Never mind liberty or death
Give me your gaze, sweet thing
You are one among twelve,
But you and I may as well be alone in the world
Oh, that we were alone…
Over the last few days
Your attention has flagged
And you sagged like the others,
Eleven faceless shadows
Crossing and re-crossing their legs
and daydreaming of life outside this room
this horrible, decadent, heavy room
But now when I sit before you
you sit up a little straighter,
Glasses on,
Full lips pursed in consideration
If you set me free to love you
I swear by all I know
That I will show you a glory of
physical expression
pain and pleasure wedded
in exquisite savagery
I will worship at the altar of your body
And you will howl your gratitude to the stars
Oh, Juror Number 4!
Are you an angel of mercy
Your auburn hair a burnished shield
Soft bronze of Eleus forged?
Or are you an angel of death
Flint-eyed, clutching Thanatos
sent in womanly form?
So give me liberty, or give me death
That you thought of me at all
Is all I could have ever asked
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
"Nanas de cebolla"
Nanas de Cebolla.
por Miguel Hernandez
escarcha de tus días
y de mis noches.
Hambre y cebolla:
hielo negro y escarcha
grande y redonda.
En la cuna del hambre
mi niño estaba.
Con sangre de cebolla
se amamantaba.
Pero tu sangre,
escarchaba de azúcar,
cebolla y hambre.
Una mujer morena,
resuelta en luna,
se derrama hilo a hilo
sobre la cuna.
Ríete, niño,
que te tragas la luna
cuando es preciso.
Alondra de mi casa,
ríete mucho.
Es tu risa en los ojos
la luz del mundo.
Ríete tanto
que en el alma,
al oírte,
bata el espacio.
Tu risa me hace libre,
me pone alas.
Soledades me quita,
cárcel me arranca.
Boca que vuela,
corazón que en tus labios
relampaguea.
Es tu risa la espada
más victoriosa.
Vencedor de las flores
y las alondras.
Rival del sol,
porvenir de mis huesos
y de mi amor.
La carne aleteante,
súbito el párpado,
y el niño como nunca
coloreado.
¡Cuánto jilguero
se remonta, aletea,
desde tu cuerpo!
Desperté de ser niño.
Nunca despiertes.
Triste llevo la boca.
Ríete siempre.
Siempre en la cuna,
defendiendo la risa
pluma por pluma.
Ser de vuelo tan alto,
tan extendido,
que tu carne parece
cielo cernido.
¡Si yo pudiera
remontarme al origen
de tu carrera!
Al octavo mes ríes
con cinco diminutas
ferocidades.
Con cinco dientes
como cinco jazmines
adolescentes.
Frontera de los besos
serán mañana,
cuando en la dentadura
sientas unarma.
Sientas un fuego
correr dientes abajo
buscando el centro.
Vuela niño en la doble
luna del pecho.
Él, triste de cebolla.
Tú, satisfecho.
No te derrumbes.
No sepas lo que pasa
ni lo que ocurre.
(my attempt at a translation)
Lullabies of the Onion
The onion is frost,
closed and poor:
frost of your days
and of my nights.
Hunger and onion:
black ice and frost,
huge and round.
In the cradle of hunger
my child rested.
On onion blood
he suckled.
But it was your blood,
frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.
A dark-haired woman,
resolved in moonlight,
spilled trickling
over the cradle.
Laugh, my son,
so that you swallow the moon
when you must.
Lark of my house,
laugh again.
The light of the world
is your eyes in laughter.
Laugh so much
that the soul, upon hearing,
beats down the space between.
Your laughter frees me,
grants me wings.
Loneliness leaves me,
my prison uproots me.
Mouth that flies,
heart that flashes
lightning in your lips.
The victorious sword
is your laughter.
Avenger of flowers and larks.
Rival of the sun,
future of my bones
and of my love.
Fluttering flesh,
the eyelid,
and the child
colored as never before.
How many goldfinches
soar, flapping
from your body!
I woke from my childhood.
Never wake.
My mouth bears sadness.
Laugh forever.
Always in the cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.
Fly so high,
so far,
that your flesh becomes
the sifted sky.
If only I could soar to the
origin of your flight!
At your eight month you laugh
with five orange blossoms.
With five little ferocities.
With five teeth
like five adolescent jasmine blooms.
Tomorrow they will be
the frontier of kisses,
when in your teeth
you feel weapons.
You feel a fire,
running below your teeth
seeking the center.
Fly, my son,
in the double moon
of the breast.
He, onion-sad,
You, satisfied.
Don't give in.
Don't find out what happened
and what continues to happen.
por Miguel Hernandez
La cebolla es escarcha
cerrada y pobre:escarcha de tus días
y de mis noches.
Hambre y cebolla:
hielo negro y escarcha
grande y redonda.
En la cuna del hambre
mi niño estaba.
Con sangre de cebolla
se amamantaba.
Pero tu sangre,
escarchaba de azúcar,
cebolla y hambre.
Una mujer morena,
resuelta en luna,
se derrama hilo a hilo
sobre la cuna.
Ríete, niño,
que te tragas la luna
cuando es preciso.
Alondra de mi casa,
ríete mucho.
Es tu risa en los ojos
la luz del mundo.
Ríete tanto
que en el alma,
al oírte,
bata el espacio.
Tu risa me hace libre,
me pone alas.
Soledades me quita,
cárcel me arranca.
Boca que vuela,
corazón que en tus labios
relampaguea.
Es tu risa la espada
más victoriosa.
Vencedor de las flores
y las alondras.
Rival del sol,
porvenir de mis huesos
y de mi amor.
La carne aleteante,
súbito el párpado,
y el niño como nunca
coloreado.
¡Cuánto jilguero
se remonta, aletea,
desde tu cuerpo!
Desperté de ser niño.
Nunca despiertes.
Triste llevo la boca.
Ríete siempre.
Siempre en la cuna,
defendiendo la risa
pluma por pluma.
Ser de vuelo tan alto,
tan extendido,
que tu carne parece
cielo cernido.
¡Si yo pudiera
remontarme al origen
de tu carrera!
Al octavo mes ríes
con cinco diminutas
ferocidades.
Con cinco dientes
como cinco jazmines
adolescentes.
Frontera de los besos
serán mañana,
cuando en la dentadura
sientas unarma.
Sientas un fuego
correr dientes abajo
buscando el centro.
Vuela niño en la doble
luna del pecho.
Él, triste de cebolla.
Tú, satisfecho.
No te derrumbes.
No sepas lo que pasa
ni lo que ocurre.
(my attempt at a translation)
Lullabies of the Onion
The onion is frost,
closed and poor:
frost of your days
and of my nights.
Hunger and onion:
black ice and frost,
huge and round.
In the cradle of hunger
my child rested.
On onion blood
he suckled.
But it was your blood,
frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.
A dark-haired woman,
resolved in moonlight,
spilled trickling
over the cradle.
Laugh, my son,
so that you swallow the moon
when you must.
Lark of my house,
laugh again.
The light of the world
is your eyes in laughter.
Laugh so much
that the soul, upon hearing,
beats down the space between.
Your laughter frees me,
grants me wings.
Loneliness leaves me,
my prison uproots me.
Mouth that flies,
heart that flashes
lightning in your lips.
The victorious sword
is your laughter.
Avenger of flowers and larks.
Rival of the sun,
future of my bones
and of my love.
Fluttering flesh,
the eyelid,
and the child
colored as never before.
How many goldfinches
soar, flapping
from your body!
I woke from my childhood.
Never wake.
My mouth bears sadness.
Laugh forever.
Always in the cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.
Fly so high,
so far,
that your flesh becomes
the sifted sky.
If only I could soar to the
origin of your flight!
At your eight month you laugh
with five orange blossoms.
With five little ferocities.
With five teeth
like five adolescent jasmine blooms.
Tomorrow they will be
the frontier of kisses,
when in your teeth
you feel weapons.
You feel a fire,
running below your teeth
seeking the center.
Fly, my son,
in the double moon
of the breast.
He, onion-sad,
You, satisfied.
Don't give in.
Don't find out what happened
and what continues to happen.
Monday, January 18, 2010
All Done!
Well, my submission is submitted. Thanks to those who wrote back and helped me organize and mail it. (Dorcinda, Adeeba, Poonam, Danial, Jose). It ended up at 70 pages including three section title pages. All in all, not bad for a month and a half of work. I produced many, many, bad poems, but a few good ones, certainly more than I would've had I not been writing constantly. As I was reading about Malcolm Gladwell's 10,000-hour expert rule, I came across a blog that used pottery as an example of quantity producing quality. A class of students was divided into two groups, one told they would be graded solely on the quality of their best pot and another told they would be graded solely on the number of pots produced. The Quantity group not only produced significantly more pots, but also the best pots of the bunch.
I still think my submission is weak for three reasons: 1) It's a Latino poetry prize, and my name is Dietrich freaking Knauth. I've considered changing the last name for professional reasons or adopting a pseudonym, but I've yet to do so, so even if I've got the best submission (which I doubt), the Institute of Latino Studies at Notre Dame will be in the awkward position of publishing German von Deutschstein as their featured Latino poet. 2) There a huge drop-off between the few really good poems and the many merely passable poems. 3) The collection is rather scattershot, as I was trying as many things as I could to keep writing and "find my voice." I think a more cohesive unit with a stronger overall tone would stand a better chance of winning.
But hey, it's done. I wrote a book. Next up, short stories, I guess.
To finish off, I'll include a couple of poems that I wrote between my last post and now.
River
River, I will wade
River, I will wallow
But I swear I’ll never cross you, River.
River, give me your hand
River, lead me to your bed,
I let your ripples rule me, River
River, take me in
River, lift me up
I am never more at home than when I am within you, River
River, how you babble
River, how you roar
But I cannot understand you, River
River, you are tranquil
River, you’ve gone mad
I cannot keep up with you River.
River, cease your crying
River, dry your eyes
Sometimes you can be a real wet blanket, River
River, in the winter,
You are cold when I need warmth
You freeze me without warning, River
River, you gave me life
River, you quenched my thirst
But all I can do it damn you, River.
River you lick my wounds
River, you tear my clothes
You are as gentle as a tsunami, River
River in the heat
River, in dry summers
Are you wet only for me, River?
River, wash my body
River, wash my soul,
I curse the day they named you, River
The Scarecrow and the Sylbarine
The scarecrow and the sylbarine
Went out to tea today
And all the places in between
Were stops along the way
The shadow of a mighty oak
The space beneath the quay
The pause between the words they spoke
- they stopped but didn’t stay
The scarecrow brought his syllabary
The sylbarine a key
And so the ragged pair could then
Uncork each word they’d see
The tea was warm, the day was hot
And so they let it steam
They stripped off all the clothes they’d brought
And dipped into a stream
A scarecrow, now, you surely know
Is just a sack of sticks and straw
And stripped of clothes, the water’s flow
Dissolved him in its maw
A sylbarine, you may recall,
Is not like you or I at all
With gems for eyes and crystal wings
It laughs and glides where waters fall
The sylbarine plucked from the stream
The scarecrow’s wooden bones
While tiny hands collected straw
It sang in crystal tones
The sylbarine, meticulous
Rebuilt the sodden scarecrow there
And though he looked ridiculous
The scarecrow didn’t care
Arm in arm, the sticks and straw
The gossamer and gleam
They walked and laughed their way back home
Scarecrow and sylbarine
I still think my submission is weak for three reasons: 1) It's a Latino poetry prize, and my name is Dietrich freaking Knauth. I've considered changing the last name for professional reasons or adopting a pseudonym, but I've yet to do so, so even if I've got the best submission (which I doubt), the Institute of Latino Studies at Notre Dame will be in the awkward position of publishing German von Deutschstein as their featured Latino poet. 2) There a huge drop-off between the few really good poems and the many merely passable poems. 3) The collection is rather scattershot, as I was trying as many things as I could to keep writing and "find my voice." I think a more cohesive unit with a stronger overall tone would stand a better chance of winning.
But hey, it's done. I wrote a book. Next up, short stories, I guess.
To finish off, I'll include a couple of poems that I wrote between my last post and now.
River
River, I will wade
River, I will wallow
But I swear I’ll never cross you, River.
River, give me your hand
River, lead me to your bed,
I let your ripples rule me, River
River, take me in
River, lift me up
I am never more at home than when I am within you, River
River, how you babble
River, how you roar
But I cannot understand you, River
River, you are tranquil
River, you’ve gone mad
I cannot keep up with you River.
River, cease your crying
River, dry your eyes
Sometimes you can be a real wet blanket, River
River, in the winter,
You are cold when I need warmth
You freeze me without warning, River
River, you gave me life
River, you quenched my thirst
But all I can do it damn you, River.
River you lick my wounds
River, you tear my clothes
You are as gentle as a tsunami, River
River in the heat
River, in dry summers
Are you wet only for me, River?
River, wash my body
River, wash my soul,
I curse the day they named you, River
The Scarecrow and the Sylbarine
The scarecrow and the sylbarine
Went out to tea today
And all the places in between
Were stops along the way
The shadow of a mighty oak
The space beneath the quay
The pause between the words they spoke
- they stopped but didn’t stay
The scarecrow brought his syllabary
The sylbarine a key
And so the ragged pair could then
Uncork each word they’d see
The tea was warm, the day was hot
And so they let it steam
They stripped off all the clothes they’d brought
And dipped into a stream
A scarecrow, now, you surely know
Is just a sack of sticks and straw
And stripped of clothes, the water’s flow
Dissolved him in its maw
A sylbarine, you may recall,
Is not like you or I at all
With gems for eyes and crystal wings
It laughs and glides where waters fall
The sylbarine plucked from the stream
The scarecrow’s wooden bones
While tiny hands collected straw
It sang in crystal tones
The sylbarine, meticulous
Rebuilt the sodden scarecrow there
And though he looked ridiculous
The scarecrow didn’t care
Arm in arm, the sticks and straw
The gossamer and gleam
They walked and laughed their way back home
Scarecrow and sylbarine
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