Author: Website Editor

Following a discussion

(Suite à une discussion, octobre 2018)

Françoise Guichard (Facebook poet)

(Suite à une discussion, octobre 2018)

On ne peut plus ces temps parler de bel automne : J’aurais aimé vous dire : le violon violonne... Le doux vent est parti cédant place au cyclone Et je ne parle pas de la couche d’ozone ! Tandis que je marchais sur la côte bretonne Écrasant des déchets (plastique et silicone) Je songeais tristement à son bilan carbone...

Following a discussion

Can't say 'the fine autumn', that concept has gone. Verlaine's violins, I can't say they play on. The zephyrs have vanished, instead we've a cyclone. Who'd lower the tone with the layer of ozone? I was walking a coastline, in fact it was Breton, I trampled on garbage of plastic and silicone, Thinking, how sad, the imbalance of carbon.

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PARIS Metro Poem 2015

Poème d'ératépé, 2015

Françoise Guichard (Facebook poet)

Poème d'ératépé, 2015

La station Georges V, sur le quai de la une M'a offert une vue qui m'a rendue fort aise Sur les panneaux de pub plus d'affiche importune Mais des reproductions du peintre *Velasquez*.

PARIS Metro Poem 2015

George the Fifth station platform, on Line One: in the advertisements, no more obnoxious images, but instead a lot more fun: relaxing reproductions of *Velásquez*.

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Tube-train Breeze

French

Tube-train Breeze

Post author By Website Editor
Post date January 2, 2000

Françoise Guichard (Facebook poet)

Il y avait du vent à Louvres-Rivoli Dans le couloir menant à mon quai de métro. Souffle fort remontant et cherchant la sortie Soulevant les cheveux et gonflant les manteaux. À cette profondeur d'où vient donc cet air-là Qui cherche à s'échapper s'envolant vers la rue ? Est-il dans une bouche entré à Opéra Puis se serait enfin dans la une perdu ? Est-ce-qu'il nait au fond des sous-sols glacés ? Ou d'un lieu infernal là où sont les damnés ? J'aimerais savoir d'où vient cet air que j'inspire ! Serait-ce pas plutôt en réfléchissant bien Un mouvement qui nait par vitesse des trains ? Turbulence en folie à trajectoire en spire.

Tube-train Breeze

At High Street Kensington there was a wind as I approached my platform, in the passage: a rising, hefty gust, that tried to find the exit. Coats ballooned, hair got the massage. How did it get down here? That's quite a hard one. It tries to fly, to flee! Perhaps it flew in by some orifice at Covent Garden, ending up baffled on the Bakerloo. Born in a frozen subterranean cell, or in some region of the damned in hell? I wonder where it's from, this air I'm breathing! A cause more likely, if I use my brains, would be the rapid motion of the trains: mad turbulence, that drives a spiral's wreathing.

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Lenten Light

French

Guillaume Cingal: Lenten Light

Post author By Website Editor
Post date January 2, 1999

Guillaume Cingal

Comme février soudain rend Nostalgique, avec sa lumière. Au Trivial Pursuit on apprend Que le lapin a six paupières.

Lenten Light

Lenten light: sudden tricks: our nostalgic habit. Trivial Pursuit says: six eyelids on a rabbit.

Guillaume Cingal on Twitter

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Tags Animals

IN GIRUM IMUS NOCTE ET CONSUMIMUR IGNI

Death and The Maiden: an Acrostic

Bethany W Pope (1995)

The poet’s acrostic project involves “four deconstructed acrostic sestinas, twenty-four double-acrostic sonnets, and an acrostic specular. The story is orphic.” This is the acrostic specular at the centre of her project.

Death and The Maiden: an Acrostic

In the house of Death pain and pleasure are one. Never mind the face he wears; those bare sockets, that sharp grin. Grasp him, hard. Push against those jutting hip bones. In this tangle of sheets (scented with sex and rot) Reason dissolves like bone in acid, revealing something else Under the mask. There is something beautiful, Madness, perhaps, or possibly truth. In the joyful agony of this moment a revelation blooms. Muscles crowd in to cover the bone. Naked, Under a sheen of silk and lily-dew, Skeletal hands clutch fat, round paps. Nearing the threshold of something unspeakable, Open your eyes; behold your lover. Tension Contorts the fibers of your heart. Trembling limbs threaded together; a blissful arrhythmia. Even Death can learn the pleasure of a shudder. Even Death can learn the pleasure of a shudder. Trembling limbs threaded together; a blissful arrhythmia Contorts the fibers of your heart. Open your eyes. Behold your lover; tension. Nearing the threshold of something unspeakable, Skeletal hands clutch fat, round paps. Under a sheen of silk and lily-dew, Muscles crowd in to cover the bone. Naked In the joyful agony of this moment, a revelation blooms. Madness, perhaps, or possibly truth. Under the mask there is something beautiful. Reason dissolves like bone in acid, revealing something else. In this tangle of sheets (scented with sex and rot) Grasp him, hard. Push against those jutting hip bones; Never mind the face he wears. Those bare sockets; that sharp grin. In the house of Death pain and pleasure are one.

IN GIRUM IMUS NOCTE ET CONSUMIMUR IGNI

In Mortis aede mel dolor, fel gaudium. Ne terreant te rictus, orbes, os grave: Grande prehendas, pelvis ossa comprimas. Instat libido putris in linis odor. Recincta mens ut ossa aceto: ostenditur, Ut excidit persona, pulchritudinis Merum, et furoris, veritatis omina. In his doloris gaudiis mens certior: Miscentur ossi muscula et nuda omnia: Udis sub ortus palliis cum lilio Surgunt papillae quas premunt durae manus. Nefanda sunt propinqua: vade ad limina! Orbes recludens ipsum amatorem vide! Cordis toros contorquet incitatio. Tremunt beati ardoris artus artubus. Et Mors voluptatem tremoris excipit. Et Mors voluptatem tremoris excipit. Tremunt beati ardoris artus artubus. Cordis toros contorquet incitatio. Orbes recludens ipsum amatorem vide! Nefanda sunt propinqua: vade ad limina! Surgunt papillae quas premunt durae manus. Udis sub ortus palliis cum lilio Miscentur ossi muscula et nuda omnia: In his doloris gaudiis mens certior: Merum, et furoris, veritatis omina, Ut excidit persona, pulchritudinis. Recincta mens ut ossa aceto ostenditur. Instat libido putris in linis odor. Grande prehendas, pelvis ossa comprimas. Ne terreant te rictus, orbes, os grave: In Mortis aede mel dolor, fel gaudium.

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Loredana Lipogram

Loredana

Deniz Otay (1993)

Loredana

Dimineața părăsesc o locuință care nu e a mea și nu e plătită de mine traversând puhoiuri dintr-o micuță groapă din care aștept să vină dumnezeu să mă scoată. Fac drumul spre fabrică. E o putere să ceri de la corp adaptare și tot de la corpul înghesuit în autobuz printre proletariatul distrus, elevii cu ochii umflați, să te țină în bunăstare. La orele astea pe sub layers, ca muncitorii din fabrică când trec podul spre fabrică sau calea ferată cu câini vagabonzi și frică de antitetanos oare cât sunt de frumoasă, specială, mai sunt? Cum îți vine halatul muncitoresc, prințesă extrasă din petreceri și trai vegetal, alunecând între ființe estice, buhăite pe care nu le iubesc. Despre experimentalism și mistică e numai viața pe mess, când trec poarta la fabrică nu am autorități interne, ierarhii de iubire. Suntem dizgrațios de apropiați și asemănători ieșiți din case după bani Viața la pontaj pune ceață peste viața iluminaților privilegiați. Au fost ani cu splendoare continui să cred că a fost halucinație și că munca e forță. Însă dacă e să aleg – suprema fericire derivată din carduri diavoli și lux în fața voastră mă plec.

Loredana Lipogram

Let’s see whether we need the letter E Most mornings I walk out of a pad that I don’t own and didn’t pay for I go past floods of humanity in a grotty ditch in which I wait for god to fix my way out I go on to that factory I work in. It’s tough to ask your body to adapt and to ask your body in that crush of a bus among our worn-down working class, schoolkids with puffy drooping lids, to guard you intact. At that hour in clothing as thick as a factory hand’s as I cross a gangway to that factory or railway tracks with stray dogs and scary inoculations against toxic filth I ask: just how alluring am I, miraculous, am I, still? How might that work-coat suit you, royal scion, torn away from nights of fun and your world in blossom, scrabbling among migrants with fat chops that I’m not at all fond of. As for philosophical inquiry and mysticism, that’s only for typing in my PM box. I go into that factory having no instinct of authority, no organisation chart of loving. We are disastrously akin and similar going out to toil for a crust clocking-on casts a blight on your bright lights your insouciant fun. Long ago I had so many months of glory I think now that it was a hallucination and that hard work is compulsory. But if I was choosing – the total bliss of buying with plastic such diabolical luxury – Calf of gold, I bow down!

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Tags Lipograms

At a Loss in Alaska

Un día andaba la Muerte

Gabriela Olmos (1982)

Un día andaba la Muerte

Un día andaba la Muerte Queriendo abrir un panteón. Y así llegó hasta Alaska Buscando un helado rincón. Tras horas de divagar Ya andaba la Parca perdida. Sin más, acabó por llegar Directito a la 4a Avenida. Grande fue su asombro: ¡Se encontró un tremendo fiestón! Mexicanos hombro a hombro En ruidosa celebración. Chocolate, pan, alguna calavera, Bailables, altares, un par de catrinas Calorcito humano en esa heladera... ¡No hay frío en Alaska con fiestas tan finas! Así fue que la Flaca Dejó de planear un panteón. ¿Quién quiere morir en Alaska, si la vida es un gran reventón?

At a Loss in Alaska

When Death was dead-set on a Task, a Splendiferous Hall of Repose, he came to look in Alaska for a spot that was suitably froze. For hours he strayed and he wandered, a lost disconsolate spectre, till finally he meandered to Avenue Número Quatro. He was quite amazed to behold a gigantic jollification! Mexicans shoulder to shoulder in a noisy celebration. Chocolate, bread-loaves, a skull, dapper skeletons, altars, jesters: human warmth in this chill, Alaska melted by fiestas! So Death flaked out of his Task, a Splendiferous Multiple Grave. Who wants to die, in Alaska, where life is a riotous rave?

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Forbidden Fruit

Fruta prohibida

Itzel Yarger Zagal (1979)

Fruta prohibida

***¿Qué humor puede ser más raro ***que el que, falto de consejo, ***él mismo empaña el espejo, ***y siente que no esté claro? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ *****Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz***** Entre volcaneS la vieron nacer envuelta en dOs climas Nepantla bruja espíritu Rebelde mujer persecución a Juana la santa. Libros con locUra sembraste sin causa sin rAzón solevantas en falsa pose Niña no te conformaste amor música A tu desnudez insensata. Belleza entendImiento en la cabeza no la cabeza siN entendimiento, riqueza verdadEra fue tu perseverancia hombres necioS sin sentimiento. Igualdad y pariDad presagios sin alEvosía y ventaja. Voces como avaLancha de fuego cada vez que unA mujer dice: ¡basta! No más crucifiCadas, madre loca o pRostituta, del amor que bUscas mestizaje de luZ y prohibida fruta.

Forbidden Fruit

***For plain default of common sense, ***could any action be so queer ***as oneself to cloud the mirror, ***then complain that it’s not clear? ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ *****Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz***** ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ from ‘Stupid Men’ (anonymous translation) Volcanoes bleSsed her nurturing: Nepantla’s twOfold atmosphere, Soul of a sorceRess, questioning. They hounded Joan, the good, the pure. You sowed yoUr books with lunacy, uncaused unreAsoned mutiny, conforming to No falsity: love’s music, stArk simplicity. Beauty, a brain, Intelligence, without intelligeNce no brain. true riches your rEsilience, all the unfeeling Stupid men. Fairness of genDer parity, impartial, honEst prophecy. Voices, an avaLanche of fire whenever womAn says: no more! Women! be cruCified no more, no deranged motheR, prostitute… That love you soUght, two bloodlines bore: … Christ’s dazZling light, forbidden fruit!

The poet and nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, known as the Tenth Muse or the Phoenix of the Americas, is considered a pioneer of the feminist movement in the American continent and the first woman to be published there. She was born in Nepantla in the State of México in 1651 and died in 1695, leaving a vast literary inheritance, notably The First Dream, the poem Stupid Men, and the Response to Sor Filotea.

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Najac

Mme Delaleu (1966)

Found in our hotel scrapbook, staying for Kate Patten's wedding

Najac

Nacelle émergeant des forêts Son château figurant la proue devant ses gorges en arrêt Tout comme un paon qui fait Ia roue Fière toutes voiles au vent N’est point de celles qu’on oublie Venez voir NAJAC la jolie Qui se baigne au soleil levant Elle egrène sous le ciel bleu Ses chapelets de maisons brunes Aux toils de lauzes gris et vieux De l’aurore jusqu’à la brume Et dans un cadre sans pareil Amis à l’humeur voyageuse C’est NAJAC, NAJAC l’orgueilleuse Qui se prélasse au grand soleil J’aime le calme de ses nuits Et la chanson de ses eaux vives Ses deux fontaines de granit Ses colonnades ses ogives Ce que je n’oublierai jamais Quand des fleurs c’est l’apothéose C’est NAJAC croulant sous les roses Lorsqu’ embaume le mois de mai Las mon beau rêve va finir Je pars voyageur solitaire Emportant le cher souvenir De ce coin béni de Ia terre El de l’Aveyron au doux chant Et l’artiste en moi se réveille Pour chanter NAJAC la merveille Qui flamboie au soleil couchant

Najac

Neat craft emerging from the wood The fortress is her figurehead Close alongside the gorges moored A peacock with its plumage spread With sails all proudly crowding on For ever brought by memory back Come gaze on beautiful NAJAC Bathed and refreshed by morning sun Beneath blue sky she meditates Counts her brown houses as she prays With roofs of thick, grey, ancient slates From dawn to shimmering of haze And in a matchless ambience Congenial to the traveller’s mood Noble NAJAC walks tall and proud Basks in the sun’s magnificence I love her deep nocturnal calm Her living water’s serenades Her granite fountains, both of them Her ogives and her colonnades But in my heart for ever there Is blossoming apotheosis NAJAC weighed down by loads of roses When Maytime perfume balms the air A lonely traveller I depart My lovely dream must fade and die Of this blest corner of the earth I guard the precious memory With softly singing Aveyron The artist in me wide awake To sing the marvel of NAJAC Resplendent in the evening sun

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Mitad del Mundo

Raoul Schrott (1964)

The poem is in the form of a letter sent from Ecuador to a loved one, far away. Mitad del Mundo, Middle of the World, is the name of the imposing Equator monument there. The phrase equally means Half the World (Hemisphere) which suggests the distance the letter will travel.The poem's two halves make a mirror image: in this translation, as in the original, the rhymes are perfect, and each line rhymes with, and is precisely the same length as, its counterpart equally far from the middle.The monument consists of a globe mounted on a tall plinth that tapers upwards from its square base. La Condamine in 1735 took geodesic measurements here. Similar work in France later set the length of the new international unit: a metre, defined as one forty-millionth of the earth’s circumference. This prevailed over the older idea of the length of a pendulum swinging for precisely one second. The true position of the Equator was found to be a little distance away, up a mountain. Even the amusing unofficial museum is not plumb on the line. Blurring and inaccuracy are a theme of the poem.

Mitad del Mundo

also schreib ich dir ... und eine art gestufter pyramide markiert die mitte einer wohl nie fertig werdenden touristenstadt ringsum glasig schwarze berge steinbrüche krater wind voll sand · dafür ist die erde hier aus ihren angeln gehoben und auf den sockel eines monuments gesetzt als wäre sie in diesem mittag mit einem ruck erstarrt · grund für meine gleichgültigkeit kann ich keinen sagen aber es ist als brächte das fehlen jeden schattens alles nun ins lot unscharfe kippbilder auf den postkarten der souvenirläden den umfang der welt · kolorierte drucke einer spanischen fortuna mit ihrem erdball · die erinnerung an das türkisblau von spitzen schuhen in einer auslage die du so blau nicht wolltest · unwillkürlich überhörte sätze wie: pedir la luna und tafeln der himmelsmechanik die alle von etwas reden das schablonen bloß veranschaulichen · ein staubigeres licht loht im leeren auf der hinterlassene himmel hat nichts mehr zu tragen und für deine fragen finde ich keinen ausdruck anders als ...doch dieser stillstand brachte zuletzt selbst unser ewiges im kreis bewegen zumindest von hoch oben auf einen gieicher · es stand man habe am äquator den meter nach der weite bestimmt die der pendelschlag hier hat was weiter war als ich von dir bei jedem meiner abschiede

Mitad del Mundo

Right, well I’m writing to you … a sort of stepped pyramid made of stone marks the midpoint of a tourist town whose end-size can’t be reckoned all round are mountains of glassy black and quarries and craters wind full of sand · for this the earth has been levered up from its axis here and put on the plinth of a monument as if at high noon it suddenly suffered suspended animation I cannot propose any reason at all for my equanimity it’s as if the total absence of shadow brought everything into true blurred shaky postcard photos in shops of souvenir tourist tat the girth of the earth the colourized prints of an hispanic fortuna holding her globe · I’ve a memory it’s that turquoise blue of pointed shoes displayed for sale that you found too blue and so didn’t want · phrases heard by chance, like pedir la luna and noticeboards of celestial mechanics, all describing what mock-ups quite simply make obvious · a dusty light flares through the void, for nothing else is on board the deserted sky and in answer to your questions I can unearth no explanation apart from … but by this stasis our ceaseless orbit was sent down from above at last and is at least manoeuvred on to the equable level · in the old days they said the equator’s where they defined the metre, as far as a pendulum swings in a second it’s further away than I’ve been from you, whenever I’ve upped and gone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4W1lcdy4P0 Published in The London Magazine, 2017

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Tags Places, Science