A Summer Drive   Wednesday, April 08, 2015






The anthology I used last week, New European Poets, is a huge collection of poets most of whom I, and I'd guess most "Here and Now" readers, have never heard of. So, this week I return to the anthology and present a few more of the poets in it. The book was published by Graywolf Press in 2008. All of the poems this week that are not mine are from the  anthology.

My photos (except for a ringer from downtown SA I snuck in because I needed one more pic) are from a trip I took in 2010 about which more information is  provided later in the post. I played with the pictures using the  "color splash" editing function available on Photobucket.


Me
I want to believe in a heaven

Rosa Alice Branco
The Highest Branch

Me
from "Silver City and Beyond"

Asko Kunnap
[we are born in hospitals]
[the hangover in our shared body]

Me
like  Butterfly McQueen

Dario Bellezza
[I licked you between dirty sheets]

Me
quantum effects of poetry

Tua Forsstrom
It's beautiful in Sicily in the spring when lemon trees are in bloom   

Me
watchman, stand your post

Mustafa Ziyalan
Days

Me
from where I sit

Victar Syalkevich
[I want  to tell you what speaks to me most]

Me
like bugs on a cold winter log

Anise Koltz
from The Flame Eater

Me
starburst

Mila Hagova
Alpha Centauri

Me
embrace the fog

Zvonko Karanovic
Melancholy

Me
this is what I learned so far  today

Me
from Sonyador - 13. Double Feature

Marcel Beyer
Snow

Nicolai Korbus
anna

Me
whichever comes first  












Here's my first piece from last week. An photo of Reba, my companion for twenty years, gone now to her  just rewards is on the left.











I want to believe in a heaven

my companion for twenty years
in constant pain
such that on her last night
I stayed up with her until dawn
as she circled, the hurt such
that she could not even lie down,
circling instead in constant
misery, the despair
of such impossible pain...

and I could take no more,
knowing it was time,  holding
her head in my hands
as the doctor injected the death potion,
watching
even as the needle's plunger
pulled her last breath from her, the
transition  from life plain
as her moist, brown eyes
lost their life spark, their deep pool
of life becoming dry, glassy mirrors, the
passage from one state  to the other
complete in seconds...

~~~

I cannot believe in a heaven
for myself or for any of my kind...

for entrance to any heaven, should such exist,
would require an innocence the first of us
turned away from, seeking the world, instead,
leaving behind our ancestral garden, the first and only
heaven our  kind will ever see...

but I can believe,
indeed want to believe, in a heaven for dogs,
a place where the innocence of all those
who have lived with me is rewarded,
like Reba, who  I left  dead on a  veterinarian's table,
her last keeper, the one who killed her, who brought  her
relief from constant pain, stays with her as I leave,
stroking her still side,
his head  bowed in silent prayer...

I want to believe there is a place
where she and all the innocents like her run free
under forever sunshine through forever green pastures,
living forever in the grace
of their simple lives, living under the loving eyes
of a better and more deserving master than
me







The first poet this week from the anthology New European Poets is Rosa Alice Branco, from Portugal. Born in 1950, Branco teaches the psychology of perception and contemporary culture at an Institute of Art and Design near Porto,  Portugal. Her poetry has been translated  into numerous languages and fifty of her translated poems have appeared in journals in the United States.

Her poem was translated from Portuguese by Alexis Levitin.




The Highest Branch

I cling to the day by its hair. Yours flies with the waves.
My clothes are wet. An autumn beach. I remember
that I have no other place. The consistency of the sand
on my feet and the birds that settle on the highest
branch for the highest flight. What other place?
Perhaps the desert, a palm tree in the south.
Dates rain down. To let the pit roll around in one's mouth
from wave to  wave. Who receives my voice?
I undress as if you're waiting for me to tell you all.
Silence works within my flesh. The city at night
seen from the other side. We walk along in each other's
breath. We know nothing. Ignorance
like a flower in the desert. do  you know that you've arrived?
Don't leave your mouth at the door, your smile.
Help me to become your thirst.








Several years ago I published an eBook titled Places and Spaces. The book consists of five extended travel poems,  plus a short introductory and a short closing poem. One of the five long poems was "Silver City and Beyond," telling of several days traveling to and around Silver City, New Mexico, in the southern part of the state.

The photos I used in this post are from a portion of that trip, as is the excerpt from the poem below. This little side trip added five hours  to my drive that day.

This book, by the way, and all my eBooks are available where ever eBooks are sold as well as at some brick and mortar bookstores through an agreement with Kobo.





from Silver  City and Beyond

...I decide to take a loop that will
lead me right through the middle
of the Gila Mountains
and National Forest - Hwy 159 off 189...

...8 miles in
I come to the lost little village
of Mogollon - originally
a mining town, now, I think it must be
Federal  Witness Protection's
prime hide-out for persons wanted
by the Mob and other forces of evil

     10 to 12 structures
     including an old rock museum
     and several well-maintained houses
     lining the road - nice rustic houses
     beautiful gardens

a very strange place
a nice place
if you want to get away
from it all

     a one-lane bridge
     separates
     Mogollon from the National Forest

the paved road ends
and a Forest Service dirt and rock road
begins

very rough

unsure as to how far
the dirt road goes before returning to
asphalt

- none of this is on my map...

     ...disinclined by nature
     to ever back up, I press
     forward

the road, I notice
travels along the bottom
of a deep canyon,
alongside a dry creek

it is at about that time
that it begins to rain
and I become aware of a large, very black cloud
hovering overhead

being from an area
where everyone knows from experience
the dangers when hillsides and dry creeks
and heavy rain come together, I am relieve
when the road starts to rise,
leaving the canyon and dry creek behind

     the higher I climb
     the heavier the rain falls
     the slushier 
     and slipperier the road becomes

finally after an hour of twisting and turning
and climbing and sloshing and slipping,
the rain stops
and the sun comes out
and I can see more clearly the puddles
and the great gush of muddy water
rushing down the mountain side, building new channels
as it races from the top to the dry creek
I am pleased not to be driving alongside...

     ...setting aside mudslides and  all other hesitations
     - it is nor considerably further back
     than forward anyway -
     I come to a break in the trees
     and stop and look out and see that I am
     on a high ridge,
     above the clouds, churning
     white and billowy below

unwilling to stop earlier
in the heavy rain
I had unfinished and too long delayed
business which I took care of

peeing on the clouds
the moist essences of me
joining the moist essences of the clouds,
becoming a part of someone's
next rainstorm

the grass will grow greener,
I know,
and the flowers more colorful
because I have made their cause
my own

     and I am
     pleased...

...going down now,
still on the dirt-rocky-rough road,
but believing the end was in sight
and a herd of deer
crossed the road in front of me

     a very large buck
     and 25 to 30 doe and fawns,
     fluffy white and brown stub tails
     flickering
     in the wind,
     all together as a group
     coming down the mountain
     in great bounds, over the road, then
     back up
     on the other side,
     winged creatures
     who, through fate or folly,
     lost their wings
     but still they try to fly, almost
     succeeding
     with each great leap

passing through a burned out portion of the forest,
pine and aspen tall and limb-less, black as the coal
they have become while still they reach for the sky,
I stop and listen to the wind,
all around deep-forest quiet but for the wind
passing through these poor, standing-dead

ghost whispers...








Next from the anthology, from Estonia, Asko Kunnap. Born in 1971, Kunnap is a poet, artistic, graphic designer, marketer, and inventor of several popular board games.

Both of his poems here were translated from Estonian by Miriam Melfatrick-Ksenofontov.







[we are born in hospitals]

we are born in hospitals
long dreary corridors
footsteps echo in the silence
the suffocating smell
of Chlorine and medicines
the walls steeped in disease
our names are recorded
all is in order
papers are filed
the files locked away
a guard desk stands at the door
no more visitors
for you today
outside it grows dark
round the corer the morgue
move your feet
says the cleaner


[the hangover in our shared body]

the hangover in our  shared body
under the ceiling like mist
on the hall door handle
like thick dust
a dream at the window
your stockings on a chair
something of mine on the floor
the bed unmade till evening
into the warmth again
the hangover in our shared body
shelters us
husband and wife

the machine is way above and beyond











In last week's post, I offered some considerations on the  matter of "death" - here's equal time for the other end of the spectrum, birth.

And ladies, please, no horror stories regarding the process. I understand that birthing a child is not like popping the cork on a wine bottle, but it is a handy metaphor for beginnings.









like Butterfly McQueen

like
Butterfly McQueen
I
don't  know
nothing 'bout birthing
no babies

but
it is interesting,
more maybe than
death

cause
every birth
is like opening a bottle
of the finest French wine,
the popping of the cork
opens up  a wide
range
of  possible experiences

while pouring the last ounce
of the precious  liquid
offers only bitter-sweet memories
and the dark void of
never again
forever
after...

thinking
about birth and death,
the first about the unlimited chances of what could be
and the second
only the sad  story
of what  could have been











Next from the anthology is this poem by Italian poet, Dario Bellezza. Born in 1944, the poet died from AIDS in 1996.

His poem was translated from Italian by Peter Covino.












[I licked you between dirty sheets]

I licked you between dirty sheets,
I explored your body, submerged
refuge of my refused sex
your body was smooth and tender
a restless refuge, quick
to penetrate my body.

Now the tricks next to the long
river are not enough, ragged fishermen
possible assassins, indolent
and mutable position in the bed;
I miss you in spirit
and in primitive sweetness,
folded sex, fresh
boy like food
to eat hungrily.











Since I started with my old eBooks, here's a poem from my second book, Goes Around, Comes Around. My first eBook, Pushing Clouds Against the Wind, I don't talk about a lot because even though the poems are good, the formatting of the book has problems, including the cover which ended up without a title. I learned and, rather than tying to do it all myself, relied on more expert hands in the second and subsequent books.










quantum effects of poetry

dark outside

lights inside
reflected back inside
by the windows

I watch
myself chew -
the reflection of myself
chewing
because the dark is outside
and the light is inside
turning he windows into
mirrors

one biscuit in the mirror,
gravy on the side
& coffee, lots
of coffee
which I do not
chew
because I don't chew
coffee and because
watching myself
chew
puts me off chewing
all together

I watch myself
write a poem, or
more correctly, I
watch myself
search
for the first line
which
I will watch myself
write
when I find the line
that will lead to  a poem
I will watch myself write

all this has to happen
before the sun
comes up, changing
the window from a mirror
to a window looking out
instead of in so that
I would have to go
outside
to watch myself write
a poem
and since that is
impossible,
it not being possible
to be in two places
at once, except
maybe not since
experiments
testing quantum theory
have in fact laced
the same molecule
in two  places at once
but only for a couple
of seconds which is
not enough time for me
to write a poem though
it would give me enough
time to watch me
write a poem if I could
write a poem in just
a couple of seconds...

this makes my
head hurt








Next from the anthology, Tua Forsstrom, from Finland. Forsstrom, winner of the Nordic Council's Literature Prize in 1998, was born in 1947. She is a Finnish writer who writes in Swedish.

Her poem was translated from Finland-Swedish by Stina Kachadourian.










It's beautiful in Sicily in the spring when the lemon trees are in bloom.

I'm writing because I attended
your concert, it was the sixteenth
of September. You played Prokofiev, and
it's strange about music: you return
to  places that don't exist. Two questions
keep me busy.  One has to do with
conditions and destiny. The other has to do with
Procis. That it occurred to her to run into the forest.
That she couldn't  trust her mate! I visited a
museum of Renaissance painting and then, everywhere,
in the streets, in subways, I saw: light silky blue and that
special tenderness. In everyone! In the animals! I teach at a
high school here. It's beautiful in Sicily in the spring when
the lemon trees are in bloom. Perhaps you prefer to travel
according to you own plans but I wanted to ask because music
restores us, and a cloud drifts in through the window into
my apartment as the clouds sweep by every
morning over the park where I walk.












This poem from last week, a poem that, prompted by the right image to start, took less than  a minute to write.












watchman, stand  your  post

tiny sparrow
grey and white
master of her tiny
universe
upended today
by the north storm's
cold winds
blowing

she finds a place
of refuge
on the window  sill
outside my table, back
to the wind, feathers
ruffled up on her
neck like the hood
of an ice-crusted
sailor,
watchman against
cold-bawling
winds








Again from the anthology, here is Turkish poet Mustafa Ziyalan.  Born in 1957 in Zonguldak on the Black Sea coast of Turkey, his mother a poet and painter and his father, a poet, writer and actor, he graduated from the Medical School of the University of Istanbul. After working as a rural General Practitioner and coroner, he completed his residency in psychiatry at New York University. He currently lives in Brooklyn.

His poem was translated from Turkish by Murat Nemett-Nejet.







Days

One.
First,
first.

without anything else -
being

Seven.
heaven.
enlightenment
in the twilight mascara
of your eyes.

Eight.
according to you, a zero tightening its belt.
according to me, two zeroes kissing.

Ten.
a stick and a hoop rolling in the nocturnal meadows.

Eleven.
Sleeping back to back.

Thirteen.
I love differently, please lie a different way.
don't wrinkle your nose - talk to me.

Fourteen.
No thirteen.
Are you dozing off or just keeping quiet. 












The next poem is from my  fourth  eBook, Always to the Light. Of  my six poetry books (including the first one, Seven Beats a Second, a print book) this book one is my favorite.












from where I sit

from
where I  sit
I can see past
a small grove of 
winter-bare red oak
to Interstate 10, east & west

routes,
the one to  Houston
and,through Houston,
Louisiana
and points east and north
beyond

the other route, followed
westerly
600 miles through the hill
country
& high desert to El Paso
and, 4 states beyond,
the orange setting sun
reflected
on Pacific waters

most of
the people I see passing
are not going so far,
most know
the furthest you travel
in any direction
the closer you get to home,
so why not just stay
there,
untraveled
but satisfied,
right where you an your
life
belong

for
myself
I don't know that I've ever
been at home
so I'm always pulled
between
leave and stay

today,
under a cold, overcast sky
I think I want to
stay

tomorrow...

that's why
we have night and day,
night a curtain that comes
down
between old and new,
the sun a sign to us as it 
rises every morning
that new things are possible

after all, what use a curtain
if nothing
changes
between acts



o






This poem is by Victar Syalkevich from Belarus. Born in 1959, Syalkevich is described as a cult Belarus showman, poet, bard, auctioneer, paradoxical, unpredictable and loved by the public. (The biography adds that since he doesn't appear often on TV, the adoring public is much smaller than it could be.)

His poem was translated from Belarusian by Ilya Kaminsky and Kathryn Farris.






[I want to tell you what speaks to me most -]

I want to tell you what speaks to me most -

My little neighbor, the son of village drunkards,
a bright young boy,
by the gas-lamp - for we have no  electricity - he
writes each evening a verse about freedom.
He is no Raznai and no Baradulin and certainly he is
no Dudarai,
but I tell you, we will hear of him one day!

With these optimistic words I want to end
the difficult evening
in our immeasurable Belarus.












We had some really dim, moody mornings  last week. Morning  being when I write, I picked up on the mood  through  several days  of poems. This is one of them.












like  bugs on a cold winter log

dim morning
overcast
under the spring
fog

on old Broadway
cars
with headlights
glowing
yellow
in the diffused light
crawl cautiously
toward  shrouded towers
downtown

like bugs on a log
as  in cold
winter dawns
slowly
they creep

meanwhile
a former colleague
who keeps track
of the comings and goings
of others retired
like ourselves, fellows
from the past, emails
five obituaries this morning

like the cars on  old Broadway,
like buts on a winter
log, slowly we tiptoe  toward our
solitary
denouement











From Luxembourg, the poet Anise Koltz. Born in 1928, Koltz is one of Luxembourg's major contemporary authors. Best known for her poetry and translation of poetry, she has also written a number of children's stories.

Her poem was translated from French by Pierre Joris.









from The Flame Eater

III

In the church's slaughterhouses
we are transformed
into vultures

We devour
the body of Christ
thrusting our necks
into his blood
with unavowed violence

~~

I am looking for a baptismal font
to hand back my name
to drown it
in its holy water

I take original
sin upon me
once again
like a force
a carapace
that makes me invulnerable

~~

None of our complaints
will be heard

God is a deaf-mute
No on has taught us
sign language

~~

The fallen angel
who looked at himself
in the water
drowned
in  his image

~~

On the seventh day
God fell asleep

the earth is still trembling
from his snoring

~~

God
lights a fire
in the darkness
to discover
in the blue of the flames
another darkness

~~

I no longer believe in God
henceforth
He has to
believe in me

~~

Wasn't it written
that he who'd drink
the blood of Christ
and eat his flesh
would be reborn  like Him

But his blood coagulated
in our mouths
is flesh spoiled
under our eyes -

We will  live on
dust
and rain

Because our death
will be a death
that lasts











The next poem is from my most recent eBook, New Days and New Ways. I did a book of short stories, Sonyador, the Dreamer, before this one as a break for the poetry. I have another book of prose I may do next, but haven't decided. In any case I published this last book of poetry just last year.











starburst

     days
like starbursts,
bright
and blazing clear...

nights
dark and cold,
the sky
black
on a field
of  razzle-dazzle...

somewhere
another creature of nights and days
looks to the dark
above his indeterminate head
and sees the brilliant mark of mine
among the billions
in the canvas
of his  sky,
just as I see above me
the fire that warms
his night
and lights his day...

together
we imagine
the
other -
star-gazing brothers
across
the universal
divide,
extended family
spanning
the further-most reaches
of nights and
days...

alone, still,
but no longer lonely








Next from the anthology, this poem is by Slovakian poet Mila Haugova. Born in Budapest in 1942, Haugova moved around as a child with her family. She worked as an  monogamist before becoming a secondary school teacher. Inheriting the politics of her father who was a political prisoner in the early fifties, she went to Canada after the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, but returned after a year. She makes her living as an editor and translator.

Her poem was translated from the Slovak by James Sutherland-Smith and Viera Sutherland-Smith.




Alpha Centauri

Or it could also be different.
Only the entangled voice, flexible bodies, stems,
a gentle bestiary instead of animals
until after you've recognized the signs. Snow  on the face.
Lakes in the sea. You remember only the last line.
Just now you will catch the stone spiral in a trail for light:
we have made  love before being born. In the March snow
a moonstone. The boy angel holds the whole sky with his soul.
We'll be lost together in loss. I'm nothing of what
I am part. I pretend that there's no shadow beyond my  body.
Only a silent diamond under your hand. A double-winged knife, foothills
into which I move unaware. Crags, hot backs, defiles.
A fertile mythology: he transparency of the routes of birds.
A bird falls between my feet. It widens the rift in both directions.
Double-mouth. Unvoiced speech. You wish to close
what should remain open. Unknown languages wander through us,
fitting tightly to the limits of escaping rays.
Lord, how it blazes. The animals crouched within us guard
the last warmth.










In addition to morning moodiness, I have been dealing for more than a week with an walking boot on my  left foot for some so far undiagnosed pain issues in my ankle/foot. Or I should saw  initially mis-diagnosed as  gout, currently thought to be a fracture of some kind instead. Looking forward to an  MRI tomorrow which may disclose why I've been hobbling around on the  40 lb (well, it feels like it anyway) boot for so long. Anyway, it hurts worse at night and in the early morning when I'm trying to get all my parts working, which may affect my mood and and my unsuccessful search for happy talk poems.

Late  update, torn ligaments and cartilage on the inside of my ankle. Will see an appropriate doctor  next  week, but expect I'll be wearing the boot for a while.






embrace the fog

tall,
very thin woman
crossing the street, lucky
she's not a couple of blocks nearer
fog-bound downtown
or she'd  just slip between
the tiny drops of fog-stuff
and be never seen  again,
even
on the clearest days

the reason
fog makes us uneasy,
thousands of skinny people
lost
between
the foggicals, bumping us
sometimes as they pass, just like the fog,
a tiny wisp of contact, reminding us
of the presence in life
of much we
cannot
see

strange and scary things
making an almost unnoticed
wisp of contact from
within the fog, from
within the
dark...

~~~

embrace the fog;
embrace the dark;
embrace all the lost
who daily watch over your shoulder
from those places you do not
wish to go,
sometimes with just a whisper
felt
but neve5 heard

find your comfort
in the
darkest night, thickest fog,
for someday they will be
a place for you within
the black that summons you
oh so quietly
today
tonight









Next, Serbian poet Zvonko Karanovic. I couldn't find a good biography of the poet on the web and the very short bio at the back of the anthology says only that he was born in 1959 in Nis, Serbia and, at the time the book was published, lived in Belgrade. Also, it says that he is the author of seven books of poetry and two novels.

His poem in the anthology was translated from Serbian by Tomislav Kuzmanovic.









Melancholy

It is almost painless
like loneliness
like the smell of  blond, just-washed hair
caught accidentally while passing
water flowers keep on dying
until one
lives to see the morning
and then they disappear
I'll tell you once
about the wreaths of dried flowers
we left
on every birch tree
lost in the fog
on a muddy road somewhere in the country
about the girl whose hands shiver in the rain
for seven long years
I was looking for my sister
and found her one afternoon
behind the first row of books
on plants
her voice was metal
she swallowed coins
and joints
with chocolate
we never met
she slept in the walnut shell
and said that conversations are
nothing but long good-byes
she used to enter my room often
and touch my hair until
she turned into dust
into hands that shiver
in the rain








Pushing Clouds Against the Wind, my first e Book that I screwed up by trying to do it all myself, left me very disappointed with myself for leaving good poetry in such a clumsy package.

Here's a poem from the book, a little poetic lesson in biology. Back in the early 2000s when a lot of the poems from the book were written, I found much inspiration in the NY Times Thursday Science Section.







this is what I learned so far today

little frogs
lie
for sex

well
how do
they do that
you might ask

(this is the interesting part)

big frogs
have deep
bass voices

little fogs
have little
squeaky voices

though
lady frogs
don't care
the size
of the
croak
some little fogs
learn how to  deepen
their voices
so they sound
really big
and really
really
frog-macho
scaring
much of their
competition
from the pond
and leaving
all the little
green girlie frog
darlings
to  themselves

anyone who's spent
an evening
at any West Texas
honky-tonk
will understand
the principle
immediately











I mentioned my book of short stories, Sonyador, the Dreamer, a collection of tiny stories that together tell the life of a young boy growing  up in South Texas in the 1950s. Here's one of those tiny pieces.











13. Double Feature

     Delfina  was a pretty little girl, a year behind Sonny in school, small, alabaster complexion with tiny freckles across her nose, and long, blond hair with curls that gathered up around her shoulders.  
     (Sexy, too, for a seventh grader, with appropriate cures and protuberances in appropriate places, accouterments new to her and the appreciation of which only recently new to Sonny.)
     Sonny liked her  because, in addition to being pretty, she laughed a lot and Sonny liked girls that laughed. So he called her up on a Wednesday night to ask her to go to the movie with him on Saturday afternoon. The Pertts had closed their store for a week for a trip to Midland  to see their son, Winslow, so Sonny had a whole Saturday afternoon off.
     And  Delfina said,  sure, she'd like to  go  to the movie, so Saturday right after lunch he walked to her  house and then together they walked to the movie.
     It was a double feature (it was always a double feature at this little theater in Sonny's little town), and the first movie went great. It was not a good movie, but Sonny was so caught up  in sitting so close in the dark with a girl, especially a pretty girl like Delfina, that it could have been 65 minutes of ducks quacking and he would have thought it was great.
     The second movie was about a giant monster octopus that slithers up out of the ocean and starts squeezing people with its long arms  until they looked like a pile of mashed potatoes, sucks them up with a kind of long nozzle thing. It may have been a giant monster octopus or maybe a regular octopus that had been caught in an undersea radiation storm from nuclear testing, which seemed more reasonable, but Sonny didn't know and that was why he was looking forward to seeing the movie since he had heard about the previews and been wondering ever since about what kind of giant monster octopus it was going to turn out to be.
     But during the intermission between the two movies,  Belmont showed up, and when the monster octopus movie finally got started it turned out that Belmont was sitting next  to Delfina and  Sonny was sitting next to Belmont.
     The octopus movie was ruined because Sonny was concentrating on what the other two were doing - because the first time the giant monster octopus leaped from the sea Delfina grabbed Belmont's arm and, so far as Sonny could tell, never let go and then toward the end of the movie it looked like Delfina had her head resting on Belmont's shoulder.
     And Sonny completely missed the part of the movie when the alien monster octopus/irradiated monster  octopus question was answered so he ended up not knowing anymore about the that than he did before the movie started.
     And then, after the movie, as they were walking home, the two of them, Delfina and Belmont,
were walking together and Sonny was kind of walking behind and it was clear that  there was a couple  walking  down the street and Sonny wasn't part of it.
     Sonny didn't know what to do - such treachery being new to him; he didn't know how to respond.
     He was thinking he ought to punch Belmont or something, but Belmont was a friend and besides he was  a lot bigger than Sonny and besides Sonny was  embarrassed and figured he would be more embarrassed if the two of them knew how much he was embarrassed and how bad he felt.
     So Sonny slowed his own walking down so that, without them ever noticing, Delfina and Belmont moved further and further away, until, finally, they turned on the street to her house and he walked the other way, straight on home.








Last this week from the anthology, two poets from Germany.


The first poet is Marcel Beyer. Born in 1965, Beyer has a very full resume that I'm not going to try to duplicate here. Details are available on the web.

His poem was translated from German by Michael Hofmann.









Snow

Now which do you mean, the seagulls, the boots
on the dock at night, the snow at night? Trieste
or turku, Turku,, Triese - where are the flakes,
where are the forms, our soles, treading what down?

Do you mean the glimmer on the edge, the deep,
the look in the eye, the open sea? No
snow, snow,dirt, chewing gum, ice and
no snow - the falling snow is all I remember,
blue hands, blue everything.





The second German poet is Nicolai Korbus. Born in 1968, Korbus also has an extensive biography on the web that I'll leave to readers to search out for themselves.

His poem was translated from German by Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright.








anna

anna was a word game. she
could be taken  from behind
as well as from the front, her body stands out
against the clinical white
of the tile walls, the bars
measure her cries lengthwise
back to front until far
down the branching halls,
every heart
is a slaughterhouse, there is no
end of blood













The last new poem for this week, some signs of humor returning.












whichever comes first

 the sky
a flat gray
like the cell
of a midnight prowler

the bay,
too,
the same flat gray,
not a ripple in it, so  still,
so jaded,
even the flying fish
are too bored
to fly...

gulf coast  morning
in the doldrums of mid-summer -
ennui
as painted by a master...

it will be  hot
with the  sun breaks  through,
even this early,
already
heating up, and humid,
like the sweaty hug of an insincere
evangelist, offering no comfort,
like the day, no breeze
to break the still,
to offer comfort, hope
for new love
in a place long gone sterile...

or even a cold beer
instead,
wet dripping from melting ice
in a six-pack bucket...

whichever comes
first - love or
alcohol...

it's just that kind of a
day











As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me.



As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:
 

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)



´╗┐Poetry
New Days & New Ways


Places and Spaces
 



Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around




Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Short Stories


Sonyador - The Dreamer




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