Poem Poem
(circa 1185) I love the jubilance of springtime When leaves and flowers burgeon forth, And I exult in the mirth of bird songs Resounding through the woods; And I relish seeing the meadows Adorned with tents and pavilions; And great is my happiness When the fields are packed With armored knights and horses. And I thrill at the sight of scouts Forcing men and women to flee with their belongings; And gladness fills me when they are chased By a dense throng of armed men; And my heart soars When I behold mighty castles under siege As their ramparts crumble and collapse With troops massed at the edge of the moat And strong, solid barriers Hemming in the target on all sides. And I am likewise overjoyed When a baron leads the assault, Mounted on his horse, armed and unafraid, Thus giving strength to his men Through his courage and valor. And once the battle has begun Each of them should be prepared To follow him readily, For no man can be a man Until he has delivered and received Blow upon blow. In the thick of combat we will see Maces, swords, shields, and many-colored helmets Split and shattered, And hordes of vassals striking in all directions As the horses of the dead and wounded Wander aimlessly around the field. And once the fighting starts Let every well-born man think only of breaking Heads and arms, for better to be dead Than alive and defeated. I tell you that eating, drinking, and sleeping Give me less pleasure than hearing the shout Of "Charge!" from both sides, and hearing Cries of "Help! Help!," and seeing The great and the ungreat fall together On the grass and in the ditches, and seeing Corpses with the tips of broken, streamered lances Jutting from their sides. Barons, better to pawn Your castles, towns, and cities Than to give up making war. (Translated from the Provençal by Paul Auster)
Feb 18, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Bertran de Born
Three Poems Three Poems
These three poems from Blackbird and Wolf are published with permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Homosexuality First I saw the round bill, like a bud; then the sooty crested head, with avernal eyes flickering, distressed, then the peculiar long neck wrapping and unwrapping itself, like pity or love, when I removed the stovepipe cover of the bedroom chimney to free what was there and a duck crashed into the room (I am here in this fallen state), hitting her face, bending her throat back (my love, my inborn turbid wanting, at large all night), backing away, gnawing at her own wing linings (the poison of my life, the beast, the wolf), leaping out the window, which I held open (now clear, sane, serene), before climbing back naked into bed with you. Poppies Waking from comalike sleep, I saw the poppies, with their limp necks and unregimented beauty. Pause, I thought, say something true: It was night, I wanted to kiss your lips, which remained supple, but all the water in them had been replaced with embalming compound. So I was angry. I loved the poppies, with their wide-open faces, how they carried themselves, beckoning to me instead of pushing away. The way in and the way out are the same, essentially: emotions disrupting thought, proximity to God, the pain of separation. I loved the poppies, with their effortless existence, like grief and fate, but tempered and formalized. Your hair was black and curly; I combed it. Beach Walk I found a baby shark on the beach. Seagulls had eaten his eyes. His throat was bleeding. Lying on shell and sand, he looked smaller than he was. The ocean had scraped his insides clean. When I poked his stomach, darkness rose up in him, like black water. Later, I saw a boy, aroused and elated, beckoning from a dune. Like me, he was alone. Something tumbled between us-- not quite emotion. I could see the pink interior flesh of his eyes. "I got lost. Where am I?" he asked, like a debt owed to death. I was pressing my face to its spear-hafts. We fall, we fell, we are falling. Nothing mitigates it. The dark embryo bares its teeth and we move on.
Feb 12, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Henri Cole
Dust in a Word Dust in a Word
We go in and out of doors that's who we are next question? What rules? I never understood just what or what not The plan is the mind whose hand how far And so more than you know than you'll ever
Feb 4, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Clark Coolidge
Clair de Lune Clair de Lune
We revolt ourselves; we disgust and annoy us. The way we look at us lately chills us to the core. We become like those who seek to destroy us. We push ourselves into small tasks that employ us unrewardingly on purpose. We tire, we bore. We revolt ourselves; we disgust and annoy us. We rent ourselves to what force will enjoy us into oblivion: wind, drink, sleep. We pimp, we whore. We become like those who seek to destroy us. We cat-and-mouse, roughhouse, inflatable-toy us in our heads' red maze, in its den, on its shore. We revolt ourselves; we disgust and annoy us. We take offense at our being; we plot, we deploy us against us and flummox; we wallow, we war. We become like those who seek to destroy us. If in triumph, our defeat; in torture, our joy is. Some confusion so deep I can't fathom anymore. We appall ourselves; we disgust and annoy us into those we become we who seek to destroy us.
Jan 21, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Timothy Donnelly
Black Sun Black Sun
Inferno happened when Dante explained to us how he functions sexually. Before then, it did not exist. And Petrarch. Who like a green dog on four wet, dark-green legs sniffs Vaucluse and touches his clothes. He thinks about the books his father burnt, not about Laura. It has to do with the race. Who is faster. God with his sand or we with our tongue. Sand is the tongue of fire. Tongue is the fire of sand. Fire is the sand of God. I'm falling. I fall like an oak doomed to die, and also women want to be more than metaphor. With their moist, round, soft skin, with their drunken scent of warm mushrooms they drive me insane. Walls of hell, why do you stagger. I miss the smell of burnt flesh. Nature makes me tired. It tires me so terribly that I sink in a cave. Stars move apart. I am the Sun. With no air. Fake fire falls upon the children's black hair, advancing into their hearts so they burst like buckles. Their mouths yawn open as if they were mummies. They rave in benediction, they gargle my name as I get dressed. When I adjust my collar in front of him--the mirror-- everything is already late. (Translated from the Slovenian by Peter Richards and Ana Jelnikar)
Jan 14, 2009 / Books & the Arts / Tomaž Šalamun
Caveat Caveat
There's a caveat on the living trees, but don't chop up the dead wood: especially not the trunks stretched hollow, homes of snakes and echidnas. When it rains hard they drum a bold message, and when the wind stirs through these sacred woodlands they pipe like great church organs. That's your patois. Understand. Understand.
Jan 7, 2009 / Books & the Arts / John Kinsella
Answer Answer
a moment of stillness, demanding an answer. When does a moment end? * Starbucks prayer, "Make morning good again." * Leaf shadows on pavement: word meaning to slide carelessly, repeatedly, to absentmindedly caress. * For I so loved the world that I set up my only son to be arrested.
Dec 17, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Rae Armantrout
Poem Including History Poem Including History
A curb the color of nausea. Parking lot gravel splintered with glass, dog shit, receipts. Storage sheds--a row of lamp-lit doors deepening as dusk thickens. Now, night, they're all that's left and traffic's excuse for music moving through the room.
Dec 10, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Massey
Unconditional Love Song Unconditional Love Song
Later she would remember it started to pour the storm blew everything out before the coffee finished its brew and she could finish reading a report on some boys holed up in a derelict house after stoning a swan to death she wrapped her head in a towel and sat down by the open window even though the sound of the river was not there the memory of the sound was even though her husband did not appear in the door talking to her about the day ahead the day ahead was there
Nov 25, 2008 / Books & the Arts / C.D. Wright
Poorly Grounded Notions Poorly Grounded Notions
And an inability to comprehend the flow of time. We need only think of statements by everybody. I cannot call my- self myself. Up to this point, the dreamer is dreaming, but now his dream begins. Unities of recollection, separate from one another. Thus in this present world, there are different injuries. I never hear them. They come uninvited. Silver tissue. Garlands between them. Any activity may produce music. Aware of their existence as an awareness of losing their sense of ex- istence: vague, general, nameless, like a nothing or the absolute. I am dead. I am not alive, a music of exceeding shrillness. May be pleasantly illustrated in the following way. Light on his head. Felicitous, contains some fabrication. I am forced to shout out, trace failure to the stage when plans are construed. I see a table before me. I am reminded of another table. I place table beside table. Separate worlds. In what sense are we talking?
Nov 19, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Keith Waldrop