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Poetry

December 8 – Sonnet XLV (I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair) by Pablo Neruda

Don’t go far off, not even for a day
Don’t go far off, not even for a day,
Because I don’t know how to say it – a day is long
And I will be waiting for you, as in
An empty station when the trains are
Parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because then
The little drops of anguish will all run together,
The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
Into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve
On the beach, may your eyelids never flutter
Into the empty distance. Don’t LEAVE me for
A second, my dearest, because in that moment you’ll
Have gone so far I’ll wander mazily
Over all the earth, asking, will you
Come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Translation unattributed

No estés lejos de mí­ un solo dí­a, porque cómo,
porque, no sé decirlo, es largo el dí­a,
y te estaré esperando como en las estaciones
cuando en alguna parte se durmieron los trenes.

No te vayas por una hora porque entonces
en esa hora se juntan las gotas del desvelo
y tal vez todo el humo que anda buscando casa
venga a matar aíºn mi corazón perdido.

Ay que no se quebrante tu silueta en la arena,
ay que no vuelen tus párpados en la ausencia:
no te vayas por un minuto, bienamada,

porque en ese minuto te habrás ido tan lejos
que yo cruzaré toda la tierra preguntando
si volverás o si me dejarás muriendo.

Poetry,

December 7 – Pearl Harbor’s Child by Linda Brown

I was born a week after Pearl Harbor
into a crib with an air raid siren.
It wailed nightly from the elm outside
until I went rigid as a hypnotist’s steel board,
too scared–even in my mother’s arms–to cry.

We moved cross-country when I was two
so my father could build the air strip
at Whidbey Island. There I was jumped on
by Zombie Doggy, a big red Irish setter
who loved me so much he knocked me down.
When they practiced firing on the artillery range,
Mother had to drive me to the other side of the island
because I screamed & cried and cried.

There are two things infants are afraid of:
falling and loud noises. This was my baptism
into touch and sound–being knocked flat
on my back by a dog licking my face,
the rage of artillery shells and sirens.

So much fear. What to do for it
but become a poet? Still afraid
of being knocked on my ass by love,
still living in a world at war.

Found at Poets Against War.

Poetry

December 6 – Who is a Poet by Tadeusz Różewicz

a poet is one who writes verses
and one who does not write verses
a poet is one who throws off fetters
and one who puts fetters on himself

a poet is one who believes
and one who cannot bring himself to believe

a poet is one who has told lies
and one who has been told lies

one who has been inclined to fall
and one who raises himself

a poet is one who tries to leave
and one who cannot leave

Translated by Magnus Krynski and Robert Maguire

poetą jest ten który pisze wiersze
i ten który wierszy nie pisze

poetą jest ten który zrzuca więzy
i ten który więzy sobie nakłada

poetą jest ten który wierzy
i ten który uwierzyć nie może

poetą jest ten który kłamał
i ten którego okłamano

poetą jest ten co ma usta
i ten który połyka prawdę

ten który upadał
i ten który się podnosi

poetą jest ten który odchodzi
i ten który odejść nie może

Poetry

December 5 – Reply to the Question: “How can You Become a Poet?” by Eve Merriam

take the leaf of a tree
trace its exact shape
the outside edges
and inner lines

memorize the way it is fastened to the twig
(and how the twig arches from the branch)
how it springs forth in April
how it is panoplied in July

by late August
crumple it in your hand
so that you smell its end-of-summer sadness

chew its woody stem

listen to its autumn rattle

watch it as it atomizes in the November air

then in winter
when there is no leaf left

                    invent one

Poetry

December 4 – Thumbprint by Eve Merriam

On the pad of my thumb
are whorls. whirls, wheels
in a unique design:
mine alone.
What a treasure to own!
My own flesh, my own feelings.
No other, how ever grand or base,
can ever contain the same.
My signature,
thumbing the pages of my time.
My universe key,
my singularity.
Impress, implant,
I am my self
of all my atom parts I am the sum.
And out of my blood and my brain
I make my interior weather,
my own sun and rain.
Imprint my mark upon the world
what ever I shall become.

Poetry

December 3 – Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

I’ve studied now Philosophy
And Jurisprudence, Medicine,–
And even, alas! Theology,–
From end to end, with labor keen;
And here, poor fool! with all my lore
I stand, no wiser than before:
I’m Magister–yea, Doctor–hight,
And straight or cross-wise, wrong or right,
These ten years long, with many woes,
I’ve led my scholars by the nose,–
And see, that nothing can be known!

English translation by Bayard Taylor

“Ach, oto wszystkie fakultety
Przebyłem:; filozofię, prawo
I medycynę – i niestety
Też teologię pracą krwawą!
A tyle przyniósł mi ten trud,
Żem jest tak mądry, jak i wprzód!
Zwę się magistrem i doktorem też,
I już lat dziesięć wzdłuż i wszerz,
W górę i na dół, wspak i wskos
Prowadzę uczniów swych za nos –
I wiem, że człowiek nic wiedzieć nie może.”

Translation to Polish unattributed

Habe nun, ach! Philosophie,
Juristerei und Medizin,
Und leider auch Theologie
Durchaus studiert, mit heißem Bemí¼hn.
Da steh ich nun, ich armer Tor!
Und bin so klug als wie zuvor;
Heiße Magister, heiße Doktor gar
Und ziehe schon an die zehen Jahr
Herauf, herab und quer und krumm
Meine Schí¼ler an der Nase herum —“
Und sehe, daß wir nichts wissen kí¶nnen!

Poetry

December 2 – Guardian Angel by Rolf Jacobsen

I am the bird that flutters against your window in the morning,
and your closest friend, whom you can never know,
blossoms that light up for the blind.

I am the glacier shining over the woods, so pale,
and heavy voices from the cathedral tower.
The thought that suddenly hits you in the middle of the day
and makes you feel so fantastically happy.

I am the one you have loved for many years.
I walk beside you all day and look intently at you
and put my mouth against your heart
though you’re not aware of it.

I am your third arm, your second
shadow, the white one,
whom you cannot accept,
and who can never forget you.

Translated by Robert Bly

Jeg er fuglen som banker pí¥ vinduet til dig om morgenen
og fí¸lgesvennen din, han du ikke kan vite,
blomstene som lyser for den blinde.

Jeg er brekronen over skogene, den blendende
og malmstemmene fra katedralenes tí¥rn,
tanken som plutselig faller ned over dig midt pí¥ dagen
Og fyller dig med en besynderlig lykke.

Jeg er en du har elsket for lenge siden.
Jeg gí¥r ved siden av dig om dagen og ser ufravendt pí¥ dig
og legger munnen pí¥ hjertet ditt,
men du vet det ikke.

Jeg er den tredje armen din og den andre
skyggen din, den hvite,
som du ikke har hjerte til
og som ikke kan glemme dig mere.

Poetry

December 1 – A Song For Bacchus by Lorenzo De Medici

How beautiful our Youth is
That’s always flying by us!
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

Here are Bacchus, Ariadne,
Lovely, burning for each other:
Since deceiving time must flee,
They seek their delight together.
These nymphs, and other races,
Are full of happiness forever.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

These delighted little satyrs
With their nymphs intoxicated,
Set a hundred snares now for them,
In the caves and in the bushes:
Warmed by Bacchus, all together
Dancing, leaping there forever,
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

All the nymphs are more than happy
To be tricked by their satyrs,
There’s no defence from loving
Except for coarse ungrateful people:
Now they’re mingling together,
Playing, singing there forever.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

And that lump behind them, now
On the ass, is old Silenus:
Happy and inebriated,
Full of food and years already:
Though he can’t stand to attention,
He still laughs with joy forever.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

Midas follows all the others:
Turns to gold the things he touches.
Where’s the joy in owning treasure,
If it doesn’t give you pleasure?
And where’s the sweet taste for a man
Who only feels his thirst forever?
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

Ope’ your ears wide, everyone:
Let none dine on their tomorrows:
Old and young ones, all at play,
Girls and boys, be glad today,
Banish every tearful sorrow,
Make each day a holiday.
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

Ladies and you youthful lovers,
Long live Bacchus: long live Love!
Everyone sing, dance and play!
Hearts, be all on fire with sweetness!
No faintness now or hint of sadness!
Whatever is to be must be:
Who’d be happy, let him be so:
Nothing’s sure about tomorrow.

Translated by A. S. Kline

Quant’è bella giovinezza,
che si fugge tuttavia!
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Quest’è Bacco e Arianna,
belli, e l’un dell’altro ardenti:
perché ‘l tempo fugge e inganna,
sempre insieme stan contenti.
Queste ninfe ed altre genti
sono allegre tuttavia.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’e certezza.

Questi lieti satiretti,
delle ninfe innamorati,
per caverne e per boschetti
han lor posto cento agguati;
or da Bacco riscaldati,
ballon, salton tuttavia.
Chi vuol esser lieto sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Queste ninfe anche hanno caro
da lor essere ingannate:
non puon fare a Amor riparo,
se non genti rozze e ingrate:
ora insieme mescolate
suonon, canton tuttavia.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Questa soma, che vien drieto
sopra l’asino, è Sileno:
cosí¬ vecchio è ebbro e lieto,
gií  di carne e d’anni pieno;
se non può star ritto, almeno
ride e gode tuttavia.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Mida vien drieto a costoro:
ciò che tocca, oro diventa.
E che giova aver tesoro,
s’altri poi non si contenta?
Che dolcezza vuoi che senta
chi ha sete tuttavia?
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Ciascun apra ben gli orecchi,
di doman nessun si paschi;
oggi siam, giovani e vecchi,
lieti ognun, femmine e maschi;
ogni tristo pensier caschi:
facciam festa tuttavia.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Donne e gioví¬netti amanti,
viva Bacco e viva Amore!
Ciascun suoni, balli e canti!
Arda di dolcezza il core!
Non fatica, non dolore!
Ciò c’ha a esser, convien sia.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.

Poetry

November 30 – Erotica is like a coin by Mirosław Kościeński

the erotica coin has two sides
its heads is more worn out and sweaty
pornography with its faked resentment
and aversion
we can change the erotica coin
and spend it for example on whores from time to time
we need to try the taste of the forbidden fruit
of breasts still exciting at a first quality price
or we can deposit it in the bank of hearts
for better times or to buy for it a ticket
to a special theatre to see a forbidden movie
during which you may discover that the person
closest to you is its star
notice that life is an all deciding coin
it has two sides the left and right the darker
and the whiter heads and tails
but don’t delude yourself the opposite of pornography is love
the erotica is a coin like your life and everything
depends on what side it lands into
a mud

Translated by Andrzej Osóbka

moneta erotyka ma dwie strony
bardziej wytartą i spoconą jest jej awers
– pornografia stąd tyle fałszywego oburzenia
i awersji
monetę erotyku możemy rozmienić na drobne
i wydać np. na kurwy bo od czasu do czasu
trzeba zakosztować przysłowiowych zakazanych owoców
wciąż podniecających piersi w cenie I gat.
możemy też zdeponować ją w banku serca
na lepsze czasy lub kupić za nią bilet do
specjalnego kina na zakazany film
gdzie ze zdumieniem odkryjesz że główną rolę
gra bliska ci osoba
zauważ życie jest też monetą a wszystko
ma stronę prawą i lewą ciemniejszą
i bielszą awers i rewers
lecz nie łudź się że odwrotnością pornografii jest miłość
ten erotyk jest monetą jak twoje życie wszystko
zależy od tego która strona upadnie
w błoto

Poetry

November 29 – The Grave of Countess Potocka from the Crimean Sonnets by Adam Mickiewicz

In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,
You faded and forgot the joy of youth;
Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth
Of bitter memory that stings and glows.
O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows,
How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth,
When she who loved you and lent you her youth
Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?

Alone, My Polish Rose, I die, like you.
Beside your grave a while pray let me rest
With other wanderers at some grief’s behest.
The tongue of Poland by your grave rings true.
High-hearted, now a young boy past it goes,
Of you it is he sings, My Polish Rose.

Translated by Edna Worthley Underwood

W kraju wiosny pomiędzy rozkosznemi sady
Uwiędłaś młoda różo! bo przeszłości chwile,
Ulatując od ciebie jak złote motyle,
Rzuciły w głębi serca pamiątek owady.

Tam na północ ku Polsce świécą gwiazd gromady,
Dlaczegoż na téj drodze błyszczy się ich tyle?
Czy wzrok twój ognia pełen nim zgasnął w mogile,
Tam wiecznie lecąc jasne powypalał ślady?

Polko, i ja dni skończę w samotnéj żałobie;
Tu niech mi garstkę ziemi dłoń przyjazna rzuci.
Podróżni często przy twym rozmawiają grobie,

I mnie wtenczas dźwięk mowy rodzinnéj ocuci;
I wieszcz samotną piosnkę dumając o tobie,
Ujrzy bliską mogiłę, i dla mnie zanuci.

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