Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Pablo Neruda / Love


LOVE
by Pablo Neruda
BIOGRAPHY
English Translation by Thayne Tuason 

Pablo Neruda / Amor

Mujer, yo hubiera sido tu hijo, por beberte
Woman, I would have been your son, by drink
la leche de los senos como de un manantial,
the milk of the breasts as from a spring,
por mirarte y sentirte a mi lado y tenerte
by looking at you and feeling you next to me and having you
en la risa de oro y la voz de cristal.
in laughter of gold and voice of crystal.
Por sentirte en mis venas como Dios en los ríos
To feel you in my veins like God in the rivers
y adorarte en los tristes huesos de polvo y cal,
and to adore you in the sad bones of dust and lime,
porque tu ser pasara sin pena al lado mío
because you passed without pain at my side
y saliera en la estrofa -limpio de todo mal-.
and left in the stanza- clean from all evil.

Cómo sabría amarte, mujer, cómo sabría
How to know love, woman, I know how
amarte, amarte como nadie supo jamás!
love you, love you like no one ever knew!
Morir y todavía
Die and still
amarte más.
loving you more.

Y todavía
And still
amarte más
loving you more
y más.
and more.



Monday, September 7, 2015

Denise Levertov / Love Poem


LOVE POEM

by Denise Levertov
BIOGRAPHY

What you give me is


the extraordinary sun
splashing its light
                             into astonished trees.
 

A branch
of berries, swaying

under the feet of a bird.

I know
other joys-they taste
bitter, distilled as they are
from roots, yet I thirst for them.

But you-
you give me

the flash of golden daylight
in the body's
midnight,
warmth of the fall noonday
between the sheets in the dark.





Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Linnea Ogden / Three Poems

Jenna Westra. Zero Intermediary, 2015, gelatin silver fiber print.


Three Poems

by Linnea Ogden


The Way We Did It Was
“Going through something”
As though a spaceship made of marsh gas
Hovered overhead
The work of a moment mildewed
Along the edge
The press bed’s relenting skin
Sick at throat with hibiscus
Or rose hips
Our digressions
Black houses on a black street, hanging
Over dog-pawed ground
 Edward Wilson (2)
There is distance down. A sounding. As the anchor falls. There is distance from
the last landmark. New Zealand or Cape Town. The defunct hut of last year’s party.
To the man next to me. From the edges of my sleeping bag. There is longitude.
Temperature and ice crystals. But whatever else to measure and notate
there’s God and may he be pleased. With me and my body. So fit and full of cocoa.
Spent forenoon drawing dolphins. The afternoon in skiing. The Owner and I
hiked up to the point. Discussed how we must not lose the men. Or ponies.
The dog I found. Covered in seal blood. Three months later. Bad for the seals.
And from the moon. Much closer in the winter. Which is to say summer for all you
dear people. Back home whose light makes a cross. Is a pattern of expanding.
Circles which make way for the Aurora. Usually lemon yellow. A kind of sun
replacement. Though seal fat for breakfast makes us shine bright enough.

Ways of Looking at My Gender
Like a toad describing warts there are things
I can’t quite reach
My bride is a fetish and also a friend
More excited about a parking spot and a ripe banana
than a richly theoretical text
I still underline like I’m qualified to offer advice to people of color
Imagine a blue window in the middle of your forehead
Mine shows a cold beer in a wide-mouth Mason jar
blinking like a broken neon sign
I don’t feel sorry for myself
but I do wish some authors
would write more trilogies
The sun just makes me tired
The position of the average human
is a shadow territory where they ought to be
Surrounded by the rung metal of roadworks
In early morning filthy calm I gather too-small paper clips
to clip unwieldy stacks of essays
What a rush to be near your phone when I leave messages
Self-pity is a window into real space and
flesh is weaker than the flesh
but given a chance light catches on the least pen stroke
I push someone on the bus until the bus moves forward into the rain
carries speech with our sticky thighs

Linnea Ogden lives in San Francisco. Her work has appeared in Conduit, Boston Review,DIAGRAM, and typo.