Nettle, O prow of this shore where it is shattered, Frozen erect in the wind, Make me the sign of presence, o my servant In your black, scaly gown. O grey stone If it is true that you have within you blood's color, Let flow out some of the blood coursing through you, Open for…
I was lucky enough to overcome fear: I didn't sign the loyalty oath —and yet I'm free. Free? My time of trial only now begins. 12/1981
trans. Russian Richard Lourie In memory it will be like this — the Dnieper River, Trukhanov Island, springtime, a near crimson sunset . . . us running together, arms racing in air. A nameless sadness went through my heart. Why? Weren't we together. Us three. At our games. But then evening fell. Time to leave….
trans. French Ron Horning (On May 13, 1921, in an auditorium in Paris, the Dada poets try writer and politician Maurice Barrès for "crimes against the freedom of the spirit." A store mannequin is used as a dummy for Barrès, who in his recent fiction and journalism has spoken out eloquently in behalf of reactionary…
trans. Polish Richard Lourie “Same with this lieutenant we had in the army, name of Wozniak, a tall in the saddle kind of guy, yes, sir,” and along my temple the sober rectilinear chill of the scissors, clack of a razon on a strop behind me, local clarinets grinning on the radio. That I sailed…
trans. Russian Richard Lourie Having looked all around with an easy gaze, matting the grass as he walked that first day, he lay down in the shade of a fig tree and fell asleep, his hands behind his head. His sleep was sweet and deep and free beneath the blue peace of Eden's sky. ….
We worship love because it's more useful than anything else in the world. As money becomes increasingly necessary and hard to get, it too seems more attractive, more awe-inspiring, like love. — I could say the opposite with as much sincerity. — My poverty is easier to bear when I remember the wealthy, and that's…
(The first protest leaflet. June, 1956.) A ten year old boy runs out to a street puffy with sleep. The June sun crunches underfoot reflected by strewn glass. Like a kite the closed kiosk trails a line of people. No one speaks, eyes are seldom raised. Normally the papers were always there by then. The…
trans. Russian Richard Lourie Whether your prey's Virgil, lark of the fields, or Baudelaire the albatross, or nightingale Verlaine, remember, no bird free as these ever yields to lures and traps without your craft and pain. Dear poet, catcher of birds, without deceit and ruses, without some violence, you don't stand a chance, though you…
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