Poetry

December 9 – Notes on the Art of Poetry by Dylan Thomas

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

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!