Poetry

trans. Russian Judith Hemschemeyer I will leave your white house and peaceful garden. And life will be empty and bright. As for you, you I will celebrate in my poems, As a woman has never been able to do. And you will remember the dear lover For whose eyes you created this paradise, But I…

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…

(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…

And all day, terrified by its own moans, The crowd churns in agonized grief, And across the river, on funeral banners, Sinister skulls laugh. This is what I wrote and dreamed about, They have ripped my heart apart, As after a volley of gunfire, it's suddenly still, And death send patrols through the courtyards. Summer…

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…

trans. German Bruce Berlind I've sold off everything. The people climbed four flights, rang twice, out of breath, and paid me off on the floor, since the table too had been sold. While I was selling everything, five or six blocks away they expropriated the possessive pronouns and sawed off the shadows, the private ones,…

Don't torment your heart with the joys of earth, Don't cling to your wife or your home, Take the bread from your child To give to a stranger. And be the humblest servant of the one Who was your bitterest foe, And call the beast of the forest brother, And don't ask God for anything,…

Its fury undiminished, the syllogism yesterday struck down thirty-seven new victims in Paris alone. Shortsightedness at the Hôtel de Ville may plunge our nighttime streets into total darkness. The noise of the new electric-light generators has been aggravating the insomnia of the trees that line the boulevards, and last night enraged plane trees fell on…

trans. German Thomas Frick A field of stubble. A black wind thunders. Violet sadness unfolds, The same thoughts come back, mud surrounds the brain; Asters die, leaning on fences, And sunflowers, black and dishevelled. The dreary soul shudders silently Next to the dark and empty window.