Death's Jest

What if I die? 'Twere little grief!

But one fear wrings my breast—

Perhaps Death too, may play on me

A grim, insulting jest.

I fear that over my cold corpse

Hot tears may fall in showers;

That someone, with a foolish zeal,

May heap my bier with flowers;

Come!

Come, bright blue holiday of spring,

With all thy hopes and fears,

And let my peace be broken,

And let my heart know tears!

Come! Spare not this weak spirit!

Wake all that sleeps to-day

In silence, and thy blossoms give

To strew along my way!

For you are that

O you who are the transcription of God's scripture

And the mirror of his majestic beauty,

Whatever exists in the world is not outside of you

Seek in yourself anything you want, for you are that.

Abul Majd ad-Din Baghdadi 

translated by R. Saberi

(Picture: Untitled (sun face), Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes)

El Descanso del Guerrero

Los muertos están cada día más indóciles.

Antes era fácil con ellos:

les dábamos un cuello duro una flor

lo ábamos sus nombres en una larga lista:

que los recintos de la patria

que las sombras notables

que el márbol monstruoso.

O guardador de rebanhos IX

Sou um guardador de rebanhos.

O rebanho é os meus pensamentos

E os meus pensamentos são todos sensações.

Penso com os olhos e com os ouvidos

E com as mãos e os pés

E com o nariz e a boca.

Pensar uma flor é vê-la e cheirá-la

E comer um fruto é saber-lhe o sentido.

Life

No, no! I pray not for eternal sleep,

Nor sadly call on death its peace to give;

One wish alone, with flame unquenchable,

Burns in my soul—it is the wish to live.

The wintry blizzard, with its icy hands,

Thus to break down a living tree doth strive;

But, though it bends to earth with frozen boughs,

It fights and struggles on, that it may live.

G. Galin

translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

(Picture: Pine tree, Eyvind Earle)

Freedom

( Written at the time of the emancipation of the serfs. ) 

O'er thy plains, my native country,

In the years now past away,

Never did I ride with feelings

Such as fill my soul to-day!

In its mother's arms reposing,

Lo! a peasant's child I see,

And my heart is stirred to gladness

By a thought most dear to me.

La trampa

Qué trampa este crepúsculo
qué calma desplomada sobre todo
qué simulacro inútil
qué sonrojo

en paz siguen las nubes
cómo quisiera en paz
y silenciosas
el aire tiene gracia
por una vez tangible
compartida
y nadie está sediento
o por lo menos nadie tan sediento
como para matar
o destrozarse

Wind rising in the alleys

Wind rising in the alleys

My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls. 

You are full of unspent dreams....

You are laden with beginnings....

There is hope in you... not sweet... acrid as blood in the mouth.

Love's ebb and flow

Believe me not, dear, when in hours of anguish

I say my love for thee exists no more.

At ebb of tide, think not the sea is faithless;

It will return with love unto the shore.

E'en now I pine for thee with old-time passion,

And place my freedom in thy hands once more.

Already, with loud noise, the waves are hasting

Back from afar to the beloved shore.

A. K. Tolstoy 

translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

(Picture: Tide, Fyodor Vasilyev)

White

White is the evening nature of my thought

When neutral time that drains the night of green

Flows through the dusk in mimic dawn of white.

So pale the distance where blue morning shone

Knits to the whitest crises of our stars,

Burning the nightly ambience of alone,

Night and Morning

We shall be buried on an eve stifling and close,

'neath cloudy skies;

Lightnings will play, the river roar, the forest

utter moans and sighs.

The night will be a night of storm; mighty in

their stupendous power,

Rain, fire and thunder will burst forth from

those dread clouds that darkly lower.

Green

The dawn was apple-green,     

The sky was green wine held up in the sun,       

The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green           

They shone, clear like flowers undone

For the first time, now for the first time seen.

D. H. Lawrence

(Picture: A green thought in a green shade, Helen Frankenthaler)

XVI Poema

Las leyes son para que las cumplan

los pobres.

Las leyes son hechas por los ricos

para poner un poco de orden a la explotación.

Los pobres son los únicos cumplidores de leyes de la historia.

Cuando los pobres hagan las leyes

ya no habrá ricos.

Roque Dalton

Wake up

How long, oh, how long will you suffer in bondage

In slavery still to remain?

How long will you toil to create all the riches

For those who reward you with pain?

How long, oh, how long, will you carry the yoke

Of oppression and sorrow and fear?

Awaken! And see the new day that is dawning

A free song is ringing mighty clear!

Ring out, bells of freedom! Let’s gather together

The suffering slaves in all lands

An old workman

Warped... gland-dry...

With spine askew

And body shrunken into half its space...

Well-used as some cracked paving-stone...

Bearing on his grimed and pitted front

A stamp... as of innumerable feet.

Lola Ridge

(Picture: Worker in a cap, Pavel Filonov)