Rae Armantrout / Six Poems

Six Poems  by Rae Armantrout

THE GIFT You confuse the image of a fungus with the image of a dick in my poem (understandably) and three days later a strange toadstool (white shaft, black cap, five inches tall) appears between the flagstones in our path We note the invisible web between fence posts in which dry leaves are gently rocked. SUSTAINED      1 To come to in the middle of a vibrato— an “is”— that some soprano’s struggling to sustain.      2 To be awake is to discriminate among birdcalls, fruits, seeds, “to work one’s way,” as they say, “through.”      3 Just now breaking into awareness, falling forward, hurtling inland in all innocence BORDER PERFECTION      1 The days are shorter, but the light seems to stretch out, to hark from a long way off. Horizons snap into focus, while shadows are distended, smudged. It’s happening again; we take discrepancies for openings.      2 The sign that the guy behind me in the “border protection” line is demented is his impatience, the way he asks again and again what we’re waiting for THE VESICLE      1 To our amazement, when fed on fatty acid, the vesicle did not simply grow, it extended itself into a filament. Now the king’s youngest daughter said, “I wish I had something like that”— and the whole vesicle transformed into a slender tube which was quite delicate.      2 Monks mimed one another’s squiggles carefully by candlelight as if they thought creation trailed something, as if they knew creation looked like this from what is always the outside. EXACT Quick, before you die, describe the exact shade of this hotel carpet. What is the meaning of the irregular, yellow spheres, some hollow, gathered in patches on this bedspread? If you love me, worship the objects I have caused to represent me in my absence.      * Over and over tiers of houses spill pleasantly down that hillside. It might be possible to count occurrences. WITH It’s well that things should stir inconsequentially around me like this patina of shadow, flicker, whisper, so that I can be still.      * I write things down to show others later or to show myself that I am not alone with my experience.      * “With” is the word that comes to mind, but it’s not the right word here. CONJUNCTIONS:54, Spring 2010 http://www.conjunctions.com/preview.htm

Alberto Barrera Tyszka / Poetics

Poetics

by Alberto Barrera Tyszka

Translated by Guillermo Parra

It should be clean and brilliant,
like a razor blade
sunk in a glass of wine.

Like a sprig of basil
on the ice.

It should be mortal,
always.

Like desire.

Alberto Barrera Tyszka

Poética

Ha de ser limpia y brillante,
como una hoja de afeitar
hundida en una copa de vino.

Como un tallo de albahaca
sobre el hielo.

Ha de ser mortal,
siempre.

Como el deseo.

James Wright / Lazy on a Saturday Morning

Lazy on a Saturday Morning

By James Wright

Gulls poise on the wet arms

Of the woman who is in love with the sea.

She floats away from the shore on an oak leaf, calling me

By a strange name.

Jacques Prevert / Family Life

FAMILY LIFE 

by Jacques Prevert

FAMILY LIFE (1)

The mother knits
The son goes to the war
She finds this quite natural, the mother
And the father?
What does the father do?
He has his business
His wife knits
His son goes to the war
He has his business
He finds this quite natural, the father
And the son
And the son
What does the son find?
He finds absolutely nothing, the son
The son: his mother does her knitting,
His father has his business
And he has the war
When the war is over
He'll go into business with his father
The war continues
The mother continues knitting
The father continues with his business
The son is killed
He doesn't continue
The father and mother visit the graveyard
They find this natural
The father and the mother
Life goes on
A life of knitting, war, business
Business, war, knitting, war
Business, business, business
Life with the graveyard

FAMILY LIFE (2)

The Mum knits
The kid goes off to the war
It seems kind of normal, to the Mum
And the Dad?
What's the Dad up to?
He's got his job
His old lady's got her knitting
His kid's gone off to the war
He's got his job
It seems kind of normal, to the Dad
And the kid?
What about the kid?
What does he make of it all?
Sweet fuck all
His old woman's got her knitting
His old man's got his job
And he's got the fucking war
And when the war's over
He'll get a job
Like his old man
Anyhow the war goes on
His old woman goes on with her knitting
His old man goes on with his job
He gets his fucking brains blown out
He doesn't go on
He goes under
The Mum and Dad
Go visit the grave
Which seems kind of normal
To the Mum and Dad
And life goes on
A life of knitting, the war, the job
War, knitting, war
Job, job, job
Life in a bloody graveyard

Jacques Prevert / Breakfast

Jacques Prevert
París, 1955
Photo by Robert Doisneau

Breakfast

by Jacques Prevert

Jacques Prévert / Dejeuner du matin (Rimbaud)
Jacques Prévert / Dejeuneur du matin / Video (Rimbaud)
Jacques Prévert / Desayuno (De otros mundos)
Jacques Prévert / Café da manhã (Pessoa)

He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He poured the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He added the sugar
To the coffee and milk
He stirred it
With a teaspoon
He drank the coffee
And put back the cup
Without speaking to me
He lit a cigarette
He blew some rings
With the smoke
He flicked the ashes
Into the ashtray
Without speaking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put his hat
On his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it was raining
He went out
Into the rain
Without a word
Without looking at me
And I
I took my head
In my hands
And I wept