Autobiography – Michael Dumanis

Attempted avoiding abysses, assorted

abrasions and apertures, abscesses.

At adolescence, acted absurd: acid,

amphetamines. Amorously aching

after an arguably arbitrary Abigail,

authored an awful aubade.

Am always arabesquing after Abigails.

Am always afraid: an affliction?

Animals augur an avalanche. Animals

apprehend abattoirs. Am, as an animal,

anxious. Appendages always aflutter,

am an amazing accident: alive.

Attired as an apprentice aerialist,

addressed acrophobic audiences.

Aspiring, as an adult, after applause,

attracted an angelic acolyte.

After an affirming affair, an abortion.

After an asinine affair, Avowed Agnostic

approached, alone, an abbey’s altarpiece,

asking Alleged Almighty about afterlife.

Ambled, adagio, around an arena.

Admired an ancient aqueduct. Ate aspic.

Adored and ate assorted animals.

Ascended an alp. Affected an accent.

Acquired an accountant, an abacus, assets.

Attempted atonal arpeggios.

Fight Song – Deborah Garrison

Sometimes you have to say it:
Fuck them all.

Yes fuck them all-
the artsy posers,
the office blowhards
and brown-nosers;

Fuck the type who gets the job done
and the type who stands on principle;
the down to earth and the understated;

Project director?
Get a bullshit detector.

Client’s mum?
Up your bum.

You can’t be nice to everyone.

When your back is to the wall
When they don’t return your call
When you’re sick of saving face
When you’re screwed in any case

Fuck culture scanners, contest winners,
subtle thinkers and the hacks who offend them,
people who give catered dinners
and (saddest of sinners) the sheep who attend them-

which is to say fuck yourself
and the person you were: polite and mature,
a trooper for good. The beauty is
they’ll soon forget

And if they don’t
they probably should.

you extend a hand – Signe Gjessing

you extend a hand 
tentatively,
like water-resistant light

I wonder, quietly,
if it will hold us both
if, for example, we had to 
escape by sea

What Happens – Erich Fried

It has happened

and it happens now as before

and will continue to happen

if nothing is done against it.

The innocent don’t know a thing about it

because they are too innocent

and the guilty don’t know a thing about it

because they’re too guilty.

The poor don’t take notice

because they’re too poor

and the rich don’t take notice

because they’re too rich.

The stupid shrug their shoulders

because they’re too stupid

and the clever shrug their shoulders

because they’re too clever.

It doesn’t bother the young

because they’re too young

and it doesn’t both the old

because they’re too old.

That’s why nothing is done against it

and that’s why it happened

and happens now as before

and will continue to happen.

Bleeker Street – Robert Dimler

Have

you ev-

er needed

a pair of dimes

to place a call at

night? At 2 a.m.,

on Bleeker Street,

beneath a

broken

light?

Regardless, a Bat Mitzvah’d Woman Cannot Make Minion – Carlie Hoffman

What these girls did I could not: black tights

in June, knowing which spoon for goat's milk,

which for slow-cooked stew, pray from right

to left. Grace: the way they prayed

in long sleeves in sunlight, hair

like wet grass, clean palms warm and pale

as bread. I know now what I meant to ask:

Can I touch your hand, though what I did

was bite. There must be a word for the lack

of words for the things we have felt all

our lives, but couldn't name, a name

for the hymn that moves our blood,

old and dire, like the rain

that once shined each green blade

of that town, not each girl, but the grass

that blooms and blooms and blooms.

I Have No Use For Odic Legions – Anna Akhmatova

I have no use for odic legions,
Or for the charm of elegiac play
For me, all verse should be off kilter
Not the usual way.
If only you knew what trash gives rise
To verse, without a tinge of shame,
Like bright dandelions by a fence,
Like burdock and like cocklebur.
An angry shout, the bracing smell of tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall…
And out comes a poem, light-hearted, tender,
To your delight and mine.

My Last Duchess – ROBERT BROWNING

 

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—which I have not—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Poet's Tomb – Shuntaro Tanikawa

In a certain place there lived a young man

Who lived by writing poetry

He wrote a poem of celebration when someone got married

He wrote a poem to be carved on a tombstone when someone died

 

People offered many things to thank him

Some brought a basket full of eggs

Some sewed a shirt for him

Some just cleaned his room because they had nothing else to offer

 

He was happy for whatever was given to him

He thanked everyone just the same

An old woman for the gold ring she gave him

A little girl for the paper doll she made for him all by herself

 

He had a name but

People called him Poet.  They did not use his name

He seemed embarrassed at first but

He got used to it by and by

 

His fame reached far and orders came in from distant places

Cat lovers asked for poems on cats

Gluttons asked for poems on food

Lovers asked for poems on love

 

He did not decline any requests however hard they were

He would sit at this rickety old table

Stare into space for a little while

Then somehow came up with a poem

 

His poems were admired by everybody

Poems that make you cry out loud

Poems that make you laugh until your stock hurts

Poems that make you think long and hard

 

People asked him various questions

“How come you can write so well?”

“What should I study if I want to be a poet?”

“Where do you get such beautiful words?”

 

But he gave no answers.

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

All he could say was, “I don’t know either.”

People said he was a nice guy.

 

One day a young woman came to see him.

She had read his poems and wanted to meet him.

He fell in love with her at first sight

Effortlessly wrote a poem, and dedicated it to her.

 

When she read the poem she felt an emotion she could not describe.

She could not tell whether she was sad or happy

She felt like scratching out the stars in the night sky

She felt like going back to a time before she was born.

 

This is not a human feeling, she thought.

If this is not divine, this may be of the devil

He kissed her like a breeze

She was not certain if she was in love with him or his poetry.

 

From that day on she lived with him

When she made breakfast, he wrote a poem about breakfast

When she picked wild berries, he wrote a poem about wild berries

When she disrobed, he wrote a poem on her beauty

 

She was proud that he was a poet

She thought writing poetry was far more impressive

Than plowing the land, building machines,

Selling jewels, or being a king

 

But once in a while she felt lonely

When she broke a treasured plate

He did not get angry, but consoled her

She was glad, but felt something was missing

 

When she told him about the grandmother she left behind

Tears fell from his eyes

But next day he’d totally forgotten about it

She thought there was something odd about that

 

Yet she was happy

She wished to be with him for a long long time

As she told him so, he held her tight to his chest

His eyes were looking into space, not at her

He always wrote poetry alone

He had no friends

When he was not writing poetry

He looked utterly bored

 

He didn’t know the names of flowers, not a single one

Yet he wrote many a poem about flowers

He was given many flower seeds for thanks

She grew flowers in the yard

 

One evening she was sad though she didn’t know why

She clung to him and cried out loud

On the spot he wrote a poem praising tears welling up

She tore up the poem and threw it away

 

He looked sad

Looking at his face, crying even harder, she screamed

“Tell me something that is not a poem—

Anything will do, just say it to me!”

 

He stayed silent, looking down

“You have nothing to say, do you?

You are just hollow

All things simply pass through you”

 

“I live only now in this space,” he said

“I have no yesterday or tomorrow

I dream of a place void of everything

Because this world is too bountiful and too beautiful!”

 

She hit him with her fists

Many many times with all her might

Then his body grew limpid—

His heart, brain, bowels, all became invisible like air

 

Through him a town came into her view

She saw children playing hide and seek

She saw lovers in their firm embrace

She saw Mom stirring a cooking pot

 

A drunken official came into her view

She saw a carpenter sawing a piece of lumber

She saw an old man choking on his coughs

She saw a tombstone that seemed ready to fall apart

 

She came to and found herself standing all alone

By the tombstone

The blue sky was as vast as she had always seen it

Not a single word was carved on the tombstone

© Translation: 2011, Takako U. Lento