانه‌هایِ خوشبختی، دروغ بودند

من از نگاه کردن، می‌ترسیدم

زیرا حقیقت، چون جنازه‌ای، رویِ دست‌هایِ من، مانده بود.

سلام ای شبِ معصوم!

سلام ای شبی که چشم‌هایِ گرگ‌هایِ بیابان را

به حفره‌هایِ استخوانیِ ایمان، بدل می‌کنی

و در کنارِ جوی‌هایِ تو، ارواحِ بیدهایِ مجنون

ارواحِ بیدهایِ مجنون، بر تداومِ آب، گریه می‌کنند.

من دلم برای باغچه می‌سوزد

کسی به فکر گل‌ها نیست

کسی به فکر ماهی‌ها نیست

کسی نمی‌خواهد باور کند که باغچه دارد می‌میرد

نگاه کن

در اینجا، هر کسی که حرف می‌زند

سرش را، در کفِ دست‌هایش، گرفته است

و در اینجا، خورشید، سرد است

و زمین، بی‌برکت.

​سلام ای شب معصوم

سلام ای شبی که چشم‌های کودکانه را

به شکاف دریچه‌ها بدل می‌کنی

Three by Susana Thénon

1

To drink from everyone's glass

And not die of the disgust

To drink of the disgust

​2

Wanted: 

Woman with a voice

Like a commando

And eyes that see

Where there is nada

​3

Being is what it is

Being that is not

Is fucked

--------------------------------------------------------------

​1

beber del vaso del que todos beben

y no morir de asco

beber de ese asco

(Ova completa, 1987)

​2

se busca

mujer

con voz de mando

y ojos de mirar

donde no hay nada

(Ova completa, 1987)

​3

el ser es el que es

y el que no es

se jode

(Ova completa, 1987)

Three by Alejandra Pizarnik

1
I fled from me to the dawn
Surrendered my corpse by the light
Have sung the melancholia of being born

​2
In the night, a mirror for the aberrant dead girl
A mirror of dead air.
Let joy be the language of your carcass
While mine decomposes in your night-cavity.
No breath. Can't stir the ones who love.

​3
The light is too much for the child.
But who will tell her she's died?
The one who has always waited.

------------------------------------------------------------
​

1
He saltado de mí a la aurora.
He dejado mi cuerpo junto a la luz
y he cantado la tristeza de lo que nace.
(Árbol de Diana, 1962)

​2
En la noche, un espejo para la pequeña muerta.
Un espejo de silencio.
Que la alegría sea el lenguaje de tu cuerpo
cuando el mío se hunda en tu noche.
No hables. No despiertes a los que se aman.
(Fragmentos para domar el silencio, 1971)

​3
La luz es demasiado grande para mi infancia.
Pero quién le dirá que se ha muerto
el que siempre nos esperaba.
(La extracción de la piedra de locura, 1968)

​At a Sharpened Point

From the German of Paul Celan

​The lie of Earth is free, over.

To

The moon-axe, in the back,

Both harangued the silence

Of stones, the grasses.

​In their retinue

The material heaven words,

The shadow have, swearing.

------------------------------------------------

​À La Pointe ACÉRÉE

​Es liegen die Erden frei, oben.

Zur

Mond-Axt, in den Rücken,

beide herangestiegen,

die Steine, die Gräser.

​In ihrem Gefolge

die miterhobenen Worte,

die schattenhaft-schweren.

The Black Heralds

From the Spanish of Cesar Vallejo 

Some gulps in life, you just drop... nevermind.

Gulps how you're odious to God; the backwash pools

In the hangover of all that is suffered

Poured to the pool of the soul ...nevermind.

To poke at you, these few ...open ditches obscured

In the face of fire and the hardest ass.

Perhaps they are the foals of barbarous Attila 

Or the raven heralds sent by Monsieur Death.

Christ descends to the void of the soul

With an old adorable hope that fate shits on.

The bloody gulp of doom as it crisps 

The burning bread at the oven door.

Oh poor man...poor...poor. Veer your eyes

As when a spark pops on the frying pan;

Veer your mad eyes and all that you've lived

Pools, like a puddle of culpability, in the gaze.

Some gulps in life, you just drop... nevermind.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes. . . Yo no sé!

Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,

la resaca de todo lo sufrido 

se empozara en el alma . . . Yo no sé!

Son pocos, pero son. . . Abren zanjas oscuras

en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.

Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros atilas; 

o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas honda de los Cristos del alma,

de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.

Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones

de algún pan que en la Puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre. . . Pobre . . . pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como

cuando por sobre el hombre nos llama una palmada;

vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido

se empoza, como un charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes . . . Yo no sé!

The White Thread

Traditional Thai wedding poem

Bind the wrist call the ghost home

Wandering souls held by a string

Two hearts stop, alone is done

Sorrow locked outside the ring

ผูกแขนรับขวัญ

​สายสิญจน์ขาวบริสุทธิ์

​คล้องสองใจให้หยุด

​ทุกข์พ้นสุขสมหวัง

Eight Burmese Linkar (Climbing Rhyme)

I. The Royal Ruin

City of gold

Lion holds bolt

A cold emerald

Attributed to the "Konbaung" style of U Ponnya:

ရွှေပြည်တော် (Shwe-pyi-taw)

ခြင်္သေ့စောင့် (Chin-thae-saunt)

မြကျောက်တောင် (Mya-kyauk-taung)

II. Bagan Dawn

Dust of Bagan

Poor sun gone red

At dawn broken

Traditional "Anicca" (Impermanence) lament:

ပုဂံမြေ (Bagan-myay)

နေနီကြွေ (Nay-ni-kyway)

အရုဏ်ဝေ (A-run-way)

III. Mu River

Irrawaddy

Stretches wide sun

Betel vine spreading

In the "Taw-la" (wilderness) tradition:

ဧရာဝတီ (Ayeyarwady)

နေခြည်ဖြာ (Nay-chi-phya)

အင်ကြင်းသာ (In-gyin-thar)

.

IV. Shades of Green

Mountain pine green

River clean moss

Unseen beryl

Attributed to the forest-monk Shin Uttamagyaw:

တောင်ဇလပ် (Taung-za-lat)

စမ်းရေဖတ် (Sann-yay-phat)

မြူမှောင်ပတ် (Myu-mhaung-pat)

V. The Nat

Tree-dwelling ghost

Branches host her

Guard post holy

A "Nat" (Spirit) invocation:

ရုက္ခစိုးနတ် (Yoke-khu-soe-nat)

သစ်ခက်လတ် (Thit-khut-lat)

ဗိမ္မာန်မှတ် (Bane-man-hmat)

VI. Central City 

Pagoda way

Mandalay hill

Red prayer robes

Mandalay Luta:

ဘုရားလမ်း (Phayar-lann)

မန္တလေးနန်း (Mandalay-nann)

သင်္ကန်းနီ (Thingann-ni)

VII. The Floating Light

Lake Inle glows

Boat oars go slow

Allow the light

Anonymous "Than-bauk" (3-line punch):

အင်းလေးပြင် (Inlay-pyin)

လှေခတ်ညင် (Hlay-khut-nyin)

အလင်းဝင် (Alinn-win)

VIII. Tea Shop Ghost

Cold in the cup

Alone up late

Wrapped up to go

In the modern "Khay-khit" style:

လဘက်ရည်ခွက် (La-phet-ye-khwet) 

တစ်ယောက်တည်းတက် (Ta-yoke-te-tet) 

ထုပ်ပိုးလျက် (Htoke-po-lyet)

Deer Enclosure

From the Chinese of Wang Wei

No one there, unseen mountain 

Only hear echoed sounds

Light returns deepest forests

Young moss beams again

--------------------------------------

鹿 柴

空 山 不 見 人

但 聞 人 語 響

返 景 入 深 林

復 照 青 苔 上

Autumn Waste

From the Chinese of Wang Ji

The gaze of East Bank dusk fades. 

I lean and linger, wondering what to rely on: 

A tree, a tree, all color in autumn;

A mountain, a mountain, just falling sun.

Herders drive calves and calves return,

Hunters ride horses and come home with birds.

We catch eyes, but they are loved elsewhere —

It's a long song to cherish gathered ferns.

--------------------------------------------------------

野 望

東 皋 薄 暮 望

徙 倚 欲 何 依

樹 樹 皆 秋 色

山 山 唯 落 暉

牧 犢 驅 犢 返

獵 馬 帶 禽 歸

相 顧 無 相 識

長 歌 懷 采 薇

Drinking Alone by the Moon

From the Chinese of Li Po (Bai)

Wine flask among the flowers, I drink alone.

Cheers to the moon, my shadow makes three.

The moon don't drink, my shadow just follows in vain.

I'll keep them both for now as friends, for joy chases its spring.

I sing, the moon malingers; I dance, the shadow shatters.

Sober we exchange debaucheries, drunk we scatter. 

Let us stagger without feeling, meet on the river of clouds.

------------------------------------------------------------

月 下 獨 酌

花 間 一 壺 酒, 獨 酌 無 相 親.

舉 杯 邀 明 月, 對 影 成 三 人.

月 既 不 解 飲, 影 徒 隨 我 身.

暫 伴 月 將 影, 行 樂 須 及 春.

我 歌 月 徘 徊, 我 舞 影 零 亂.

醒 時 同 交 歡, 醉 後 各 分 散.

永 結 無 情 遊, 相 期 邈 雲 漢.

Jin Se

From the Chinese of Li Shangyin

Ridiculous zither with fifty strings,
Each touch, each slide recalls my banquet years.

Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly at dawn,

The exiled emperor's ghost spring followed the cuckoo home.

In the ocean moon, tears turn into pearls,

Purple jade becomes in the sun smoke from afar.

This feeling that had to wait became a memory

Though at the time I was already lost.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

錦 瑟

錦 瑟 無 端 五 十 弦

一 弦 一 柱 思 華 年

莊 生 曉 夢 迷 蝴 蝶

望 帝 春 心 託 杜 鵑

滄 海 月 明 珠 有 淚

藍 田 日 暖 玉 生 煙

此 情 可 待 成 追 憶

只 是 當 時 已 惘 然

Floating Night Thoughts

From the Chinese of Tu Fu

Fine straw, slight drift, shore,

Mast sharp, night boat alone.

Stars press the polished surface

Of the great river where the moon breaks.

Fame — how could writing be known?

My career: a venerable invalid's inevitable end. 

Flap flap — what do I resemble?

Heaven? Earth? One sand gull.

 

--------------------------------------------------------

旅夜書懷

細草微風岸，危檣獨夜舟。 

星垂平野闊，月湧大江流。 

名豈文章著？官應老病休。 

飄飄何所似？天地一沙鷗。

Spring Landscape

From the Chinese of Tu Fu

Kingdom broken mountains persist

City spring deep in weeds

Flowers bleed with the times

Birds know my family is gone

The beacon fires: three months of black wind

Words from home: the last theoretical gold

White hair abraded into silver dust

A pin can no longer hold it together

-----------------------------------------------------

春 望

国破山河在

城春草木深 

感时花溅泪 

恨别鸟惊心 

烽火连三月 

家书抵万金 

白头搔更短

浑欲不胜簪

Horodok

From the German of Georg Trakl (his last poem)

At evening tones, in beech tree gold
Of the death weapons, chestnut steppes
And blue impoundments, the sun above
Rolls in dusk; the night enfolds 

Perishing soldiers, the feral howls 

Of mouths broken like glass. 

They gather in silence above the pastures 

Red clouds, where the unsurrendered Gods swag 

On jettisoned blood, the moon’s numb cold; 

All straits flow into black decay. 

Under the golden branches of night and stars 

Shakes the sister’s veil through the willow grove dumbstruck 

To greet the hero spirits, the bleeding heads; 

And reeds tone lightly pitch-dark flutes of autumn. 

O egoic grief! Your iron altar 

Feeds the spirit’s holy flame in untranscended pain now, 

Grandchildren never to be born.

 
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Grodek

Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder 

Von tödlichen Waffen, die goldnen Ebenen 

Und blauen Seen, darüber die Sonne 

Düstrer hinrollt; umfängt die Nacht 

Sterbende Krieger, die wilde Klage 

Ihrer zerbrochenen Münder. 

Doch stille sammelt im Weidengrund 

Rotes Gewölk, darin ein zürnender Gott wohnt 

Das vergossne Blut sich, mondne Kühle; 

Alle Straßen münden in schwarze Verwesung. 

Unter goldnem Gezweig der Nacht und Sternen 

Es schwankt der Schwester Schatten durch den schweigenden Hain,

Zu grüßen die Geister der Helden, die blutenden Häupter;

Und leise tönen im Rohr die dunkeln Flöten des Herbstes.

O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre 

Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz, 

Die ungebornen Enkel.

Living

From the French of Pierre Reverdy

A puff of luminescence

And the venting wind passed

A mask

We no longer know the hour or the place

The sky's a curtain that catches

One is alone

It seems there are many here

All of their voices are mute

Feet skate along the avenue

In the space between them and what they see

One shadow too many has slipped within

Everything's slipped away

But no one notices a thing

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

​Vivre

Un peu de lumière

Et le vent qui passe

Un visage

On ne sait plus si c’est l’heure ou la place

Le ciel est un rideau qui tremble

On est seul

Il semble qu'on est plusieurs ensemble

Toutes les voix se sont tues

Les pas ont glissé sur la rue

Dans l'espace entre nous et ce qu’on voit

Une ombre de trop s'est glissée

Tout est passé

Mais personne n’a rien remarqué.

Psalm

From the German of Paul Celan

No one will model us from clay again, 

no one will discuss our dust. 

No one.

Exist as applause, no one. 

We open into bloom because we want you. 

In opposition. To.

A nothing we were, are, shall remain, 

opening: the no, the rose

of no one.

With its stigma spirit-clear, the ovule heaven-bare, 

a stylus red from purple word, what we sang for, 

over the spear.

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Niemand knetet uns wieder aus Erde und Lehm, 

niemand bespricht unsern Staub. 

Niemand. 

Gelobt seist du, Niemand. 

Dir zulieb wollen wir blühn. 

Dir entgegen. 

Ein Nichts waren wir, sind wir, werden 

wir bleiben, blühend: die Nichts-, die 

Niemandsrose. 

Mit dem Griffel seelenhell, dem Staubfaden himmelswüst, 

der Krone rot vom Purpurwort, das wir sangen 

über, o über dem Dorn.