Sappho's Ode to Aphrodite (#1)

Hat tip Dionysus of Halicarnassus for allowing us to read the one remaining complete poem of Sappho.

On rainbow throne hear my plea Aphrodite,

Immortal girl of Zeus, the spider trickster,

I won’t yield to anguish nor to nausea

Mistress, seat of breath.

But come near now, as you have come here before,

'Cos my voice warbles hearkening from afar

For when you heard you left your father’s domain

And came with your gold,

War chariot yoked, a torso who’s carried

By sparrows around the black and fertile world,

Wings whirring through the friction, breaking through from

The aethers of sky –

To arrive so quickly, can-do hummingbird

Cucumber cool, smooth smile, all perennial

To ask, of my personal emergency,

“What’s the mess this time?”

What I mostly want, to make suffering stop

In a heart that’s been ransacked, partitioned:

“Take her hand. Make her want to love me again.

I know that you can.”

“And if she flees, is it not true, she’ll pursue?

If she’ll not receive your gifts, she will bestow;

And if she cannot love you, unwillingly

She will. She was born.”

Then come here now and loosen the bonds of birth.

Free me from the everlasting servitude

And let my heart now burn to be completed,

Partner in our crime.

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ποικιλόθρον᾽ ἀθάνατ᾽ Ἀφρόδιτα,

παῖ Δίος δολόπλοκε, λίσσομαί σε

μὴ μ᾽ ἄσαισι μηδ᾽ ὀνίαισι δάμνα,

πότνια, θῦμον,

ἀλλὰ τυίδ᾽ ἔλθ᾽, αἴ ποτα κἀτέρωτα

τὰς ἔμας αὔδας ἀίοισα πήλοι

ἔκλυες, πάτρος δὲ δόμον λίποισα

χρύσιον ἦλθες,

ἄρμ᾽ ὐποζεύξαισα· κάλοι δέ σ᾽ ἆγον

ὤκεες στροῦθοι περὶ γᾶς μελαίνας

πύκνα δίννεντες πτέρ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ὠράνω

αἴθερος διὰ μέσσω·

αἶψα δ᾽ ἐξίκοντο· σὺ δ᾽, ὦ μάκαιρα,

μειδιάσαισ᾽ ἀθανάτῳ προσώπῳ

ἤρε᾽ ὄττι δηὖτε πέπονθα κὤττι

δηὖτε κάλημμι,

κὤττι μοι μάλιστα θέλω γένεσθαι

μαινόλᾳ θύμῳ· τίνα δηὖτε πείθω

ἄψ σ᾽ ἄγην ἐς σὰν φιλότατα,

τίς σ᾽, ὦ Ψάπφ᾽, ἀδίκηει;

καὶ γὰρ αἰ φεύγει, ταχέως διώξει,

αἰ δὲ δῶρα μὴ δέκετ᾽, ἀλλὰ δώσει,

αἰ δὲ μὴ φίλει, ταχέως φιλήσει

κωὐκ ἐθέλοισα.

ἔλθε μοι καὶ νῦν, χαλέπαν δὲ λῦσον

ἐκ μερίμναν, ὄσσα δέ μοι τέλεσσαι

θῦμος ἰμέρρει, τέλεσον,

σὺ δ᾽ αὔτα σύμμαχος ἔσσο.

Sappho 58

For centuries, fragment 58 existed only as a series of scraps that seemed to end with a mythological Tithonus rotting in the arms of the Dawn—a grim memento mori on the betrayal of the body. ​However, in 2004, archaeologists at the University of Cologne identified a new scrap of 3rd-century BC papyrus that had been used as mummy cartonnage (essentially ancient recycled cardboard). This discovery didn't just add lines, it revivified the poem’s soul, shifting its focus from biological decay to the aesthetic inheritance of an artist. Still fragmentary, the "complete" poem offers a translation opportunity into the more loquacious English to better capture the Sapphic stanza "gallop" of the original Aeolic Greek.

Violet bandeau of muses, on my students,

Girls, who love song, and tune a clear shell tone on

The tortoise lyre, skin now corrugated,

Hairs have turned, from black.

Lioness no longer light, gone in the knees

Which used to traipse as nebulous as fawns.

I moan and groan but there's nothing to be done;

It's impossible.

Sunrise armed with roses as the story goes,

Eros bears us ferociously to the end,

Beautiful and young it's all the same game trap,

Immortal ash wife.

The codicil holds that death is what follows

But I believe only in exquisite things

And as long as my desire is for the sun

Brilliance is my cut.

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. . . ἰ]ο̣κ[ό]λ̣πων κάλα δῶρα, παῖδεϲ,

. . .τὰ]ν̣ φιλάοιδον λιγύραν χελύνναν·

. . . π̣οτ̣’ [ἔ]ο̣ντα χρόα γῆραϲ ἤδη

. . . ἐγ]ένοντο τρίχεϲ ἐκ μελαίναν·

βάρυϲ δέ μ’ ὀ [θ]ῦμο̣ϲ̣ πεπόηται, γόνα δ’ [ο]ὐ φέροιϲι,

τὰ δή ποτα λαίψηρ’ ἔον ὄρχηϲθ’ ἴϲα νεβρίοιϲι.

τὰ ⟨μὲν⟩ ϲτεναχίϲδω θαμέωϲ· ἀλλὰ τί κεν ποείην;

ἀγήραον ἄνθρωπον ἔοντ’ οὐ δύνατον γένεϲθαι.

καὶ γάρ π̣[ο]τ̣α̣ Τίθωνον ἔφαντο βροδόπαχυν Αὔων

ἔρωι φ̣ ̣ ̣α̣θ̣ε̣ιϲαν βάμεν’ εἰϲ ἔϲχατα γᾶϲ φέροιϲα[ν],

ἔοντα̣ [κ]ά̣λ̣ο̣ν καὶ νέον, ἀλλ’ αὖτον ὔμωϲ ἔμαρψε

χρόνωι π̣ό̣λ̣ι̣ο̣ν̣ γῆραϲ, ἔχ̣[ο]ν̣τ̣’ ἀθανάταν ἄκοιτιν.

. . . ιμέναν νομίϲδει

. . . αιϲ ὀπάϲδοι

⸤ἔγω δὲ φίλημ’[11]ἀβροϲύναν, . . .⸥ τοῦτο καί μοι

τὸ λά⸤μπρον ἔρωϲ ἀελίω καὶ τὸ κά⸥λον λέ⸤λ⸥ογχε. 

[Nagy text]

Sappho 16

Fragment 16 is one of only 3-6 reasonably complete fragments that remain from Sappho, who Plato called "the 10th muse," the inventor of lyric poetry as we know it, whose influence lasted for centuries. How conveniently ironic this erasure was of a woman - a woman for whom the word Lesbian was coined in fact. This incomplete poem -- another one where (especially in stanza 2) translations go to die -- provides a hint why her revered works were burned by popes. One can only guess how provocative what is missing must be.

Some say men will come, flex arms or lay the ground

Or from boats they say, over black the earth realm.

Immensely it satisfies them, but I say

It’s what turns you on.

Painfully easy to synthesize longing

For everyone, but a woman was the mold

Of perfect allure, Helen and her husband,

The best of all men,

Him she left behind, and for Troy put to sea

Kissing off her daughter and her family,

Kissing what’s not there, completely swept away …

[…] swayed […] 

[…] reminds me of my Anactoria

No longer here

I would rather watch her swirl across the flames

Lighting with a glance my incandescent eyes

Than the Lydian archers raining their fire

On distant cities.

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[ο]ἰ μὲν ἰππήων ϲτρότον οἰ δὲ πέϲδων

οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖϲ’ ἐπ[ὶ] γᾶν μέλαι[ν]αν

[ἔ]μμεναι κάλλιϲτον, ἔγω δὲ κῆν’ ὄτ-

-τω τιc ἔραται·

[πά]γχυ δ’ εὔμαρεc ϲύνετον πόηϲαι

[π]άντι τ[ο]ῦ̣τ’, ἀ γὰρ πόλυ περϲκέ̣θ̣ο̣ι̣σ̣α

κ̣άλ̣λο̣c̣ [ἀνθ]ρ̣ώπων Ἐλένα [τὸ]ν ἄνδρα

τ̣ὸν̣ [πανάρ]ιϲτον

κ̣αλλ[ίποι]σ̣’ ἔβα ’c Τροΐαν πλέοι̣[ϲα

κωὐδ[ὲ πα]ῖδοc οὐδὲ φίλων το[κ]ήων

π̣ά[μπαν] ἐμνάϲθη, ἀλλὰ παράγ̣α̣γ̣’ α̣ὔταν

[. . .]ϲαν [. . .]

[. .]μ̣ε̣ νῦν Ἀνακτορί[αc ὀ]ν̣έ̣μναι-

[-ϲ’ οὐ ] παρεοίϲαc,

[τᾶ]c <κ>ε βολλοίμαν ἔρατόν τε βᾶμα

κἀμάρυχμα λάμπρον ἴδην προϲώπω

ἢ τὰ Λύδων ἄρματα †κανοπλοιϲι

[πεϲδομ]άχενταc.

Sappho 31

Fragment 31 is arguably the most translated —and "untranslatable" — piece of lyric poetry in Western history. For 2,500 years, it's been the "Mount Everest" for translators due to the percussive, almost clinical way a lovesick heart describes its own physical erasure. To translate it is to grapple with a ghost: it's one of the only Sappho poems that is reasonably preserved, thanks to the critic Longinus quoting it as an example of "the sublime," but the words are disoriented, the self-consciousness jarring, and the way to feel about it postponed to a much later age.

Appears to me that one’s unmoved, like the gods

That man, across from you, whoever he is,

Installed and close by, for that sweetness of voice

Overheard, obeyed –

You, having laughed, erotic charge, but not mine

Whose heart is caged in a temple of panic,

For when I see you, even briefly, my voice

Won’t work anymore,

Even my tongue muscle locks up and subtle

Fire ignites suddenly under my flesh,

Whited out eyes can’t see anything at all,

Ears rung to a roar.

Sweat’s pouring out and tremors are everywhere 

Seizing my being; I turn greener than grass

And I have died, or maybe less, or so I

Appear to myself.

Risks are required – even for one without rights ...

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φαίνεταί μοι κῆνοc ἴcοc θέοισιν

ἔμμεν’ ὤνηρ, ὄττιc ἐνάντιόc τοι

ἰcδάνει καὶ πλάσιον ἆδυ φωνεί

cαc ὐπακούει

καὶ γελαίcαc ἰμέροεν, τό μ’ ἦ μὰν

καρδίαν ἐν cτήθεcιν ἐπτόαιcεν,

ὠc γὰρ ἔc c’ ἴδω βρόχε’ ὤc με φώναι

c’ οὐδ’ ἒν ἔτ’ εἴκει,

ἀλλὰ κὰμ μὲν γλῶccα ἔαγε λέπτον

δ’ αὔτικα χρῶι πῦρ ὐπαδεδρόμηκεν,

ὀππάτεccι δ’ οὐδ’ ἒν ὄρημμ’, ἐπιρρόμ

βειcι δ’ ἄκουαι,

κάδ δέ μ’ ἴδρωc κακχέεται τρόμοc δὲ

παῖcαν ἄγρει, χλωροτέρα δὲ ποίαc

ἔμμι, τεθνάκην δ’ ὀλίγω ’πιδεύηc

φαίνομ’ ἔμ’ αὔται.

ἀλλὰ πὰν τόλματον, ἐπεὶ καὶ πένητα

7 by Susana Thenon

"I am stretching language, breaking it, pushing to the limit all the possibilities that Spanish can offer me, even with incompatibilities.” 

Love

If I hated you

The world would not bend:

Never does the world make sane

The ones who hate.

My preference is to love you

And all catastrophizes around us:

The voices, the hands, the faces,

They all want to stone us.

Search

I caress my instinct

Embargo it

With the other dogs

I dwell

I savor the mortal

On the point of a pool noodle

Leftovers

Soon

In all you encounter

A reason more powerful

And you silent submit

Pared of a rising smile.

Your balance is rebellious,

Your being

Human,

The taste of death

Fills you

Like a city you recently left.

Resident of the Abyss

(She touched her the mans)

In the witching moon, barely.

Remembered nothing mattered

Although her shadow still races

The perimeters of night.

(...)

She tied the ache of being suffocated

To her throat and recalled

How she went to the errant hue,

Nibbling without eyes in night shades and

Heard silence purr

And the odor of time that came with her tide.

Night.

(She cut her the mans).

Unrelenting Age

Why must it never be

Our hands

That can rise, that can voice

The wound, at the stargate of thunder?

The Impossible Dwelling

Firmament of mine.

I sleep in your silence as inside a tree.

Soft salt, I will love you without end.

In yonic flower and unknown name.

Distances VII

This is the place.

There's no way out.

The air is a wall of mirrors

And the voice is detained

Before birth.

Hold the fire to your breast

Lest the cold

Be the key legatee.

The bridge is of threads

Across the abyss to the nameless:

Cross but don't look

Keep the center unvoiced 

So the eye of the void

Cannot learn your song.

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"Yo estoy estirando el lenguaje, rompiéndolo, llevando al máximo todas las posibilidades que puede ofrecerme el español aún con incoherencias"

20-II-58
(uncollected at death)

Si te odiara,

el mundo no se inmutaría:

nunca el mundo se ensaña

con los que odian.

En cambio te amo

y todo es catástrofe alrededor:

las voces, las manos, los rostros,

todos quieren apedrearnos.

12-VI-57

(uncollected at death)

Me acaricio el instinto

y lo largo

junto a los otros perros.

Me duelo,

pruebo la muerte

con la punta del miedo.

12-VII-57

(uncollected at death)

De pronto,

en todo encuentras

una razón más poderosa

y te sometes en silencio

pero sin sonrisa.

Pierdes tu rebelde equilibrio de

ser

humano

y un gusto a cosa muerta

te puebla,

como una ciudad recientemente abandonada.

Habitante de la nada

(From "Habitante de la nada", 1959)

(ella se tocó las manos).

En la madrugada, apenas.

Recordó que nada importa

aunque su sombra siga corriendo

alrededor de la noche.

(...)

Ató la angustia a su cuello

y recordó su color equivocado.

Mordió a ciegas en la sombra y

oyó gritar al silencio.

Y aprendió a reírse

del olor a tiempo que daba su sangre.

Noche.

(ella se cortó las manos).

Edad sin tregua

(From "Edad sin tregua", 1958)

¿Por qué no han de ser nunca nuestras manos

las que se alcen, las que proclamen la voz

del asco, el advenimiento del trueno?

La morada imposible

(From "La morada imposible", 1959)

fundamento mío.

yo duermo en tu silencio como en un árbol.

suave sal te amaré sin fin.

en tu florecer y en tu nombre.

Distancias VII

(From "Distancias", 1984)

He aquí el lugar.

No hay salida.

El aire es un muro de vidrio

y la voz se detiene

antes de ser.

Cuida el fuego,

no sea que el frío

herede la llave.

Hay un puente de hilos

sobre el abismo del nombre:

crúzalo sin mirar,

callando el centro,

para que el ojo del abismo

no aprenda tu canción.

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.

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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,

Weep of water,

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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​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.

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​

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.

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​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.

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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.

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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.

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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