Sunday, September 25, 2022

PHAROAH SANDERS~

 



P H A R O A H     S A N D E R S

Little Rock, Ark., Oct 13, 1940 ~ Los Angeles, Set 24, 2022






Saturday, September 24, 2022

IRYNA SHUVALOVA ~


 


into the sweet orchard



you will go, woman, into the sweet orchard

a bone through a throat

a chunk of clay that melts

slowly burying yourself

in the dark pond of his body


you'll go as if into a river

first — a large fish

with a white belly full of dreams

second — a bloody berry

a closed fist full of bitter seeds

third — an empty jar

with a narrow

neck full of song


each time you enter you won't have a name

each time you enter you'll carry a mouthful of names

you'll swallow them beyond the gates

so that again you won't have any

so that you can return



__________________________

Iryna Shuvalova

Pray to the Empty Wells

translated by Olena Jennings

Lost Horse Press, 2019




Thursday, September 22, 2022

Tuesday, September 20, 2022

Monday, September 19, 2022

ARAM SAROYAN ON SAROYAN ~

 



A marvelous interview with William Saroyan's

son, the poet Aram Saroyan




Sunday, September 18, 2022

Saturday, September 17, 2022

Tomaž Šalamun ~

 



Maria


I


This is a book

for little girls.

The most

beautiful and perversely soft

book

for little girls' eyes.

Block-chested

stags

sprout from the soil.

They crap

and leave their mess

but I

can't tell

if they were here

or not.



II


I'm a

blueberry.

I'm the sweet black

blueberry

under the pine

in the forest.

I still have time

about two days

before

a little girl

or a shepherd

passes

with a cup

and a rake-comb.



III


I'm a she-mouse

who tumbled

through a long tunnel

onto the soft grass.

With my tiny teeth

I licked

the stovepipe

and with my

tiny claws

scratched through the wall

into the rosy day.



IV


And I stood at the

foot of the

fence

and watched

the cold peacock-butterfly

up above.

Clouds

rushed behind

his wings.

I lay down

head against the

fence,

drank all

the mother's milk

the oil of the earth.



V


And in the

snare jutting

from the corner of the stovepipe

I saw a mousetrap.

Out of a hole in the sky

rain fell.

I hit the mousetrap

with a straw

already rusty

it snatched at the

rowen

at the old grass

that the cattle ignored

to graze.



VI


I placed

on the anvil

a dainty shoe.

I hit it so

hard

sparks flew

when I resoled it.

I gave it no thought

how electricity

appeared

in the dark stovepipe

under the earth

how the shoe

appeared

in my fate.



VII


Then I gave

birth to little ones

through my

butt

and placed them on the

dark bottom

of the stovepipe.

I hewed a playpen

for them on

the shiny grass

stuck flags

in the humus

next to each

wooden leg.

I rested

a hand on my hip.

With the hand on my hip

I looked

up.



VIII


Most likely

flying birds

were

black spots.

I snatched the pacifier

from my son's mouth

that ruined

the angle of my hand

on my hip.

Clasping the pacifier

my hand swung

the span of

five inches.




IX


How is it

possible

to sleep on soft

grass in the sunless

black earth?

Can one see

the light

of the other sky?

I'm a she-mouse

red

the pinkest

among animals

pink paws

pink whiskers

I'm not even a mole.



X


Surround me

my snow-laden

blue-ravaged

leaves.

I'm the

dark red

unprotected

wild strawberry.

Who

caresses me

who

touches me

who will actually

pick me

is not yet clear.



____________________

Druids

Tomaž Šalamun

trans. Sonja Kravanja

Black Ocean, 2018







Friday, September 16, 2022

MAYA ABU AL-HAYYAT ~



You Can't


They will fall in the end,

those who say you can't.

It'll be age or boredom that overtakes them,

or lack of imagination.

Sooner or later, all leaves fall to the ground.

You can be the last leaf.

You can convince the universe

that you pose no threat

to the tree's life.



Wishes


She wished he'd been the first

she had loved and the last she would love.

The kind of wishes that repeat in love

stories and in stories of death:

"I wish today was the last day of this world

and that you were my final love."

Mere wishes to bombard time with.

Truly infidel wishes —

like wanting to be someone else

with kinder parents

who buy more presents for her

in a house with central heating

and windows overlooking the sea —

blind wishes that don't quit.


She wished it was love

like any love

patting her eyelids in the evening

as she waited on the balcony,

gathering her feelings with invocations,

fragrance, food, and kisses.

A love worth a thousand loves,

a love with two hands.




Daydream


I'll write about a joy that invades Jenin from six directions,

about children running while holding balloons in Am'ari Camp,

about a fullness that quiets breastfeeding babies all night in Askar,

about a little sea we can stroll up and down in Tulkarem,

about eyes that stare in people's faces in Balata,

about a woman dancing

for people in line at the checkpoint in Qalandia,

about stitches in the sides of laughing men in Azzoun,

about you and me

stuffing our pockets with seashells and madness

and building a city.



____________________

Maya Abu Al-Hayyat

trans. Fady Joudah

You Can Be the Last Leaf

 —selected poems

Milkweed Editions 2020




Saturday, September 10, 2022

Friday, September 9, 2022

NELLY SACHS ~



                                                        Nelly Sachs, 1938




HOW MANY HOMELANDS

play cards in the air

as the refugee passes through the mystery


How much sleeping music

in the wooded thicket

where the wind, all alone,

plays the midwife.


Lightning-split

the alphabet-spurgewood

sows

in devouring conception

God's first word.


Fate twitches

in the bloodcoursing meridians of a hand —


Everything is endless

and hung on the rays

of a distance.


_________________


Nelly Sachs

Flight and Metamorphosis

translated by Joshua Weiner

Farrar, 2022




Wednesday, September 7, 2022

MICHAEL ROTHENBERG



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Tuesday, September 6, 2022

AHMAD JAMAL, "Autumn Leaves" ~

 



Ahmad Jamal at age 87; he's now 92.



Sunday, September 4, 2022

Saturday, September 3, 2022

SOMETHING CLOSE TO MUSIC `

 




No Longer Very Clear


It is true that I can no longer remember very well

the  time when we first began to know each other.

However, I do remember very well

the first time we met. You walked in sunlight,

holding a daisy. You said, "Children made unreliable witnesses."


Now, so long after that time,

I keep the spirit of it throbbing still.

The ideas are still the same, and they expand

to fill vast, antique cubes.


My daughter was reading one just the other day.

She said, " How like pellucid statues, Daddy. Or like a. . .

an engine."


In this house of blues the cold creeps stealthily upon us.

I do not dare to do what I fantasize doing.

With time the blue congeals into roomlike purple

that takes the shape of alcoves, landings. . .

Everything is like something else.

I should have waited before I learned this.


_________________________


Something Close to Music

John Ashbery

David Zwirner Books

2022


___________________________________________

If you can't stand Ashbery's work 

this is just the book for you —

impeccable poems (meaning: inventive,

crisp, word-saturated) diced with

square smart art criticism,

(there isn't a tired page)

and the price of this

handsome size book

is also ideal.

Take a bow

Jeffrey Lependorf.

(editor)






Friday, September 2, 2022

Thursday, September 1, 2022

ALBERT AYLER, HOLY FAMILY (1970) ~

 





South of France, July 27, 1970

(in three months he'd be gone)