She


She took two steps forward
Took two steps back
The first step said good day, Sir
The second said good day, Ma’am
And the others said how is the family
Today is a handsome day like a dove in the sky

She wore a burning blouse
She had eyes of the grinding of seas
She had hidden a dream in an obscure armory
She had encountered a corpse in the middle of her head
When she arrived she left the most beautiful part of her far
     behind
When she went something formed itself at the horizon to
     meet her

Her glances were wounds that bled on the hillside
She had wide breasts and she sang the shimmering of her years
She was beautiful like a sky beneath a dove

She had a mouth of iron
And a mortal flag drawn between her lips
She would laugh like the sea that senses carbon in its gut
Like the sea when the moon sees itself drowning
Like the sea which has tasted all the shores
The sea that spills out and falls in the emptiness
         of abundant times

When the stars wrinkle over our heads
Before the north wind opens its eyes
She was beautiful in her horizons of bone
With her burning blouse and her glances of an exhausted tree
Like the sky horseback among the doves


Vicente Huidobro

translated by Julian Ball

                                 
                   Desespediente



The dove is filled with fallen papers,
its chest is marked by gum and days,
by blotters whiter than cadavers
and astonished inks of sinister color.

Come with me to the shadow of administrations,
to the weak, delicate pallid color of the Masters,
to tunnels deep as calendars,
to the painful wheel of a thousand pages.

Let us now examine the titles and conditions,
the special acts, the sleepless ones,
the demands with teeth of a nauseous autumn,
the fury of ashen destinies and sad decisions.

It is a portrait of wounded bones,
bitter circumstances and interminable suits,
and stockings turned sharply serious.
It is the deep night, the head without veins
from where the day falls suddenly
like a bottle broken by a lightning strike.

They are the feet and the watches and the fingers
and a locomotive of moribund soaps,
and a  yellow river of smiles.

Everything arrives at the finger’s tips like flowers,
at nails like lightning, at withered couches,
everything arrives at the ink of death
and at the violet mouth of the bells.

We cry the dysfunction of earth and fire,
the swords, the grapes,
the sexes with their harsh dominion of roots,
the ships of alcohol navigating amongst ships
and the perfume that dances of night, of knees,
dragging a planet of perforated roses.

With the suit of a dog and a stain on the forehead
we fall into the depth of papers,
at the ire of words enchained,
at manifestations tenaciously deceased,
at systems enveloped in yellow leaves.

Come round with me to the offices, to the uncertain
odor of ministrations, and tombs, and seals.
Come with me to the white day that dies
uttering shouts of a murdered bride.


Pablo Neruda

                                                       The Waltz






  You are beautiful like the stone,
oh my dead one;
alive, oh alive, you are beautiful like the nave.
This orchestra that agitates
my cares like a negligence,
like an elegant welcoming of fine tone,
ignores the hair of the pubis,
ignores the laugh that bursts from the sternum like a great baton.


   Some waves of bran,
a little sawdust in the eyes,
or by chance on the temples,
or perchance adorning the tresses.
Some large skirts built from crocodile tails.
Some tongues or smiles made of
      crab shells.
All that is sufficiently seen
can surprise no one.

The women guard their moment seated on a
          tear,
dispensing humidity by force of an insistent fan.
And the gentlemen abandoned at their backs
long to attract their glances by force of their
          mustaches.

      But the waltz has arrived.
It is a beach without waves,
a clash of shells, of heels, of foam or
        false teeth.
It is everything that reverts that arrives.
      Exuberant chests with trays in arms,
sweet tarts fallen on sobbing shoulders,
a langour that draws back,
a surprised kiss in the instance that would make “hair
       of an angel”
a sweet “yes” of crystal painted green.

    A sprinkling of sugar on foreheads
lends a candid whiteness to polished words,
and the hands that shrink crimped more than ever
as the vestments wrinkle, formed from beloved weeds

       Heads are clouds, music is a large gum,
the leaden tails almost sail, and the clamor
has devolved in hearts and surgings of blood,
in liquor, if white, that knows by memory or date.

     Goodbye, goodbye, emerald, amethyst, or mystery;
goodbye, the instant has arrived like a giant ball,
the precise moment of the naked head below,
when the hairs go to pinch the obscene lips that
         know.
It is the instant, the moment to utter the word that explodes,
the moment when the vestments will become words,
the windows screams,
the lights a cry for help,
and the kiss that was (in the corner) between two mouths
becomes a thorn
delivering death that says:
I love you.




Vicente Aleixandre

                      Blind Panorama of New York




If there are no birds,
if there are no birds covered in ash,
if there are no twins who beat on the windows at the wedding
there will be delicate creatures of the air
that unleash the new blood by an untiring darkness.
Because the birds are at the point of becoming oxen;
they can be white rocks with the help of the moon
and there are always wounded girls
before whom judges lift the curtain.
Everyone understands the pain that enters with Death
but the true pain is absent in the spirit,
it is not in the air of our lives,
nor in the terraces filled with smoke;
the true pain that sustains awake those things
is a small infinite burn
in innocent eyes of other systems.

An abandoned suit weighs heavily on the shoulders
such that at times the sky
groups them together in rough crowds
and those that die at birth know in the final hour
that all sound is stone and each footprint beaten.
We ignore that the thought has outskirts
where the philosopher is devoured by slaves and caterpillars
and some idiot children have encountered by the kitchens
small vagabonds with suitcases
who knew how to pronounce the word love.
 
No, there are no birds.
there is no bird that can express the fever of the lagoon
nor the aching of the murdered that oppresses us at every moment,
nor the metallic sound of suicide that animates us
         at daybreak;
there is a capsule of air where the entire world pains us,
there is a small space insane with the unison of light,
there is an indefinable scale where clouds and roses forget
the shouting slave who boils at the quays of
          blood.

Many times I have lost myself
searching for the burn that keeps these things
           alive
and I’ve only come to know sailors thrown against
           railings
and only creatures of the sky buried under snow
but the pain that was in other plazas
where the crystallized fish agonized in the
            trunks,
the plazas of a strange sky for antique statues unharmed
and for the tender intimacy of volcanos.

There is no pain in the voice.  All that exists is the earth.
The earth and its everlasting ports that carry the blush
              of fruit.






Federico Garcia Lorca

Signed and Countersigned


In the beginning there was Justice;
later came Truth -- It's all
knocked about
over the land; what
does it matter
if the Snake in the Grass
is a python
or rat snake We all
come down
and Sever our Ties with Alacrity
only to Know
our Roles in this melee -- What
might you add
to this, the Claim that
Winter has us in its Vise?  Do
you stand and abjure
or simply
fade into Darkness?  These
days stretch
Out long into the Night without horses
or Pantomimes our blessed
Selves decided and
Unstrung -- Why die?

It is not a Question to fear -- the
rounded edge of the cup
is Stained with lipstick -- Why
would anyone
doubt interment?

when you’re with me I can feel you

close to me your breath on my neck

your hair spilling over your shoulders

this Night our last together

The Ballad of King Marcus --



I


Unto the tolling of the bell Refuse
the man
who dances on the Ramparts he
is disheveled with
Shame; there, on
his Parapet; What manner of Man
is this, who
would grieve his death
daily
on succinct Implication?

a dear Word, there, Sir,
a wire not Spun in spools but
for the miseducated and the Pining masses
here knowing what a
fool's Worth (tamed
and Sure!) Can
you succumb
to a Sudden Notice here posted on the Wall
with Irony replete yet
not fulfilled?

Frogs
and toads beckon, their poised
spots, their webbed feet
stuck to lilies --
they are poisonous with Lust basking in
a Summer Sun -- what

Hurrahs can upend this boat, casting our
bodies about, we
the mute Poets prickling in the Aisle our

happiness for Sale if in doubt?  Can
you remit your egregious Sins,
you lacquered Man sense
of the Willows
in your Eyes?

It's been decades since we met, there, on
the lawn, your blue eyes dilating in
the autumnal mist; you of the
long legs and incessant Grace; here, the
wicked sin made Pure --

what fetal form guided me to you, what
speaking Sentence
armed and Ready?  It
is a sentient Terror here in the Fog -- it
is here we Sing
the body Electric; our Wise
unknowing
Children come to Us with flowers
and crayon drawings, these, the artifacts
of a Youth Encumbered --

Wine is the devil's unguent brew
here where we
make for the breakers and submit
to the Night; stars, upturned in a broad Sky
Ease us into
great Constellations and Coronal bliss -- it
is here we Obtain
closure with our Iron Giants -- (How

is it you travel with Kings and Queens
wary of All and insistent you
be heard beneath a baleful Sun?) --

God knows what Men commit -- is
it Sultry, is it Clear which
waters flow through our brazen, knotted
fingers here blistering with Silence?  --

Our Father, who art in Heaven, grant
us Solitude, a rusty King looking
long into his past to see
a being no longer bleeding, a sturdy Self

of inchoate bliss; his
is the Entrance --

His head brims with Numbers, he is
a calculated Chance
undermining
wishful thinking with a Glance; there, the
graceful boy arcing agile in the lake -- what
Sense of Fortune elucidates
our Minds muscles thrown to the Wind
our Seagulls sailing
with the best of Us? -- these are
the days that come to Us, that Reveal
some quiet learning
in a book stack, the library now Hushing
with Silence, it's strict dominion the guards of
great Scions resonant
in dust
and Composure -- What

can it be Now, here, silently
swinging from
a tree, a tortured form blessed only
in remembrance these days
unholy in
acute Survival -- Twisted omens
fulfilled
with Restraint and Suicide, the lone branch
snapping in the Wind -- you, Marcus, the
ghost Entwined, how do you Protest? -- Will
you Proclaim your innocence of years
in congress with your Flesh or
can you abate and desist here with steely Eyes? -- I
feel for you, there, over the lake swimming
in shallow Circles, making the
most of living in increasing Fires, the disconnect; You, then
are Arcane
and surely cannot drown your Aptitude and Bliss --

The Queen she must resist the ultimate temptation
sickly and amused; time
treacles down our Legs with discomfiture and foreclosure -- we
who have died know only darkness, our Increasing Presence
here to Arrive
at the Gates of your Submission -- What
will you do, old King, when
the tide breaks
leaving you Stranded on the beach?   Our
children look
to Us for Guidance and we Cower before them, our
piety the best we can do
in a subtle pinch; A graveyard Waltz
captures
our Imagination where bones decay
and Spiders run; is it Here, then, that
once again we can
pierce the blue cloud that makes us Hoary
with Age, blue-grey curls
brushing our Collar? succinct, we Climb
into your Arms, delicate with a King's Strength, violent
in distress;  We hold out to you our braceleted arms
Sandy in cloistered Spaces
unknown to
Fools but sensed all the Same; It
has been years
and you've grown Old we alike bend
a little more
unto the Plow -- Sun-spots
and illicit longing
color the Mind;  We are Giant here in
your Alcove -- Make
us heard above your prayerful Ovation Night
upon Night the blue clouds
again taking Shape inert and True: These
are the Devils
gone Wandering in a Mist, they who paint
their Eyes and lisp in assailing Speech --

(We, who have Survived, have no Speeches -- We
merely account for our desert-deaths in hints and Spasms -- We
fortunately discover our Hearts in sand dunes, luck in
Oceans, Faith in one another these our Shores for
coiling mute asleep in each other's arms this our

final Hurrah!)  Have you seen the Ghost
wandering the Moors?  You who would
jump at the Occasion
to bless your Mother and hold dear to your Love is it
Time which severs our
Muscles and calls out into the woods
for the Girl
lost in feathered leaves? -- Your
imprisoned sense, here, gives way to
surefelt homilies -- you are
the mother of kiln and kite -- you
can break the Word
in two with a minute cleaving -- Your
rubies red with
Compassion steer You toward the Moat, there
where barriers cannot be assuaged with
a simple Execution -- The trumpets
sound, distant in ephemera, pulsing with Spit
and bile; What can we do Now, now
that the bribed dealer unfolds his Cards? -- What
King would descend
the Stairs of this Labyrinth to confront his widowed Mother
she Who has skeins of hair to weave into skirts and scarves?

"There are graves in my mind," you said
You claimed the Earth as your own breeding Ground, a
rocky Essence filled with keen Sap; Why
do leaves fall, wet-petaled, across your brow?   Lean
back and luxuriate, you are the King
of swallows and terns, lions, bears, trees -- Cut the
child's cord with your blade; rear him to rule
these foggy lands where the roads ride rough
and agile with a skater's Grace -- you
drive trucks, eighteen-wheelers, with
sure determination; (have you
killed, and will you kill again?) --

These are our turns, our Investment, in You, to
scale heights not meant for muted men -- See, there,
that branch, it is a grieving bough, it grieves
for the Sense that is lost in icy fingers and uncut
heartstrings --

I was not there you would Say; I would
not stand the Irony with a glance -- your
round wounds cry out for pity, a measured
curative, bliss -- picked-apart fruits
on dry towels beg recognition -- We
are the Masters of our own Foreboding our
ringlet tails swishing in the breeze, our
fangs sharpened on bark and root --

Stand down and die, it is a good day to die!

We quietly tell each other stories in the dark, stories
of love and love gone Wandering -- Heraldic
shouts from below Echo in the dim Mist, here
for the blessing of Saints and Men -- the
cultured Surety of a known Imp makes for
unkempt hilarity -- We who would form our
dreams from hallucinations have an
axe at our disposal, a bow, a boy running headstrong against
the Wind -- We
are diffident but Secure, here where the coral breaks
its intrusion upon our Coast --

(Jacks are boisterous Knaves, guzzling beer and
shouting alarums for the tempestuous) --
There is a Monster in the Sea-Bottom -- unafraid and tested
with Time it lurks head drawn upward with Fire to grin
and bear it, to await the King who would be simple Man
again -- Heartfelt knowing and Pure, our demons devour
us in our Sleep, bruising our shin in preparation for battle
or fatigue --

War is a Monster --
It devours the innocent and the lost -- its leg-irons
clank on the catwalk its eyes bleary and amazed -- to kill
or not, again -- What anemones swish glowing in the Surf
here to Remind us
of our Conscience?

Green is the color of Repentance; we
stand by the dock
and whisper to our lover a shaky Sentence of belonging -- We
who held hands as the mortars fell unknowing in our seats
we sat and watched the wounded fall, unsung
and forgotten but for a poem
they stagger to their heartfelt Ends crying Redemption --

The Monster stirs; it heaves its salt-licked
womb out from under heraldic jest or amiable brine
to achieve a paradise of thorns -- Then what
would you say to your Queen, there
by the Altar?

Would she submit to you in this black ink?

(How many Men have fallen under your Command?)

What posture is this, spine broken by gigantic Maw,
beast laid ready in Coral, Sinning energy
gone to errant thighs and wandering guide --

In battle, you are deft, with words Concise, those
who know you have begun to doubt your hallowed Grave
as their given Destiny --  Whole masses of
gnawing beasts reckon with you for
a graduated Sense, a shift skyward, here, Now, subtly attained --


II



You can hold up the Castle for perusal --
It will not go Cheap; these Eyes
have known loving great and small; they
blink with closed oration --

What manner of child is this who seizes in the Night?
Is it his ghost that is our Retainer?

Willows bend, slough, break -- We
who have learned our lessons
cry with Joy at the sight of It!  It is

our Home, our Celestial Palace grounded and bare, our
green and yellow pearls now the studs in our Great Coat -- it
is a measured Charity we beg for the best that's in Us,
the Vital Substance of our Lives --

Kings will die and Queens will falter, but the Earth
will glow with molten loving;  there, in
the darkness, there are Shaded lines of Courage
and Levity -- it is here we can Laugh with
our fair Sisters, our keening grown Succinct and Sanguine -- We
are the Lord to our Lord and the vassal to Our Slave -- We
are, in Essence aware --

Time after time, it occurs to me that lungfelt horror is all
we have; must we step through the ruins of a destructed
Paradise, minarets broken, houses on fire?

We have come to face the Monster here with Marcus, old
salt, Cousin to Us all there in the Medical Wards and back
alleys -- Suppurating wounds, legless Veterans embittered but
Strong -- How can we unwind the spool to sew the medals
to our Breast?

Marcus shifts and desists -- his is a timing delicate with Poise --
he will Command the demons of his heart onward and through
the coursing blood; children in dark Corners laugh despite themselves -- the
instance of Regret is here forgotten -- Bring

me back a World of Trouble, and
I will soothe your surging heart --

We are the Shifting enmity of a long awakening -- how
do you See us, now that we are Vindicated?

(Everything dies, everything lives)

Court your lady, hold her hand, She
is long with Reckoning and Sure
of Mind -- Her Wisdom is for you
to Ask; submit quietly and with Grace --

Broken bottles, manhandlers, these
the intemperate shores where blisters cross
our brows -- Have

you been there, beneath the Thunder? there
where diamonds glisten on red Velvet?

We are phantoms, sure of our Lines and poised
for deceit;  we can take a hit, we are
imaginative in our orchestrations -- Call
to us here to obtain a knowledge of
of our Violent Sea --

Death washes over Us but we are not Afraid --  Give
in, here, to secondary burns and a fear of human dignity --

We will appease you for Now --



















III

Cobalt Night.  Colored lenses -- inquietude.
We have broken the boughs this time; Our
hoarfrost icy in our beard we shuffle out to greet
the Sun, old Man, that orange breath of lime
and regret --

(Castles will fall.  Castles will rise.)

You see her, there, bathing in the fountain?

(We have tickets to the show.)

Intense in brambles I greet you with
austere Elegance, my tongue knotted
in Fear --

These are the days and Nights
of a ward of the State, a vicious
beheading of Ideas --

Who will it be, Now, now
that we enter, broadbacked and Amazed, upon
this playing field? --

Marcus arches his back and sleeps -- his
is a sorrowful sleep joined with Joy, a passion
Urging him to wake another day --