Posted in BOOKS

I Live, I Die, I Burn, I Drown by Delmira Agustini

I live, I die, I burn, I drown

I endure at once chill and cold

Life is at once too soft and too hard

I have sore troubles mingled with joys

Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry

And in pleasure many a grief endure

My happiness wanes and yet it lasts unchanged

All at once I dry up and grow green

Thus I suffer love’s inconstancies

And when I think the pain is most intense

Without thinking, it is gone again.

Then when I feel my joys certain

And my hour of greatest delight arrived

I find my pain beginning all over once again.

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

Dawning by Yahia Lababidi

There are hours when every thing creaks

when chairs stretch their arms, tables their legs

and closets crack their backs, incautiously

Fed up with the polite fantasy 

of having to stay in one place

and stick to their stations

Humans too, at work, or in love

know such aches and growing pains

when inner furnishings defiantly shift

As decisively, and imperceptibly, as a continent

some thing will stretch, croak or come undone

so that everything else must be reconsidered

One restless dawn, unable to suppress the itch

of wanderlust, with a heavy door left ajar 

semi-deliberately, and a new light teasing in

Some piece of immobility will finally quit 

suddenly nimble on wooden limbs

as fast as a horse, fleeing the stable.

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

Black Stone on Top of a White Stone by Cesar Vallejo

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm,

On a day I already remember.

I shall die in Paris– it does not bother me–

Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn.
It shall be a Thursday, because today, Thursday

As I put down these lines, I have set my shoulders

To the evil. Never like today have I turned,

And headed my whole journey to the ways where I am alone.
C├ęsar Vallejo is dead. They struck him,

All of them, though he did nothing to them,

They hit him hard with a stick and hard also

With the end of a rope. Witnesses are: the Thursdays,

The shoulder bones, the loneliness, the rain, and the roads…

Posted in BOOKS

Ballad of the Moon by Federico Garcia Lorca

The moon came into the forge

in her bustle of flowering nard.

The little boy stares at her, stares.

The boy is staring hard.

In the shaken air

the moon moves her amrs,

and shows lubricious and pure,

her breasts of hard tin.

“Moon, moon, moon, run!

If the gypsies come,

they will use your heart

to make white necklaces and rings.”

“Let me dance, my little one.

When the gypsies come,

they’ll find you on the anvil

with your lively eyes closed tight.

“Moon, moon, moon, run!

I can feelheir horses come.”

“Let me be, my little one,

don’t step on me, all starched and white!”
Closer comes the the horseman,

drumming on the plain.

The boy is in the forge;

his eyes are closed.

Through the olive grove

come the gypsies, dream and bronze,

their heads held high,

their hooded eyes.
Oh, how the night owl calls,

calling, calling from its tree!

The moon is climbing through the sky

with the child by the hand.
They are crying in the forge,

all the gypsies, shouting, crying.

The air is veiwing all, views all.

The air is at the viewing.