Category: Poetry and Translation

Notte è morta – a reverse haiku

I’ve been awake for hours                            Per ore sono sveglia

Church bells are just now                                Campane solo ora

Shaking their mourning heads.                Lutto, scuotono teste.

International Poetry Month 2012: Time to submit!

INTERNATIONAL POETRY MONTH 2012 IS NOW OPEN FOR SUBMISSIONS from now until 31 January 2012. KEEP READING BELOW FOR THIS YEAR’S THEME AND HOW TO SUBMIT:

Vedi sotto per le linee guida per la presentazione in italiano (tutto in verde)

Voir ci-dessous pour les directives de soumission en français (toute en blu)

The theme  for IPM 2012 will be The Gesture:

political gestures, gestures of affection, heriditary gestures, cultural gestures, empty gestures’

corporeal gestures (body language), and gestures towards communication (the gesture of writing,  translation and reading).

Send submissions in any language (no more than 3 poems of any length) to:

bmcclellan.lapoeta@gmail.com

You will receive a receipt confirmation and a response within one week of your submission.

Poems will be published during February of 2012. For poems in other languages an English translation is welcome but not obligatory.

ITALIANO

INTERNAZIONALE MESE DELLA POESIA  2012 è ora aperto per contributi provenienti da ora fino al 31 gennaio 2012. Continua a leggere sotto per il tema di quest’anno e come inviare la vostra poesia:
Il tema di IPM 2012 sarà il Gesto:
gesti politici, i gesti di affetto, gesti ereditari, culturali gesti, gesti vuoti,
gesti corporei (linguaggio del corpo), e gesti verso la comunicazione (il gesto della scrittura, traduzione e lettura).

Inviare la poesia proposta (non più di 3 opere di qualsiasi lunghezza) al redazione a:

bmcclellan.lapoeta@gmail.com 

Riceverete una conferma di ricevuto e una risposta entro una settimana dalla vostra presentazione.

Le opere saranno pubblicate nel mese di febbraio (2012) come l’anno scorso, ma voglio avere la poesia in gennaio se possibile (in qualsiasi lingua – traduzione in inglese gradito ma non obbligatorio).

FRANÇAIS

INTERNATIONAL Mois de la poésie 2012 est maintenant ouvert pour les soumissions à partir de maintenant jusqu’au 31 Janvier 2012. Continuer la lecture ci-dessous pour le thème de cette année et la façon de présenter votre poème:

Le thème de l’IPM 2012 sera le geste:
gestes politiques, des gestes d’affection, de gestes héréditaires, les gestes culturels, les gestes vides,
gestes du corps (langage corporel), et des gestes vers la communication (le geste de l’écriture, la traduction et la lecture).

Envoyer une proposition de poésie (pas plus de 3 œuvres de n’importe quelle longueur) à la rédaction:

bmcclellan.lapoeta @ gmail.com

Vous recevrez une confirmation et reçu une réponse dans une semaine après votre présentation.

Les œuvres seront publiés en Février (2012) que l’année dernière,
mais je veux avoir la poésie en Janvier si possible (dans n’importe quelle langue – traduction anglaise bienvenue mais pas obligatoire).

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Regained: Still life with Romance (Natura Morta)

Still Life with Romance (Natura Morta)

For my sister Robin Glynn (1962-2006)

My world, if full – is full of sunlight and bees.
We both know that Courbet was a communard;
without looking down.
I hear the water in his painting singing below.

A plover calls.
The soft scent of not wisteria,
The Pollack swirls of dried grass,
Make no shape, no pattern.

Acquacheta / still water

Fat unthinking bees hover.
My sister says it must be a sweet life if I’m pissing on rose petals.

There is that air about it:

The Romance

Begun at 38 instead of 21 when one is meant to have the grand adventure;
At 21 when it is impossible to imagine how sharp pain will taste when you let it age.

And so it begins:

I was in love with a sculptor, born in Louisiana, who now lived

near the Adriatic coast. I came to live in the hills outside Florence

looking to find the shape of my soul and to unwind the threads of

our love…

How much of that is real and how much a hollow in the light?

Sitting on a bench in front of a small cabin that
I share with a bulb on a wire, a suitcase and a family of rats;
Drinking grappa, smoking Gauloises,
Watching the sun set over the Tuscan hills.

This is real
No more and no less real than
the romance
Driving from DeSoto to Irving, Texas.
Having de-composed my ordered, still life.

Cutting down through weak and inconsistent flesh,
To find the white, persistent honesty of bone.

Orpan Poems or Paradise Lost: X. Virgil/Vigil

Virgil / Vigil

Will you boldly walk with me the road our good intentions paved;
Or stand balking, faint
    with fear at that long path from there to here
Trusting my hand, like Virgil’s to lead you through the gates?

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: IX. Water from a Stone

I have pounded myself out

on the rock of this memory,

cracked open and drained out;

is there water left

in this stone?

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VIII. Enchanted Rock / The Ides of March

Enchanted Rock / The Ides of March

I will remember the branches and the light
filtering through the locust grove.
You will remember the emerald brilliance
of the grass.
We will remember together the unyielding line of granite
that still gives way over time:

the fine fullness of the moonlight across our whiteness
the vermilion flash of the cardinal
Cool air rolling lightly over and under everything like water
filling our mouths with flower petals
tasting of honey olive oil fresh bread

The sacrament of breath.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: VII. Tishomingo Granite

Tishomingo Granite

From the Quarry at Tishomingo
Comes this Pre-Cambrian intrusion
Begotten when the first rain dropped on boiling rock.
Only later to be named
With sounds recalling some child’s summer game.
These random elements, the stuff of stars
Cooled by Bowen’s ruled order (though he was not invented yet)
Pyroxene first, then salmon coloured plagioclase;
Last, cloudy silicate of common quartz
All this a billion years ago.
You know I loved you even then;
The day this rock was formed.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: V. Dream/Moted/Motet

DREAM / MOTED / MOTET

The air is saffron with moted dust.

We sit

(on a bale of used clothing

raised and round as a dais).

Joined at the hip,

Gemini’s twins

but with legs facing out, opposite,

mirror fashion.

Left arms crossed inwards,

left hands rest

lightly on the other’s right hip;

I can feel the familiar arc of it

humming through cotton and skin,

the current of relief

turns over the silent, glacial lake within.

We are thisclose

(heads bowed, our temples almost touch).

Your face broken into cubist planes by proximity

seeing the whole would mean

dividing a fraction.

 

From the corner of the room

she’s looking at me;

Madonna Dolorosa,

cheeks as pink as Fra Angelico’s

forbidden mistress.

Orphan Poetry or Paradise Lost: III. Eau de Vie/Spirits

Eau de Vie

J’aime bien cette image (ce tableau?)
d’un homme nu et beau
au bain chaud…ses mains, inoubliables
comme ses yeux – les deux,
plein de ma poésie…
C’est assez á dire qu’enfin
les pages ont perdu,
mouillé,
disparues.

Je viendrai et lui retrouverai
reconquérir le territoire
de chaque phrase,
chaque mot,
chaque virgule,
et chaque point.
Je suis sûr que leurs sont inscrits
à la surface de sa chair,
et mes mains, mes yeux, mes lèvres
retrouveront encore
chacun.

Spirits

It pleases me this image (this scene?)
of a man, bare, beautiful
in a steaming bath…his hands as unforgettable
as his eyes – both full
of my poetry…
Enough to say that in the end
the pages are lost
drenched,
dispersed.

I will come and find him again
reconquer the territory
of each sentence,
each word,
each comma,
and full-stop.

I’m sure they are inscribed
on the surface of his skin
and my eyes, my hands, my lips
will find again
each one.