Original English-language
And A Necessary Film Envelopes All
J.B. Pravda
Walt, he speaks, sprawls, breathes now, unbound, to/through me, as you; his futuristic frame frames shadows and those who cast them, still, here, today, in the next moment and its endless successors.
And he is starring in a ‘film’, that movie housed in Brooklyn’s heady heads whose eyes hear, ears behold songs of himself as those of themselves. ‘You, necessary film, continue to envelope the soul’. Like his contemporary English chronicler of England‘s ‘Everyman‘ and his/her plight, you and I are ‘scrooged’ by a healing holy dazed Spirit, taken away into time’s very veils of past, present and especially future, the veil so powerfully pierced by a quintessential American seer’s prescience.
I smile at my feet as they find themselves upon Old Fulton Street, where the grass leaves off and waters abide, the very spot did cross from shore to shore that once bustling ferry, my head meditating like some Hindu holy man on that thought thought by Walt of ‘well-joined silence’ into which he, you, & I are ‘disintegrated’ becoming filmy ties between him, you and me.
Time, that film, happening at once, no boundaried past, future, those bounds illusory, ‘film‘, exposed by Walt.
From his Brooklynite depth, aloft scaffolding plumb-bobbing carpenters evenly nail bannered words to my theatrical mind’s walls, his words, thick with life……Walt walks in me on the Heights, his words come into me from word-smithing resounding from yellowed broadsheets, embracing ‘ …others who look back on me, because I looked forward to them.’
His Brooklyn’s ‘ample hills’ of industriousness redound daily to his/its soaring Eagle’s wing-ed prose, alphabetic assemblies of a city, its ‘them’ s , their to’s and fro’s.
Was I not here, there, my thoughts elsewhere?
Walt reminds me, peregrinate, afoot, peripatetic Brooklyn bustler— ‘ …missing me one place, search another…’ Into the evening, possibly Moonstruck, sampling airiness of peach blossoms, teasing my/his/our nostrils olfactory awareness, new old factories, perhaps, where their birthing boweries once boughed.
Meandering brings us, he, you and I, to Brooklyn’s Museum, turning a corner unto an ancient ceremony, watched from Walt’s seven-year-old eyes; ‘Lafayette, I am here!’ these eyes seem to connect with those owned by the aristocratic French hero of a new nation whose democratizing hands place my smallish frame beside him, bussing ’my’ red-rouged rough cheek, those same hands laying down its Brooklyn cornerstone.
Operatic tones, voices luring us, him toward Nostrand Avenue, auditing art’s most comprehensive performing medium—we ask, ‘what medium guides our senses, conjoins Walt’s young journalist’s ear and pen with this futured now, and upon his namesake theatrical stage?’ Tears mingle with creased visage whose mouth beams in the way of primal primate joyousness.
My eyes blink in punctuation of travels in time, my ears exclaim his words: ‘There’ll come a time here in Brooklyn..when nothing will be of more interest than authentic reminiscences of the past.’ My writerly yearnings pay him homage precisely one hundred years afore my own Brooklyn nascence..it is 1846, The Brooklyn Daily Eagle lending inky materiality to his enlightened words: ‘national refinements & rose-colorings of life’ buttressing its columns, urging free access to the artist and artisan’s handiwork there on display in the people’s monument to muses as ‘the artist..has been given the command to go forth into all the world and preach the gospel of beauty.’
I am so discipled, and come again to that very street called Fulton, and close by Cranberry Street, neighborly Mr. Rome’s refuge as printer to the refugee scrivener, now poet, and his anonymous tome-to-be; I, we bear witness there to the image-capturing art Mssr. Daguerre did visually preach, that preachment meeting its parchment, depicting Him as frontispiece to Brooklyn’s fresh lexicon of pulsing, fleshly glee, ‘Leaves of Grass’ , Walt’s self-funded nearly anonymous self-portrait of himself in All Oneness, and with it, then for now, now for then. We, with our eyes do feel, with our ears do see, our tongues do taste, refreshed ‘the living fountain, actor, experiencer himself or herself, of every page, every aspiration, every line.’ This, his earnest embrace even from death’s bed lending Wild(e) importance to our consequential embosoming of that soil he so freely cultivates still, now, then, now, again.
Wandering, channeling I/He/we drawn toward moving towers, massed wooden masts now become artists easels, their sail-worthy canvas stretched before painterly chronicling eyes—steel forged where Walt’s grassy leaves did point, and women, clad as men, riveting girdings of war. Mighty citadel, that Navy Yard where young surgeon Squibb made perfect his calmative balm for those we, He nursed an earlier, albeit more brotherly tempest’s broken brothers. I, we speak the silent speech of these pages, these leaves— ‘Yonder a library’s flowery branch bears the speaker’s name…that very refuge of his studious readers of that forward time he looked to, and their budding minds. The seashore, ‘twas his library, Nature his librarian.
I blink eyes, and behold Veronica’s Place, an eponymous school room of his future peers, they to higher schooling, he to adieu at 11 years and the carpenter’s plane of his father.
Then, to Greenpoint and porcelain works whose goods find themselves at auction in another space/time, 1864’s Sanitary Commission at BAM’s Montague Street, in service to ancient internecine strife’s newest incarnation, as if some gray clothed Capulets have usurped Montague’s condonation of youth’s slaughter.
And, as you and I, we traverse temporal tracks, so does he, ferrying betwixt Brooklyn’s and Manhattan’s shores, passing over space as time is passed, Walt astride both with gigantic-hearted legs, one in hearty Brooklyn city—her very name Anglicized from the Dutch, that ancestral kin of his mothering—kindly entreating us with rhetoric’s ancient siren unto ultimate awareness:
‘Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you–I laid in my stores in advance,
I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.
Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?’
Yes, and presaging English Lennon’s coming together over, across and, perhaps, out, this Ferry passenger sings, and not fearing some River Styx, coins at the ready; no, but in plausible defiance of old Dr. Johnson’s warning away from puns— ‘He that would make a pun would pick a pocket’—I, we lovingly embrace that passenger ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ as defiant jubilant American fairie, one who did call America to her earthy humane senses in the face of the antebellum subjugation of ‘otherness’ itself. He, this man of wit and passionate pride of place–especially Brooklyn, his America in miniature, and in promise–remains that great spirit, belonging neither to Heaven nor Hades, best summoned by that mythic imprimatur.
My mind, as did his, poetizing, now exhibition hall of pictures, wanted and not wanted, on display, hanging there, landscapes and portraits dark and of light.
Our ears prick up at the sound of a favorite band tune, boldly brassing, perhaps at diligent practice, heard through open windows wafting, musically preaching attempted beauty’s rebirthing of earful mellifluous harmonies; then, hawking merchants follow on invisibly, push carting helter-skeltering sounds offering spoken, shouted, sung adornments upon Tesla’s radiating waves wirelessly beaming, somehow.
‘Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged…I stop some where waiting for you’ enters my, your ear, its invitation beckoning afresh, the back of our necks hairily tingling for a moment, sensing being stared at by loudly whispering eyes. Turning, turning again, I/we stand before Henry Street’s nearby Whitman Close; the carpentry, might it be inspired by his own at the Myrtle Street home, with the print shop of his typesetter’s hand and mind and bookstore at street level?
Our feet-for-wings now weary of so rapid jaunty flight come to rest at Adams Street, nature-bound by Red Cross Place & Tillary Street; a modern singer strums, singing: ‘..where is the good in good-bye?’
Passing Green-Wood cemetery, with its national historic DNA linked into eternity with some 20 millions of us, where Walt’s bones should rest, its grassy leaves but his figurative ‘beautiful uncut hair’ hardly graven, more at wilding.
I snap back to nowness, not a newness, but to now for then…has my modern ‘grass’ caused me to so fly, or that Dickensian Spirit, wily nily? Perhaps only as far as one body disintegrating into that..film, that necessary film which envelopes All.
You, and you and still you— ‘necessary film continue to envelope the Soul…my volume’s a candidate for the future.’
============================
Postscript: And, thus, did I and you of Brooklyn birth or habitation look back upon Him as he looked forward. To our All Soul. Peace, Walt, in you, from you, to All, and especially those born in and borne by His Brooklyn, great-grandfather of now’s fathering, mothering Brooklyn, including yours truly who did breach her collective womb, the self-same day of December 16, 1946 into the necessary film..along with that necessary film-maker, one Steven Spielberg…this, then, my necessary spiel on this most splendid of burghs.
And he is starring in a ‘film’, that movie housed in Brooklyn’s heady heads whose eyes hear, ears behold songs of himself as those of themselves. ‘You, necessary film, continue to envelope the soul’. Like his contemporary English chronicler of England‘s ‘Everyman‘ and his/her plight, you and I are ‘scrooged’ by a healing holy dazed Spirit, taken away into time’s very veils of past, present and especially future, the veil so powerfully pierced by a quintessential American seer’s prescience.
I smile at my feet as they find themselves upon Old Fulton Street, where the grass leaves off and waters abide, the very spot did cross from shore to shore that once bustling ferry, my head meditating like some Hindu holy man on that thought thought by Walt of ‘well-joined silence’ into which he, you, & I are ‘disintegrated’ becoming filmy ties between him, you and me.
Time, that film, happening at once, no boundaried past, future, those bounds illusory, ‘film‘, exposed by Walt.
From his Brooklynite depth, aloft scaffolding plumb-bobbing carpenters evenly nail bannered words to my theatrical mind’s walls, his words, thick with life……Walt walks in me on the Heights, his words come into me from word-smithing resounding from yellowed broadsheets, embracing ‘ …others who look back on me, because I looked forward to them.’
His Brooklyn’s ‘ample hills’ of industriousness redound daily to his/its soaring Eagle’s wing-ed prose, alphabetic assemblies of a city, its ‘them’ s , their to’s and fro’s.
Was I not here, there, my thoughts elsewhere?
Walt reminds me, peregrinate, afoot, peripatetic Brooklyn bustler— ‘ …missing me one place, search another…’ Into the evening, possibly Moonstruck, sampling airiness of peach blossoms, teasing my/his/our nostrils olfactory awareness, new old factories, perhaps, where their birthing boweries once boughed.
Meandering brings us, he, you and I, to Brooklyn’s Museum, turning a corner unto an ancient ceremony, watched from Walt’s seven-year-old eyes; ‘Lafayette, I am here!’ these eyes seem to connect with those owned by the aristocratic French hero of a new nation whose democratizing hands place my smallish frame beside him, bussing ’my’ red-rouged rough cheek, those same hands laying down its Brooklyn cornerstone.
Operatic tones, voices luring us, him toward Nostrand Avenue, auditing art’s most comprehensive performing medium—we ask, ‘what medium guides our senses, conjoins Walt’s young journalist’s ear and pen with this futured now, and upon his namesake theatrical stage?’ Tears mingle with creased visage whose mouth beams in the way of primal primate joyousness.
My eyes blink in punctuation of travels in time, my ears exclaim his words: ‘There’ll come a time here in Brooklyn..when nothing will be of more interest than authentic reminiscences of the past.’ My writerly yearnings pay him homage precisely one hundred years afore my own Brooklyn nascence..it is 1846, The Brooklyn Daily Eagle lending inky materiality to his enlightened words: ‘national refinements & rose-colorings of life’ buttressing its columns, urging free access to the artist and artisan’s handiwork there on display in the people’s monument to muses as ‘the artist..has been given the command to go forth into all the world and preach the gospel of beauty.’
I am so discipled, and come again to that very street called Fulton, and close by Cranberry Street, neighborly Mr. Rome’s refuge as printer to the refugee scrivener, now poet, and his anonymous tome-to-be; I, we bear witness there to the image-capturing art Mssr. Daguerre did visually preach, that preachment meeting its parchment, depicting Him as frontispiece to Brooklyn’s fresh lexicon of pulsing, fleshly glee, ‘Leaves of Grass’ , Walt’s self-funded nearly anonymous self-portrait of himself in All Oneness, and with it, then for now, now for then. We, with our eyes do feel, with our ears do see, our tongues do taste, refreshed ‘the living fountain, actor, experiencer himself or herself, of every page, every aspiration, every line.’ This, his earnest embrace even from death’s bed lending Wild(e) importance to our consequential embosoming of that soil he so freely cultivates still, now, then, now, again.
Wandering, channeling I/He/we drawn toward moving towers, massed wooden masts now become artists easels, their sail-worthy canvas stretched before painterly chronicling eyes—steel forged where Walt’s grassy leaves did point, and women, clad as men, riveting girdings of war. Mighty citadel, that Navy Yard where young surgeon Squibb made perfect his calmative balm for those we, He nursed an earlier, albeit more brotherly tempest’s broken brothers. I, we speak the silent speech of these pages, these leaves— ‘Yonder a library’s flowery branch bears the speaker’s name…that very refuge of his studious readers of that forward time he looked to, and their budding minds. The seashore, ‘twas his library, Nature his librarian.
I blink eyes, and behold Veronica’s Place, an eponymous school room of his future peers, they to higher schooling, he to adieu at 11 years and the carpenter’s plane of his father.
Then, to Greenpoint and porcelain works whose goods find themselves at auction in another space/time, 1864’s Sanitary Commission at BAM’s Montague Street, in service to ancient internecine strife’s newest incarnation, as if some gray clothed Capulets have usurped Montague’s condonation of youth’s slaughter.
And, as you and I, we traverse temporal tracks, so does he, ferrying betwixt Brooklyn’s and Manhattan’s shores, passing over space as time is passed, Walt astride both with gigantic-hearted legs, one in hearty Brooklyn city—her very name Anglicized from the Dutch, that ancestral kin of his mothering—kindly entreating us with rhetoric’s ancient siren unto ultimate awareness:
‘Closer yet I approach you,
What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you–I laid in my stores in advance,
I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.
Who was to know what should come home to me?
Who knows but I am enjoying this?
Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?’
Yes, and presaging English Lennon’s coming together over, across and, perhaps, out, this Ferry passenger sings, and not fearing some River Styx, coins at the ready; no, but in plausible defiance of old Dr. Johnson’s warning away from puns— ‘He that would make a pun would pick a pocket’—I, we lovingly embrace that passenger ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ as defiant jubilant American fairie, one who did call America to her earthy humane senses in the face of the antebellum subjugation of ‘otherness’ itself. He, this man of wit and passionate pride of place–especially Brooklyn, his America in miniature, and in promise–remains that great spirit, belonging neither to Heaven nor Hades, best summoned by that mythic imprimatur.
My mind, as did his, poetizing, now exhibition hall of pictures, wanted and not wanted, on display, hanging there, landscapes and portraits dark and of light.
Our ears prick up at the sound of a favorite band tune, boldly brassing, perhaps at diligent practice, heard through open windows wafting, musically preaching attempted beauty’s rebirthing of earful mellifluous harmonies; then, hawking merchants follow on invisibly, push carting helter-skeltering sounds offering spoken, shouted, sung adornments upon Tesla’s radiating waves wirelessly beaming, somehow.
‘Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged…I stop some where waiting for you’ enters my, your ear, its invitation beckoning afresh, the back of our necks hairily tingling for a moment, sensing being stared at by loudly whispering eyes. Turning, turning again, I/we stand before Henry Street’s nearby Whitman Close; the carpentry, might it be inspired by his own at the Myrtle Street home, with the print shop of his typesetter’s hand and mind and bookstore at street level?
Our feet-for-wings now weary of so rapid jaunty flight come to rest at Adams Street, nature-bound by Red Cross Place & Tillary Street; a modern singer strums, singing: ‘..where is the good in good-bye?’
Passing Green-Wood cemetery, with its national historic DNA linked into eternity with some 20 millions of us, where Walt’s bones should rest, its grassy leaves but his figurative ‘beautiful uncut hair’ hardly graven, more at wilding.
I snap back to nowness, not a newness, but to now for then…has my modern ‘grass’ caused me to so fly, or that Dickensian Spirit, wily nily? Perhaps only as far as one body disintegrating into that..film, that necessary film which envelopes All.
You, and you and still you— ‘necessary film continue to envelope the Soul…my volume’s a candidate for the future.’
============================
Postscript: And, thus, did I and you of Brooklyn birth or habitation look back upon Him as he looked forward. To our All Soul. Peace, Walt, in you, from you, to All, and especially those born in and borne by His Brooklyn, great-grandfather of now’s fathering, mothering Brooklyn, including yours truly who did breach her collective womb, the self-same day of December 16, 1946 into the necessary film..along with that necessary film-maker, one Steven Spielberg…this, then, my necessary spiel on this most splendid of burghs.
The Other
|
Song of the Immigrant Indian
Milind Padki
On Mumbai's sidewalk, at the consulate’s doors,
Seeking a visa for America’s shores,
Lay wanna-be immigrants, making no fuss
Hoods on a motorbike addressed them thus:
“Going to America? Are ye all fools?
The whore chews you out, breaking all rules.
Stay at home here, life here’s sunny,
Eat with the family, with love and ceremony.
For America is a country so funky,
You eat like a monkey, and work like a donkey!”
Chorus:
America is a country so funky,
Eat like a monkey and work like a donkey!
"Don’t ever call her the “Beckoning Whore”,
Believe in America’s abiding lore,
“Work, work hard, and then work some more”
Is the way to success and gold coin galore!”
America is a country so funky,
Eat like a monkey and work like a donkey!
“All through the night, in old Fords clunky,
Weird people come, colorful and funky,
Once in while: a heroin junkie
Saved by Ganesha, I manage this Dunky.”
America is a country so funky,
Eat like a monkey and work like a donkey!
“Joe truck driver brings in a lass,
Low on money, but brimming with sass,
And lo-and- behold, once in a while,
Joe brings in a young man virile!”
America is a country so funky,
Eat like a monkey and work like a donkey!
“Capitalism’s a system rather funny,
Taught me my Dad’s friend “Uncle” Johnny,
Other peoples’ brains and other peoples’ money,
You make your bread, and lot and lots of honey!”
America is a country so funky,
Eat like a monkey and work like a donkey!
"Manubhai has left, and taken his wages,
Gather the priests, and Saffron-Clad sages,
Far from the village, in Diaspora’s pages,
Manubhai will shine for infinite ages!”
America is a country so funky,
Eat like a monkey and work like a donkey!
My Middle Name Will Be Carlos
Patrick Meighan
I dreamt last night a street –
white stucco houses breathing sun
they shone, bidding an amicable buenos dias
an old woman in bright plumes
and with bare birdlike feet
leaned in the shade
was this a dream or a memory?
A fat cigar was in her lips
thick smoke, white rising above the white
Senora, it is still morning! The blue is unbroken!
Passing by, a wary dog avoids you, avoids me,
avoids this dream
Is this a dream? Is it memory? Maybe premonition?
From inside a white house with yellow flowers
comes a sound, the pounding of tortillas,
just as I awaken, the flies in this street
beginning to buzz
Translations
Five Poems by Jules LaForgue
Translated by Will Schmitz and Mary Susan Iosue
Lord Pierrot’s Lament
There’s moonlight
Let’s dress in costume
And march up there, my friend,
Cause my mind is dead
And I’d prefer, now, to gape
At whiteness
My mouth and yours
Aping zeroes.
The unconscious descends
(it likes to confuse the
dictionaries, sexes and maps)
Turning us into fakes,
Copper plates, chaste
True hearts and flakes.
People born of better blood
Recognize the enormous regency of Venus,
That she’s stranded by
Untidy complaints and feints.
Dislocate your modesties!
Oh– with a white costume
I will imitate Leda
And you will dive in
Carrying off the act
That creates unflat Helen
In a minute of buffoonery with
A crooked twist of pleasure.
See here! The universe enjoys
Being inside out.
And all these honors are yours, Lord Pierrot.
What have you got to say about them?
I like your divine dignity.
Don’t give it up. If she could only
Have chosen my lips to drink of and die
Enraptured by the unwillingness of my kiss.
But we are only allowed to live
By old compromises and the universe
Is not enough, the way it localizes and
Screams about pain without feeling away.
All this honors you, Pierrot.
Why are you asking, “And then?”
Yes, It’s too hot, it’s too wet
It’s raining, it’s going to be dry
Poor Venus! Have a drop of morphine,
Everything’s going too slow.
Stop flustering, Pierrot!
My heart has turned Chinese,
I want a private berth on tonight’s train
It’s certain to be a miserable trip,
Jerked off among corpses and stones.
Let’s dress in costume
And march up there, my friend,
Cause my mind is dead
And I’d prefer, now, to gape
At whiteness
My mouth and yours
Aping zeroes.
The unconscious descends
(it likes to confuse the
dictionaries, sexes and maps)
Turning us into fakes,
Copper plates, chaste
True hearts and flakes.
People born of better blood
Recognize the enormous regency of Venus,
That she’s stranded by
Untidy complaints and feints.
Dislocate your modesties!
Oh– with a white costume
I will imitate Leda
And you will dive in
Carrying off the act
That creates unflat Helen
In a minute of buffoonery with
A crooked twist of pleasure.
See here! The universe enjoys
Being inside out.
And all these honors are yours, Lord Pierrot.
What have you got to say about them?
I like your divine dignity.
Don’t give it up. If she could only
Have chosen my lips to drink of and die
Enraptured by the unwillingness of my kiss.
But we are only allowed to live
By old compromises and the universe
Is not enough, the way it localizes and
Screams about pain without feeling away.
All this honors you, Pierrot.
Why are you asking, “And then?”
Yes, It’s too hot, it’s too wet
It’s raining, it’s going to be dry
Poor Venus! Have a drop of morphine,
Everything’s going too slow.
Stop flustering, Pierrot!
My heart has turned Chinese,
I want a private berth on tonight’s train
It’s certain to be a miserable trip,
Jerked off among corpses and stones.
Carnival Night
Paris is kicking up a charivari
Under the gaslights. A knellish clock
Strikes one. Sing! Dance! Live!
Life is short. Everything is fruitless
And, up there, the moon dreams as coldly
As when man was not.
Ah, what a banal fate. Everything
Shimmers and passes. All of us proceeding,
Enticed away from an infinity of truth’s love,
‘Til a grave opens
Waking us to the tears, cries
And powerful fanfares
Of proud
Babylon, Memphis, Benares, Carthage, and Thebes
Whose ruins now nurture spring flowers and weeds.
And how many days do I have
Before I’m delivered to the ground
To rot through centuries
Of nothingness from which
No god will spring?
But now I hear the peaceful night
The resonant step preceding a drunken worker
Singing an impotently melancholy dirge
Returning from the festival to his hovel
While the moon continues to stream hotly
As before there were men.
Under the gaslights. A knellish clock
Strikes one. Sing! Dance! Live!
Life is short. Everything is fruitless
And, up there, the moon dreams as coldly
As when man was not.
Ah, what a banal fate. Everything
Shimmers and passes. All of us proceeding,
Enticed away from an infinity of truth’s love,
‘Til a grave opens
Waking us to the tears, cries
And powerful fanfares
Of proud
Babylon, Memphis, Benares, Carthage, and Thebes
Whose ruins now nurture spring flowers and weeds.
And how many days do I have
Before I’m delivered to the ground
To rot through centuries
Of nothingness from which
No god will spring?
But now I hear the peaceful night
The resonant step preceding a drunken worker
Singing an impotently melancholy dirge
Returning from the festival to his hovel
While the moon continues to stream hotly
As before there were men.
Song of the Little Hypertrophic
The doctor told me that my mother died
Of an enlargement of the heart
Tir la la lan re!
And that I’ve inherited the disease.
Oh, I hear my heart beating, beating
It’s mother telling me I’ve got to say
Bye-bye to the earth.
They laugh at me in the streets
At my awkward body
Lap-sap-trap!
At this drunken child
Who has difficulty with its steps.
I choke, cough, gasp, reel
And my heart says that
Mother is calling me.
I’ve gone to the country
To sob in the setting sun
Alp-scalp-crown!
It’ s very stupid.
But, then I don’t know
The sun seems to be a heart
Screaming above the beats of mine
Saying, “come to me.”
If only Genevieve wanted my heart
Puff shatter slam!
She’s rosy, gay and beautiful
While I am yellow and sad.
Mother, stop calling me!
No, every heart is wicked
In its way
Except for the heart of
The setting sun
Tir la la lan re!
And if I was to say
Goodbye to world…
Tell me mama, are you
Calling me?
Of an enlargement of the heart
Tir la la lan re!
And that I’ve inherited the disease.
Oh, I hear my heart beating, beating
It’s mother telling me I’ve got to say
Bye-bye to the earth.
They laugh at me in the streets
At my awkward body
Lap-sap-trap!
At this drunken child
Who has difficulty with its steps.
I choke, cough, gasp, reel
And my heart says that
Mother is calling me.
I’ve gone to the country
To sob in the setting sun
Alp-scalp-crown!
It’ s very stupid.
But, then I don’t know
The sun seems to be a heart
Screaming above the beats of mine
Saying, “come to me.”
If only Genevieve wanted my heart
Puff shatter slam!
She’s rosy, gay and beautiful
While I am yellow and sad.
Mother, stop calling me!
No, every heart is wicked
In its way
Except for the heart of
The setting sun
Tir la la lan re!
And if I was to say
Goodbye to world…
Tell me mama, are you
Calling me?
A Displaced Curiosity
The universe must pulsate a thought
Inside the mechanism of its metamorphosizing,
Something that we can understand from where we,
One eyed, spin. The intention can be perceived
If we let our priests study without hindrance
But who can wait
Who can give
When we know that
Because we have to die
Everything is insane.
Inside the mechanism of its metamorphosizing,
Something that we can understand from where we,
One eyed, spin. The intention can be perceived
If we let our priests study without hindrance
But who can wait
Who can give
When we know that
Because we have to die
Everything is insane.
Apotheosis
The stars blend and whirl A black garden strewn
with diamonds
And to this madman Stuck on a streetcorner of
Paris
Trying to light a damp cigar The heavenly family is
The air is
a true mirror
of Marvel
Of the violent, fragile touch
The song I hum
As I pass
Lighted Along
with diamonds
And to this madman Stuck on a streetcorner of
Paris
Trying to light a damp cigar The heavenly family is
The air is
a true mirror
of Marvel
Of the violent, fragile touch
The song I hum
As I pass
Lighted Along
Three Poems by Geet Chaturvedi
|
The Champa Flowers – 1 *
(Two strange and unbelievable things are connected
by hope and by dreams
Illusion extant in the foundation is belief’s sibling
I embrace that proximity
that despite all distances never gets disappointed all its life)
*
I had said, I am glass, you would see through me
Galvanizing my back, you would see yourself too, your true self
The day I break, I will pierce deep
To sweep the jagged shards, a lifetime would not be enough
To love you was always playing with my illusions
An exquisite sensual love that happened in the dream
I want to touch it standing on my tip-toe
But the Champa blooms beyond the reaches of my tip-toe
I, sitting under its shade, wait for it to shed its blossoms
An unbelievable fragrance
In the guise of hope permeates my dream--
Look at me, I am a human-sized wait
I console that ray of the morning
That fell on all the greenery yet could not bloom a flower
I caress the petals of the Champa flowers
Filling myself with their scent, I question the Krishna of your room
Why is it that a bumblebee never ever sits on the luscious Champa?
Two hills are connected not just by a bridge but by a gorge too
by hope and by dreams
Illusion extant in the foundation is belief’s sibling
I embrace that proximity
that despite all distances never gets disappointed all its life)
*
I had said, I am glass, you would see through me
Galvanizing my back, you would see yourself too, your true self
The day I break, I will pierce deep
To sweep the jagged shards, a lifetime would not be enough
To love you was always playing with my illusions
An exquisite sensual love that happened in the dream
I want to touch it standing on my tip-toe
But the Champa blooms beyond the reaches of my tip-toe
I, sitting under its shade, wait for it to shed its blossoms
An unbelievable fragrance
In the guise of hope permeates my dream--
Look at me, I am a human-sized wait
I console that ray of the morning
That fell on all the greenery yet could not bloom a flower
I caress the petals of the Champa flowers
Filling myself with their scent, I question the Krishna of your room
Why is it that a bumblebee never ever sits on the luscious Champa?
Two hills are connected not just by a bridge but by a gorge too
चंपा के फूल – 1
(दो अजीब और अविश्वसनीय चीज़ों को जोडऩे का काम
करते हैं उम्मीद और स्वप्न
बुनियाद में बैठा भ्रम विश्वास का सहोदर है
उस कु़रबत का आलिंगन
जो तमाम दूरियों से भी ताउम्र निराश नहीं होती)
*
कहा था, कांच हूं, पार देख लोगे तुम मेरे
मेरी पीठ पर क़लई लगाकर ख़ुद को भी देखोगे बहुत सच्चा
जिस दिन टूटूंगा, गहरे चुभूंगा, किरचों को बुहारने को ये उम्र भी कम लगेगी
तुमसे प्रेम करना हमेशा अपने भ्रम से खिलवाड़ करना रहा
स्वप्न में हुए एक सुंदर प्रणय को उचक कर छू लेना चाहता हूं
लेकिन चंपा मेरी उचक से परे खिलती है
मैं उसकी छांव में बैठा उसके झरने की प्रतीक्षा करता हूं
एक अविश्वसनीय सुगंध
उम्मीद की शक्ल में मेरे सपने में आती है
मुझे देखो, मैं एक आदमक़द इंतज़ार हूं
मैं सुबह की उस किरण को सांत्वना देता हूं
जो तमाम हरियाली पर गिरकर भी कोई फूल न खिला सकी
चंपा के फूलों की पंखुडिय़ां सहलाता हूं
उनकी सुगंध से ख़ुद को भरता तुम्हारे कमरे के कृष्ण से पूछता हूं
चंपा के फूल पर कभी कोई भंवरा क्यों नहीं बैठता
दो पहाडिय़ों को सिर्फ़ पुल ही नहीं जोड़ते, खाई भी जोड़ती है
करते हैं उम्मीद और स्वप्न
बुनियाद में बैठा भ्रम विश्वास का सहोदर है
उस कु़रबत का आलिंगन
जो तमाम दूरियों से भी ताउम्र निराश नहीं होती)
*
कहा था, कांच हूं, पार देख लोगे तुम मेरे
मेरी पीठ पर क़लई लगाकर ख़ुद को भी देखोगे बहुत सच्चा
जिस दिन टूटूंगा, गहरे चुभूंगा, किरचों को बुहारने को ये उम्र भी कम लगेगी
तुमसे प्रेम करना हमेशा अपने भ्रम से खिलवाड़ करना रहा
स्वप्न में हुए एक सुंदर प्रणय को उचक कर छू लेना चाहता हूं
लेकिन चंपा मेरी उचक से परे खिलती है
मैं उसकी छांव में बैठा उसके झरने की प्रतीक्षा करता हूं
एक अविश्वसनीय सुगंध
उम्मीद की शक्ल में मेरे सपने में आती है
मुझे देखो, मैं एक आदमक़द इंतज़ार हूं
मैं सुबह की उस किरण को सांत्वना देता हूं
जो तमाम हरियाली पर गिरकर भी कोई फूल न खिला सकी
चंपा के फूलों की पंखुडिय़ां सहलाता हूं
उनकी सुगंध से ख़ुद को भरता तुम्हारे कमरे के कृष्ण से पूछता हूं
चंपा के फूल पर कभी कोई भंवरा क्यों नहीं बैठता
दो पहाडिय़ों को सिर्फ़ पुल ही नहीं जोड़ते, खाई भी जोड़ती है
The Champa Flowers – 2
The guitar put aside in that heedless haze
Would still strum a string or two, on its own
Softly you had vibrated the same way, when
Gently on that stone platform, I had set you down.
You were like that vibration which lost its sound first, or the quiver
Stillness is an invisible vibration, gorge— a mountain upside down
Misery connotes— a joyless happiness, and
Happiness waxes and wanes like well-founded sorrows.
Under that tree was a chaotic grammar--
A farrago of dried leaves, nameless grass, unnamed branches
Broken from its own rules and separated
Breaking a twig, you too were, coyly--
Like some timid heroine of the bygone ages.
The Champa is another form of Radha
And the bumblebees, pupils of Krishna
But over the Champa flower, hover they will not
For betraying their guru it would be
While the Champa still waits longingly for her Krishna.
I had longed to shed on you
Even a desire to touch you feels like touching you
With your feet, you swept the leaves
In the midst of leaves, you swept yourself.
I am a connoisseur of fragrances
There is no logic higher than love that I hold.
Flowers are like women who wait, redolent with sweet love
Their sensuality is their own distinct individuality
The subtle scent, warm and sweet, can never be generic.
You had wanted to kiss me
The Champa of your longing had shed to your left
You held the flower, while leaving, in your hand
You were held by the flower, while leaving, in her hand.
The Champa is the sweet-scented consciousness of the wait--
A fragrant noun that names the nameless wait.
I could not let myself betray Krishna.
Would still strum a string or two, on its own
Softly you had vibrated the same way, when
Gently on that stone platform, I had set you down.
You were like that vibration which lost its sound first, or the quiver
Stillness is an invisible vibration, gorge— a mountain upside down
Misery connotes— a joyless happiness, and
Happiness waxes and wanes like well-founded sorrows.
Under that tree was a chaotic grammar--
A farrago of dried leaves, nameless grass, unnamed branches
Broken from its own rules and separated
Breaking a twig, you too were, coyly--
Like some timid heroine of the bygone ages.
The Champa is another form of Radha
And the bumblebees, pupils of Krishna
But over the Champa flower, hover they will not
For betraying their guru it would be
While the Champa still waits longingly for her Krishna.
I had longed to shed on you
Even a desire to touch you feels like touching you
With your feet, you swept the leaves
In the midst of leaves, you swept yourself.
I am a connoisseur of fragrances
There is no logic higher than love that I hold.
Flowers are like women who wait, redolent with sweet love
Their sensuality is their own distinct individuality
The subtle scent, warm and sweet, can never be generic.
You had wanted to kiss me
The Champa of your longing had shed to your left
You held the flower, while leaving, in your hand
You were held by the flower, while leaving, in her hand.
The Champa is the sweet-scented consciousness of the wait--
A fragrant noun that names the nameless wait.
I could not let myself betray Krishna.
चंपा के फूल –2
गिटार को गुमान में रख दो
तो भी एकाध तार बज उठता है उसका
तुम वैसे ही बजी थी हौले से
जब उस चबूतरे पर बिठाया था तुम्हें
तुम उस कंपन की तरह थी जिसने पहले आवाज़ खोई कि अपनी कांप
स्थिरता एक अदृश्य कंपन है खाई एक उल्टा पहाड़
दुख यानी बेरौनक सुख और सुख यानी महराबदार दुखों की तरह उगती-बीतती
उस पेड़ के नीचे सूखी पत्तियों बेनाम घासों गुमनाम टहनियों का अस्त-व्यस्त व्याकरण था
अपने नियमों से टूटकर अलग हुआ
रीत गई अभिनेत्रियों की तरह तुम तिनका तोड़ रही थीं
चंपा राधा का रूप होती है और भंवरे कृष्ण के शिष्य
इसलिए नहीं भटकते भंवरे चंपा पर कि
गुरु के साथ छल होगा
जबकि चंपा का फूल अब भी कृष्ण की प्रतीक्षा कर रहा
मुझे तुम पर झरना था
छूने की इच्छा करना भी तुम्हें छूना ही है
पैरों से तुमने पत्तियां बुहारीं
पत्तियों के बीच खुद को बुहारा
मैं सुगंधों का ज्ञानी हूं
प्रेम से बड़ा कोई तर्क नहीं मेरे पास
फूल प्रेम में डूबी प्रतीक्षारत स्त्रियों की तरह हैं
उनकी मादकता उनकी निजता है
भीनापन कभी सार्वजनीन नहीं होता
तुम मुझे चूमना चाहती थीं
इच्छा की चंपा झरी थी तुम्हारे बाएं
जाते हुए तुमने फूल को हाथ में थाम रखा था
जाते हुए तुम फूल के हाथों में थमी हुई थी
चंपा प्रतीक्षा की सुगंधित संज्ञा है
मैं कृष्ण से छल ना कर पाया
तो भी एकाध तार बज उठता है उसका
तुम वैसे ही बजी थी हौले से
जब उस चबूतरे पर बिठाया था तुम्हें
तुम उस कंपन की तरह थी जिसने पहले आवाज़ खोई कि अपनी कांप
स्थिरता एक अदृश्य कंपन है खाई एक उल्टा पहाड़
दुख यानी बेरौनक सुख और सुख यानी महराबदार दुखों की तरह उगती-बीतती
उस पेड़ के नीचे सूखी पत्तियों बेनाम घासों गुमनाम टहनियों का अस्त-व्यस्त व्याकरण था
अपने नियमों से टूटकर अलग हुआ
रीत गई अभिनेत्रियों की तरह तुम तिनका तोड़ रही थीं
चंपा राधा का रूप होती है और भंवरे कृष्ण के शिष्य
इसलिए नहीं भटकते भंवरे चंपा पर कि
गुरु के साथ छल होगा
जबकि चंपा का फूल अब भी कृष्ण की प्रतीक्षा कर रहा
मुझे तुम पर झरना था
छूने की इच्छा करना भी तुम्हें छूना ही है
पैरों से तुमने पत्तियां बुहारीं
पत्तियों के बीच खुद को बुहारा
मैं सुगंधों का ज्ञानी हूं
प्रेम से बड़ा कोई तर्क नहीं मेरे पास
फूल प्रेम में डूबी प्रतीक्षारत स्त्रियों की तरह हैं
उनकी मादकता उनकी निजता है
भीनापन कभी सार्वजनीन नहीं होता
तुम मुझे चूमना चाहती थीं
इच्छा की चंपा झरी थी तुम्हारे बाएं
जाते हुए तुमने फूल को हाथ में थाम रखा था
जाते हुए तुम फूल के हाथों में थमी हुई थी
चंपा प्रतीक्षा की सुगंधित संज्ञा है
मैं कृष्ण से छल ना कर पाया
Mortal Form
You stared so long at the darkness ahead that
your irises became one with its blackness
Enshrouded yourself in books such that
your body became parchment
You kept proclaiming
that death should come – thus and so
As comes to water
it turns into steam
Comes to a tree
it becomes a door
As comes to fire
it turns to ash
So become the udder of a cow
rain bountiful as milk
Turning into steam, drive heavy engines
cook your daily fare of rice
The path that was cursed to remain forever closed
open as a door of that path not treaded
Scour with ash, the unwashed basin that was shoved under your sick mother’s bed
Light a match
Stare long at it
your irises became one with its blackness
Enshrouded yourself in books such that
your body became parchment
You kept proclaiming
that death should come – thus and so
As comes to water
it turns into steam
Comes to a tree
it becomes a door
As comes to fire
it turns to ash
So become the udder of a cow
rain bountiful as milk
Turning into steam, drive heavy engines
cook your daily fare of rice
The path that was cursed to remain forever closed
open as a door of that path not treaded
Scour with ash, the unwashed basin that was shoved under your sick mother’s bed
Light a match
Stare long at it
काया
तुम इतनी देर तक घूरते रहे अँधेरे को
कि तुम्हारी पुतलियों का रंग काला हो गया
किताबों को ओढ़ा इस तरह
कि शरीर काग़ज़ हो गया
कहते रहे मौत आए तो इस तरह
जैसे पानी को आती है
वह बदल जाता है भाप में
आती है पेड़ को
वह दरवाज़ा बन जाता है
जैसे आती है आग को
वह राख बन जाती है
तुम गाय का थन बन जाना
दूध बनकर बरसना
भाप बनकर चलाना बड़े-बड़े इंजन
भात पकाना
जिस रास्ते को हमेशा बंद रहने का शाप मिला
उस पर दरवाज़ा बनकर खुलना
राख से माँजना बीमार माँ की पलंग के नीचे रखे बासन
तुम एक तीली जलाना
उसे देर तक घूरना
कि तुम्हारी पुतलियों का रंग काला हो गया
किताबों को ओढ़ा इस तरह
कि शरीर काग़ज़ हो गया
कहते रहे मौत आए तो इस तरह
जैसे पानी को आती है
वह बदल जाता है भाप में
आती है पेड़ को
वह दरवाज़ा बन जाता है
जैसे आती है आग को
वह राख बन जाती है
तुम गाय का थन बन जाना
दूध बनकर बरसना
भाप बनकर चलाना बड़े-बड़े इंजन
भात पकाना
जिस रास्ते को हमेशा बंद रहने का शाप मिला
उस पर दरवाज़ा बनकर खुलना
राख से माँजना बीमार माँ की पलंग के नीचे रखे बासन
तुम एक तीली जलाना
उसे देर तक घूरना
*End Notes:
The Champa Flowers – 1: Radha is considered to be the lover of the Hindu God Krishna and often depicted alongside Krishna. There is ample reference of Radha and her love for Krishna in the medieval Sanskrit and other Indian language scriptures. Some sects of Hinduism believe that Radha was reborn as the Champa flower, and the bumblebees are supposed to be the pupils of Krishna. The bees suck nectar from every flower, but never sit on Champa, for she is their guru’s lover. Sucking the flower’s nectar would mean betraying their guru.
In Botany, the flower of Champa does not have pollen, and that is why the bumblebees don’t sit on it. Champa is called frangipani or plumeria in English.
In Botany, the flower of Champa does not have pollen, and that is why the bumblebees don’t sit on it. Champa is called frangipani or plumeria in English.
Two Poems by Cesar Vallejo
Translated by Patrick Meighan
Our Bread
One drinks breakfast … Damp graveyard earth
smells of beloved blood.
Winter city … Mordant crusade
of a cart that seems to drag
an emotion like a fasting in chains.
One wants to pound all the doors
and ask for, I don’t know whom; and next
to see the poor, and softly crying
give bits of bread to all.
And to sack the vineyards of the rich
with the two saintly hands
that with a blast of light
blew off unnailed from the Cross!
Matinal eyelash don’t rise!
Give us our daily bread,
Lord …!
All my bones are of all others;
Maybe I stole them!
I took for myself what was perhaps
given another;
and I thought that, if I had not been born,
some other poor soul would have this coffee!
I am a bad thief … where will I go!
And in this cold hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is in this gloom,
I want to rap on all the doors,
and beg, I don’t know who, for pardon,
and bake him fresh bits of bread
here, in the oven of my heart …!
smells of beloved blood.
Winter city … Mordant crusade
of a cart that seems to drag
an emotion like a fasting in chains.
One wants to pound all the doors
and ask for, I don’t know whom; and next
to see the poor, and softly crying
give bits of bread to all.
And to sack the vineyards of the rich
with the two saintly hands
that with a blast of light
blew off unnailed from the Cross!
Matinal eyelash don’t rise!
Give us our daily bread,
Lord …!
All my bones are of all others;
Maybe I stole them!
I took for myself what was perhaps
given another;
and I thought that, if I had not been born,
some other poor soul would have this coffee!
I am a bad thief … where will I go!
And in this cold hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is in this gloom,
I want to rap on all the doors,
and beg, I don’t know who, for pardon,
and bake him fresh bits of bread
here, in the oven of my heart …!
Trilce XXXIII
If it rains tonight I’d pull back
From here a million years,
Better a hundred, no more than that.
If it happens I am fleeing toward nothing
I will still give you the account.
Or without mother, without my beloved, without quarrel
To stoop and inspect the end of it, purely myself
Unaided.
That night, much like this one, carding
The Vedic fiber
The ancient Hindu wool of my final end, thread
Of the devil, a trace of its scent
In the nostrils,
Two clappers keeping discordant time
In the same bell.
I imagine the account of my life
Or I imagine having never been born
Nor having won my freedom.
It will be as if I had not even existed, but
What arrives already has departed,
What arrives already has departed.
From here a million years,
Better a hundred, no more than that.
If it happens I am fleeing toward nothing
I will still give you the account.
Or without mother, without my beloved, without quarrel
To stoop and inspect the end of it, purely myself
Unaided.
That night, much like this one, carding
The Vedic fiber
The ancient Hindu wool of my final end, thread
Of the devil, a trace of its scent
In the nostrils,
Two clappers keeping discordant time
In the same bell.
I imagine the account of my life
Or I imagine having never been born
Nor having won my freedom.
It will be as if I had not even existed, but
What arrives already has departed,
What arrives already has departed.
Gazelle of the Bitter Root
Federico Garcia Lorca
Translated by Patrick Meighan
There is a bitter root
And a world of a thousand terraces
Nor can a tiny hand
Shatter the water’s door
Where are you going, where, O where?
The sky has a thousand windows –
Each a battle of enraged bees –
And there is a bitter root
Bitter
Pain in the foot’s sole
Is pain in the center of the face
And pain in the cold core
Newly sliced from the night.
Love, my enemy!
Bite your bitter root!
(Certain lines were influenced by the translation of Edwin Honig)