Poetry

[Marck]

Where Flesh Circulates

Its so hard to remember in the world – – Weren’t you there? Dead so you

think of ports – – Couldn’t reach flesh – – Might have to reach flesh from

anybody – –

And i will depart space-space under the Red Masters

for strange dawn words space-space of color space-space exalting their

falling on my face space-space impending attack space-space satellite in a

Gold and perfumes space-space of light space-space city red stone

shadows brick terminal time space-space wet dream flesh space-space creakily the

the last feeble faces space-space fountains play stale

spit from crumpled cloth space-space Weimar youths space-space on my face

bodies space-space where flesh circulates space-space Masters of color

exalting their dogs space-space impending attack of light

unaware of the vagrant space-space shadows on the Glass and Metal Streets

silver flying space-space scanning patterns space-space electric dogs

dark street life space-space “Here he is now” space-space staring out

from the dawn space-space he strode toward the flesh space-space jissom webs drifting

where identity space-space scarred metal faces space-space masturbating

“Who him?” space-space spitting blood laugh on the iron space-space afternoons

ejaculates wet dream flesh space-space in red brick Terminal Time

red nitrous fumes space-space under the orange gas flares

grey metal fall out space-space on terminal cities

to the shrinking sky space-space fading color space-space sewage delta

caught in this dead whistle stop space-space post card sky

dead rainbow flesh space-space and copper pagodas space-space flickered on the

in a city of red stone space-space black skin work fish smell and

dead eyes in doorways red water words space-space spitting blood laugh

sharp as water reeds space-space fish syllables

stirring this Moroccan sunlight space-space vagrant noon station

spent in the mirror space-space dawn jissom webs space-space drifting rainbow

speeded up from afternoon’s space-space slow ferris wheel space-space flesh.​

​

- William S. Burroughs​

 

[Marck]

The Jolly Miller

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, beside the river Dee;
He danced and sang from morn till night, no lark so blithe as he;
And this the burden of his song forever used to be:
- "I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for me.

"I live by my mill, God bless her! she's kindred, child, and wife;
I would not change my station for any other in life;
No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor e'er had a groat from me;
I care for nobody, no not I if nobody cares for me."

When spring begins his merry career, oh, how his heart grows gay;
No summer's drought alarms his fear, nor winter's cold decay;
No foresight mars the miller's joy, who's wont to sing and say,
"Let others toil from year to year, I live from day to day."

Thus, like the miller, bold and free, let us rejoice and sing;
The days of youth are made for glee, and time is on the wing;
This song shall pass from me to thee, along the jovial ring;
Let heart and voice and all agree to say, "Long live the king."

- Isaac Bickerstaffe, adapted from a traditional folksong

 

[Marck]

The Return

See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!
See, they return, one, and by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe,"
inviolable.
Gods of the wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!
Haie! Haie!
These were the swift to harry;
These the keen-scented;
These were the souls of blood.
Slow on the leash,
pallid the leash-men!

- Ezra Pound

 

[Marck]

Winter seclusion -
Listening, that evening,
To the rain in the mountain.

- Kobayashi Issa

 

[Marck]

We Have a Little Garden

We have a little garden,
A garden of our own,
And every day we water there
The seeds that we have sown.

We love our little garden,
And tend it with such care,
You will not find a faced leaf
Or blighted blossom there.

- Beatrix Potter

 

[Neno Baylov]

Longing for Death


Into the bosom of the earth,
Out of the Light's dominion,
Death's pains are but a bursting forth,
Sign of glad departure.
Swift in the narrow little boat,
Swift to the heavenly shore we float.

Blessed be the everlasting Night,
And blessed the endless slumber.
We are heated by the day too bright,
And withered up with care.
We're weary of a life abroad,
And we now want our Father's home.

What in this world should we all
Do with love and with faith?
That which is old is set aside,
And the new may perish also.
Alone he stands and sore downcast
Who loves with pious warmth the Past.

The Past where the light of the senses
In lofty flames did rise;
Where the Father's face and hand
All men did recognize;
And, with high sense, in simplicity
Many still fit the original pattern.

The Past wherein, still rich in bloom,
Man's strain did burgeon glorious,
And children, for the world to come,
Sought pain and death victorious,
And, through both life and pleasure spake,
Yet many a heart for love did break.

The Past, where to the flow of youth
God still showed himself,
And truly to an early death
Did commit his sweet life.
Fear and torture patiently he bore
So that he would be loved forever.

With anxious yearning now we see
That Past in darkness drenched,
With this world's water never we
Shall find our hot thirst quenched.
To our old home we have to go
That blessed time again to know.

What yet doth hinder our return
To loved ones long reposed?
Their grave limits our lives.
We are all sad and afraid.
We can search for nothing more --
The heart is full, the world is void.

Infinite and mysterious,
Thrills through us a sweet trembling --
As if from far there echoed thus
A sigh, our grief resembling.
Our loved ones yearn as well as we,
And sent to us this longing breeze.

Down to the sweet bride, and away
To the beloved Jesus.
Have courage, evening shades grow gray
To those who love and grieve.
A dream will dash our chains apart,
And lay us in the Father's lap.

Novalis

 

[Neno Baylov]

TO MY MOTHER​

Was it you, dear mother, keened so plaintively,

Cursed me for three long years

To wander a hapless vagabond,

To encounter what my soul despises?



Haven't I squandered father's savings

Wounding you deeply -

While my green youth, dear mother

Dries up and fades, sorely afflicted!



My good friends deem me happy

Because I laugh together with them.

They don't know how I rot inside -

How my youth has felt the frost's sting!



How could they know? I have no friend

To confide the secrets of my heart:

Whom I love - what I believe in -

My dreams and thoughts... my suffering.



Besides you there's no one, dear mother -

You are my love and my faith;

But I no longer hope to embrace you here,

My heart turns to ash!



I dreamed many a dream, dear mother -

We'd share happiness and glory together.

I had the strength - what didn't I desire?!

But for all my desires - a pit lay in wait.



One thing remained, poor one:

To fall into your dear embrace -

So this young heart, this suffering soul

Might seek your solace, poor wretch ...



Father and sister, and dear brothers

I want to embrace you without hard feelings,

Then let my veins turn cold -

Then let me rot in the grave!

Hristo Botev

 

[Neno Baylov]

HADZHI DIMITAR​

He's alive, he's alive! There on the Balkan Mountain

Drowning in his blood, groaning

A hero lies with a deep wound in his chest

A hero in his youth, in his prime.



His rifle's cast to one side

His broken sword the other;

His eyes dim - his head reels

As his mouth curses the universe!



The hero lies, while in the sky

The angry sun bakes down;

A harvest girl sings in far-off field

And his blood flows more quickly now!



It's harvest time ... so sing, you slave girls

Sing your sad songs! And you, sun -

Shine on that slavish land! This hero

Will perish too ... but be quiet, my heart!



He who falls in freedom's fight

Dies not - he's mourned

By earth and sky, Nature and beast,

And singers remember him in song...



By day a mother eagle lends him shade

And a wolf meekly licks his wound,

While on high a falcon - heroic bird -

Keeps watch over her brother hero!



Evening comes - the moon rises

Stars flood the vaulted sky;

The woods rustle, the wind blows -

The Balkan sings a hajdut song!



And wood nymphs in white array

Lovely, beautiful, take up the song -

Softly treading the verdant grass

'Til they reach the hero and sit down.



One binds his wound with herbs

Another splashes him with water

A third hastens to kiss his mouth

As he gazes at her - lovely, smiling.



"Tell me, sister, where is - Karadzha?

And where is my loyal band?

Tell me - then take my soul -

I want to die here, sister!"



They clap their hands, then embrace

And soar into the heavens, singing;

They fly and sing until the dawn

Seeking the spirit of Karadzha...



But it's already dawn! And on the Balkan

The hero lies, his blood flowing -

While the wolf licks his vicious wound,

And the sun bakes on ... and on!

Hristo Botev

 

[Marck]

Night

Night falls on the lone
Sahara, and spark by spark
Arabs I have not known
Light fires in the dark.

Of the specks of ash in the smoke,
Which atom knows
From what fire it awoke,
Or whither it goes?

In the wilds of Space, in the dark,
Spiral nebulae
Twirl spark upon spark,
Whereof one are we.

Who can say for what task
They arose, or whither they slip?
And all the Spirits I ask
Stand, finger on lip.

- Lord Dunsany

 

[Marck]

Death, Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

- John Donne

 

[Marck]

Ae Fond Kiss

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love forever.
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted—
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace. enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

- Robert Burns

 

[Marck]

Song of Autumn

I

Soon we shall plunge into the cold darkness;
Farewell, vivid brightness of our short-lived summers!
Already I hear the dismal sound of firewood
Falling with a clatter on the courtyard pavements.

All winter will possess my being: wrath,
Hate, horror, shivering, hard, forced labor,
And, like the sun in his polar Hades,
My heart will be no more than a frozen red block.

All atremble I listen to each falling log;
The building of a scaffold has no duller sound.
My spirit resembles the tower which crumbles
Under the tireless blows of the battering ram.

It seems to me, lulled by these monotonous shocks,
That somewhere they're nailing a coffin, in great haste.
For whom? — Yesterday was summer; here is autumn
That mysterious noise sounds like a departure.

II

I love the greenish light of your long eyes,
Sweet beauty, but today all to me is bitter;
Nothing, neither your love, your boudoir, nor your hearth
Is worth as much as the sunlight on the sea.

Yet, love me, tender heart! be a mother,
Even to an ingrate, even to a scapegrace;
Mistress or sister, be the fleeting sweetness
Of a gorgeous autumn or of a setting sun.

Short task! The tomb awaits; it is avid!
Ah! let me, with my head bowed on your knees,
Taste the sweet, yellow rays of the end of autumn,
While I mourn for the white, torrid summer!

- Charles Baudelaire
(translation by William Aggeler)

 

[Marck]

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

- Sylvia Plath

 

[Marck]

Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

- William Shakespeare

 

[Marck]

O Captain! my Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

- Walt Whitman