Posted by matt on 30 April 2008

OISEAUX
l’exil s’en va ainsi dans la mangeoire des astres
potant de malhabiles grains aux oiseaux nés du temps
qui jamais ne s’endorment jamais
aux espaces fertiles des enfances remuées
—Aimé Césaire
BIRDS
exile thus goes into the feeder made of stars
bearing clumsy grains to the birds born of time
which never never fall asleep
in the fertile spaces of stirred up childhoods
Translation by Clayton Eshleman and Annette Smith
Photo credit: Morning star / Estrella de la mañana by victor nuno
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Posted by matt on 29 April 2008
Posted in C. P. Cavafy | 3 Comments »
Posted by matt on 28 April 2008
Posted in Emily Dickinson | 2 Comments »
Posted by matt on 27 April 2008

SONNET 34
Time flies by like a great whale
And I find my hand grows stale at the throttle
Of my many faceted and fake appearance
Who bucks and spouts by detour under the sheets
Hollow portals of solid appearance
Movies are poems, a holy bible, the great mother to us
People go by in the fragrant day
Accelerate softly my blood
But blood is still blood and tall as a mountain blood
Behind me green rubber grows, feet walk
In wet water, and dusty heads grow wide
Padré, Father, or fat old man, as you will,
I am afraid to succeed, afraid to fail,
Tell me now, again, who I am
–Ted Berrigan
Photo credit: perspective by mistress f
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Posted by matt on 26 April 2008

THE TALL FIGURES OF GIACOMETTI
We move by means of our mud bumps.
We bubble as do the dead but more slowly.
The products of excruciating purges
we are squeezed out thin hard and dry.
If we exude a stench it is petrified sainthood.
Our feet are large crude fused together
solid like anvils. Ugly as truth is ugly
we are meant to stand upright a long time
and shudder without motion
under the scintillating pins of light
that dart between our bodies
of pimpled mud and your eyes.
–May Swenson
Photo credit: Piazza (Alberto Giacometti) via Guggenheim Museum
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