Without and with inward crashing, toast me to the devil’s mattbone, I salute sweltering sun, always brining away at me to rise up this courage, make life what in tricky tree truth it is/never has been/always could be...ah, if we were starving I’d feed you blood from my wrists, let you drink in my life, as you, lost in worldstance and genuflect confusion, your communion makes me radiant, grow in fire, emerge from that old convict feeling and tremble forward, head hitting floor a tumble thousand times till I have that mark of humble devotion (an ideal),,,but, ah, I’m lazy and I have no children yet, and my wrists are brimming with blood, as I am definitively not starving and I work no fields and my fight for justice right now seems to take place only on my inside, and rating sunsets doesn’t get a guy to heaven, though ratifying them...no robots to simplify battles, drones from on high coming in to blast me as I dodge sideways, thisaway/thataway, hurl my last fuel-filled dynowhateverpod at encroaching robot star-invasion ships, thus saving all from sure destruction...but it didn’t happen, I was home writing, and someone else nabbed glory, and me, me was merely winking at them starships, thinking what kind of poems they must be writing, with all that time to cross the galaxy, damn...
A lo mejor, soy otro; andando, al alba, otro que marcha en torno a un disco largo, a un disco elástico: mortal, figurativo, audaz diafragma. A lo mejor, recuerdo al esperar, anoto mármoles donde índice escarlata, y donde catre de bronce, un zorro ausente, espúreo, enojadísimo. A lo mejor, hombre al fin, las espaldas ungidas de añil misericordia, a lo mejor, me digo, más allá no hay nada.
Me da la mar el disco, refiriéndolo, con cierto margen seco, a mi garganta; ¡nada en verdad, más ácido, más dulce, más kanteano!
Pero sudor ajeno, pero suero o tempestad de mansedumbre, decayendo o subiendo, ¡eso, jamás!
Echado, fino, exhúmome, tumefacta la mezcla en que entro a golpes, sin piernas, sin adulto barro, ni armas, una aguja prendida en el gran átomo... ¡No! ¡Nunca! ¡Nunca ayer! ¡Nunca después!
Y de ahí este tubérculo satánico, esta muela moral de plesiosaurio y estas sospechas póstumas, este índice, esta cama, estos boletos.
Bella, como en la piedra fresca del manantial, el agua abre un ancho relámpago de espuma, así es la sonrisa en tu rostro, bella.
Bella, de finas manos y delgados pies como un caballito de plata, andando, flor del mundo, así te veo, bella.
Bella, con un nido de cobre enmarañado en tu cabeza, un nido color de miel sombría donde mi corazón arde y reposa, bella.
Bella, no te caben los ojos en la cara, no te caben los ojos en la tierra. Hay países, hay ríos, en tus ojos, mi patria está en tus ojos, yo camino por ellos, ellos dan luz al mundo por donde yo camino, bella.
Bella, tus senos son como dos panes hechos de tierra cereal y luna de oro, bella.
Bella, tu cintura la hizo mi brazo como un río cuando pasó mil años por tu dulce cuerpo, bella.
Bella, no hay nada como tus caderas, tal vez la tierra tiene en algún sitio oculto la curva y el aroma de tu cuerpo, tal vez en algún sitio, bella.
Bella, mi bella, tu voz, tu piel, tus uñas, bella, mi bella, tu ser, tu luz, tu sombra, bella, todo eso es mío, bella, todo eso es mío, mía, cuando andas o reposas, cuando cantas o duermes, cuando sufres o sueñas, siempre, cuando estás cerca o lejos, siempre, eres mía, mi bella, siempre.
He brushed away the thunder, then the clouds, Then the colossal illusion of heaven. Yet still The sky was blue. He wanted imperceptible air. He wanted to see. He wanted the eye to see And not be touched by blue. He wanted to know, A naked man who regarded himself in the glass Of air, who looked for the world beneath the blue, Without blue, without any turqouise hint or phase, Any azure under-side or after-color. Nabob Of bones, he rejected, he denied, to arrive At the neutral center, the omnious element, The single colored, colorless, primitive.
It was not as if the truth lay where he thought, Like a phantom, in an uncreated night. It was easier to think it lay there. If It was nowhere else, it was there and because It was nowhere else, its place had to be supposed, Itself had to be supposed, a thing supposed In a place supposed, a thing he reached In a place that he reached, by rejecting what he saw And denying what he heard. He would arrive. He had only not to live, to walk in the dark, To be projected by one void into Another.
It was his nature to suppose To receive what others had supposed, without Accepting. He received what he denied. But as truth to be accepted, he supposed A truth beyond all truths.
He never supposed That he might be truth, himself, or part of it, That the things that he rejected might be part And the irregular turquoise part, the perceptible blue Grown dense, part, the eye so touched, so played Upon by clouds, the ear so magnified By thunder, parts, and all these things together, Parts, and more things, parts. He never supposed divine Things might not look divine, nor that if nothing Was divine then all things were, the world itself, And that if nothing was the the truth, then all Things were the truth, the world itself was the truth.
Had he been better able to suppose: He might sit on a sofa on a balcony Above the Mediterranean, emerald Becoming emeralds. He might watch the palms Flap green ears in the heat. He might observe A yellow wine and follow a steamer's track And say, "The thing I hum appears to be The rhythm of this celestrial pantomime"
"...like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep."
Prospero, from Shakespeare's The Tempest (Act 4, Scene 1, lines 140-48)
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of -- Wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew. And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John Gillespie McGee, Jr. (1922 - 1941) was an American/British fighter pilot. He flew with the Royal Canadian Air Force in World War II, came to Britain, flew in a Spitfire squadron, and was killed at age 19 on December 11, 1941, during a training flight from the airfield near Scopwick, Lincolnshire. The poem was written on the back of a letter to his parents which stated, "I am enclosing a verse I wrote the other day. It started at 30,000 feet, and was finished soon after I landed."
Yo, con mis ojos de puro otoño, Yo soy el código Que usa el mar Para hablar con la orilla. Y tú, con tus labios crecientes, Tú eres la gravitación Que usa la luna Para levantar lenguas Desde las olas... Desde mis olas que, Cuando pasas encima de mis crestas, Deleitan ahogar en tu pecho de puro cielo, En tus ojos de marga, primavera, Y lentejuelas celestes del polvo lunar.
Someone up in the wings Is calling for a story about the future, Which is simply someone else’s past. You can’t consider doing death Unless you consider doing it With fireworks and flame retardant suits. I’m whispering in everybody’s ear: Shining faces can’t win me back.
Flare guns in winter, And mind all over the skies.
I crank my hankering, tonk me toon, plunk past isthmus of fantasy disaster, turn all my keys, patience and collision with hearty earth, explosions of sun and mindless hole in my wild center, shot. I toss in pure gorgeous matte black of full space, ache in wild muscle-strain abandon and press mouth to dirt, fly fast-free in the world above the world. I once thought of a world beneath the world, made of thistles and bitter roots, cringing under frozen earth. Now I think of the world above the world, high-kicking all the rooms apart, flamenco-colored, spinning, spangles on wrists, bordered with love and faith and gem-studded lights. The world above the world is made of translucent pavement, amethyst, spiny shards of half-tilted trees, covered in ice and suns. The world above the world hovers over my head, a field of impossibly too-streaming flowers, with minarets! It hangs in the sky, looks down at me with a smile that stretches past all worlds, above and below and inside me, across wide swaths of silver river. I cry out(!) from pain of all this beauty, turning in a honey colored glow that comes out from in me. I maybe could be a solar system. I maybe could be a trillion voices, a quintillion arms to hold the world above, a duovigintillion hearts, each one bigger, by planet sizes, than the next, crashing into and through all the life. I’m emptying of fear. I’m not empty of longing, not yet. But the love that rains down on me from the world above the world is cleansing me of fear. Imagine that...me, a spinning celestial ting.
trans. by Ryūichi Abé and Peter Haskel in Great Fool.
Early spring The landscape is tinged with the first fresh hints of green Now I take my wooden begging bowl And wander carefree through town The moment the children see me They scamper off gleefully to bring their friends They're waiting for me at the temple gate Tugging from all sides so I can barely walk I leave my bowl on a white rock Hang my pilgrim's bag on a pine tree branch First we duel with blades of grass Then we play ball While I bounce the ball, they sing the song Then I sing the song and they bounce the ball Caught up in the excitement of the game We forget completely about the time Passersby turn and question me: "Why are you carrying on like this?" I just shake my head without answering Even if I were able to say something how could I explain? Do you really want to know the meaning of it all? This is it! This is it!
,,,knock goes the world, knock goes me in it, plunk goes you, halloo goes the trick, el radiant ludicrous truth, city of dreams all up in my sky, cloud of unknowing that takes me, spins me, shows me my hands, my human humming tree, thought buried under treasure of all running, we’re a never-wheeled wing in highlight orange marker across the land, I could sleep on stones with you, be the last man alive in the world, sing opera loud at my all-open lungs to empty windows, play golf in hospitals, swim in fountains, rob pens from banks, whisper my financial secrets to statues, rappel into prisons and let out all the ants, hold you with my just-strong/never-scary arms, repaint the continental divide, manifest the thinking thing while asking what thought is about, ask Shih Wu, dude, “Do those who look for mind with mind ever get a river to jump into twice?” “Nah, man,” says brother Marley, “we don’ need no more trouble,” then Bruce Lee leaps in, does a mean John Lennon impression, “peace to all the people,” sayeth the famous One Inch Puncher, he’s man incarnate, a model for making worlds work when we’re in them, I’m him, your Mister in the mystery world of feeling, I’m your date on the day the world marries itself, the moon has something to tell you if you listen loud enough, it hears, too, if you quiet your cortex and watch the way the stars reel their jig in your holy earth eyes, I am with you in noisy silence,,,
am i crazzy am i crashing am i wonderpuppy am i prayer in night in trembling night waiting for collapse and expand wound for all time in milk in sky open it wants to absorb everything there is no exception
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."