'

.-

:--

..

J
~

INTRODUCTION

This book has been typ ed on an

IBM Selectric bl ah , bl a h, blah,
by Ro.bin Cones and printed by
Marco Polio for the Government,
with a cover from a photo by
bl ah, blah, blah, in Ma rch, 1974 .

Frankly I was quite surprized when Mr. Spicer

LJsked me to write an introduction to this volume.
My reaction to the manscript he sent me (and to
he series of letters that are now a part of it)
was and is f undam entally unsympathetic. It seems
to me the waste of a considerable . talent on something which is not worth doing. However, I have
been removed from all contact with poetry for the
last twenty years. The younger generatio n of
poets may view with pleasure Mr. Spicer ' s execu tion of what seems to me a difficult and unrewarding task .
It must be made clear at the start that these
poems are not translations. In even the most
liberal of them Mr. Spicer seems to derive pleasure in inserting or subs tituting one or two words
which compl etely change the mood and often the
meaning of the poem as I had wr.tten it . More
often he takes one of my poems ind adjoins to half
of it another half of his own, giving rather the
effect of an unwilling centaur . (Modes t y forbids
me to speculate which end of the animal is mine.)
Finally there are almost an equal number of poems
that I did not write at all (one supposes that
they must be his ) executed in a somewhat fanciful
imitation of my earl y style . The reader is given
no indication which of the poems belong to which
category , and I have further complicated the prob l em (with malice aforethought I must admit) by
sending Mr. Spicer severa l poems written after my
death which he has also translated and included
here. Even the most faithful student of my work
will be hard put to decide what is and w.hat is not
Garcia Lorca as, indeed, he would if he were to
look into my present resting place . The analogy
is impolite, but I fear the impolit eness is dese rv e d.

The letters are another problem. When Mr.

Spicer began sending them to me a few months ago,
I recognized immediately the "programatic letter"
--the letter one poet writes to another not in
any effort to communicate with him, but rather as
a young man whispers his secrets to a scarecrow,
knowing that his young lady is in the distance
listening. The young lady in this case may be a
Muse, but the scarecrow nevertheless quite naturally resents the confidence. The reader, who
is not a party to this singular tryst, may be
amused by what he overhears .
0

..

The dead are notoriously hard to satisfy. Mr.

Spicer's mixture may please his contemporary
audience or may, ' and this is more probable, lead
him to write better poetry of his own. But I am
strongly reminded as I survey this curious amalgam of a cartoon published in an American magazine whil e I was visiting your country in New
York. The cartoon showed a gravestone on which
were inscribed the words: "HERE LIES AN OFFICER
AND A GENTLEMAN." The caption below it read:
"I wonder how they happened to be buried in the
same grave?"
Federico Garcia Lorca
Outside Granada, October 1957

JUAN RAMON JIMENEZ

A Translation for John Ryan

In the white endlessness

' now, seaweed, and salt
lie lost his imagination .
The color white.

He walks

Upon a soundless carpet made

Of pigeon feathers.
Wi.thout eyes or thumbs
lie suffers a dream not moving
But the bones quiver .
In the white endlessness
Ilow pure and big a wound
llis imagination left.
Snow, seaweed, and salt .
In the white endlessness .

Now

BALLAD OF THE LI TTLE GIRL WHO I NVENTED THE UNJVE.RSE

A Trans l a t ion f or Ge orge Stanl ey

ll 111 I' Lorca ,

Th ese l e tters ar e to be as t emporary as

po et r y is to be permanent . They will
0s tnbl is h the bulk, the wastage that my sour t oma hed contemporaries demand to help them
.w:il l ow and digest th e pure word. We wi 11
11 s
up our rhetoric here so that it will not
1pp ar i n our poems . Let it be consumed
p11ro g raph by paragraph , day by day, until
11 0 h i.ng of it is left in our poetry and
no th i ng of our poetry is left in it. It is
pt' i. se ly because these letters are unnes.i 1 l' Y that they must be written.

1111 1

J asmin e f l ower a nd a bull wi th his thro a t sla shed.

In fi ni t e si dewa lk.

Map .

Room.

Harp .

Sunris e .

A li ttl e girl pr e t end s a bull ma de of j asmi ne

And th e bull is a bl oody twilight that be llow s .
If th e s ky coul d be a l ittl e boy
Th e jasmin es cou1d t a ke half th e night to th emselve
And th e bull a b lu e bullring of hi s own
With his heart a t th e fo ot of a s ma ll column .
But th e s ky i s a n e l ephant
And t he jasmin es are wa t er without bloo d
And th e l i ttl e girl i s a bouque t of ni ght f l owe r s
Lo s t on a big dark si dewa lk.
Be twee n th e j asmi ne a nd t he bu ll
Or th e hooks of t he s l eepi ng peop l e of marb l e or
In th e jasmi ne , c l ouds a nd a n e l ep hant-Th e s ke l et on of a l i ttl e gi r l t ur nin g .

ln my last letter I spoke of the tradition. The fools that read these letters
wi 11 think by this we mean what tradition
ms to have meant lately -- an historical
pa c hwork (whether made up of Elizabethan
qu t a t i ons, guide books of the poet ' s hom e
t < wn, or obscure hints of obscure bi ts of
11w gic published by Pantheon) which is used
l < cover up the nakedness of t'll e bare word.
'l'l'nd i tion means much more than that. It
111 ans generations of different po e ts in
Ii f erent countri es pati entl y telling th e
sn me s tory, writing the s ame poem, gaining
ri nc.l l os ing som eth i ng with ea ch transformation
- but, of cours e , never reall y losing a nything . This ha s nothin g to do with calmn es s ,
~ l assic i s m, temp erm ent, or a nything e l s e.
In ve nt io n is mer e l y th e enemy of poetry .
See how weak prose i s . I invent a word
I i kc i nvention. The s e paragraph s could be
tr a ns l a t ed, tran s form ed by a chain of fifty
11 t s i n fift y l ariguages, and th ey still
1~ ul d be t empor ar y , untrue , unable to yield
th s ub s tance of a s ingl e image . Pros e inv nts -- poetr y dis closes .

A ma d man is talking t o hi ms e lf in th e
room next to mine. He speaks in prose.
Presently I shall go to a bar and there on e
or two poets will speak to me and I to th em
and we will tr y to des troy each other or
a ttract each other or even listen to each
other and nothing will happ en because we will
be speaking in pros e . I will go home ,
dr unk en and dissatisfied, and sleep -- and
my dreams will be prose . Even the subcons cious is not patient enough for poetry.
You are dead and th e dead are very
patient.
Love,
Jack

BALLAD OF THE SEVEN PASSAGES

A Translation for Ebbe Borregaard

II 11111l au<l is spe ll ed with seven letters of the

.i l phab et
'1111r heart will never br eak a t what you are
Ii ;1ring
II I 111\ wud was older than you are when he was dead
1111r heart will never br eak at what you are
h aring .
It 11 you , darling, beauty was never as old as
Ii was
\11d your heart will never br eak a t what you are
il iring.

'l11 11t your mouth .

11 i lllb aud is spe ll ed with seve n passages

\ h

r o u

\11d tha t sto ny vowel ca ll ed death.

llh'
ll.1 11111

Rimbaud,

I 1 nut y i s s pell ed with a ll the vowels of seve n

pa ssages.
,\111L your damned mouth.
Wll l n Rimbaud died he became older than your

:i l phabet
\11d your heart will never br eak at what you are

hearing.

FROG

DEBUSSY
A Translation for the University

A Translation for Graham Mackintosh

My shadow moves silently

I 1 l all the novels I ' ve read

Upon the

~!\

~ater

in the ditch .

111 ind is going to a climax

\11d ~1

climax means a splash in the pool.

Upon my shadow are the frogs

ll1H111g.

Boong .

Boong.

Blocked off from the stars.

, 11d your nose can ' t hardly breathe.

11 .. 111 111ber

The shadow demands from my body

I l11w b Lack those pinetrees were that fire

liurncd .

Unmoving images.
1

My shadow skims the water like a huge

Violet-colored mosquito.
A hundred crickets try to mine gold
From the light in the rushes
A light born in my heart
Upon the ditch, reflected.

hat black forest.

II

And the noise

( " p I ns h)
Ill

:i

s ingle green needle .

BUSTER KEATON'S RIDE

A Translation for Melvin Bakkerud

t 1ightened as if they were carrying a vase

t
l

11 I I of water and, in passing, pet the biY I of Buster Keaton . )

1111 '.! l: ll KEATON:

ROOSTER:

Cockledoodledoo!

(Buster Keaton enters carrying four children

in his arms.)
BUSTER KEATON (takes out a wooden dagger and kil ls
them) :
My poor children !
ROOSTER:

BUSTER KEATON (counting the corpses on the

'

One, two, three, four .

and goes . )

(Grabs a

(Among the old rubber tires and cans of

a Negro eats a straw hat.)
BUSTER KEATON:

What a beautiful afternoon!

(A parrot flutters around in the sexless

BUSTER KEATON:
THE OWL:

Toowit

BUSTER KEATON:
THE OWL:

I like riding a bicycle.

toowoo
How beautifully these birds sing !

Hoo!

BUSTER KEATON:

( l\11ster Keaton falls to the ground. The bi~ycle escapes him .

It runs behind two
0n rmous gray butterfl ies .
It skims madly
hulf an inch from the ground.)
ll ll 'i'l'l:ll KEATON: I don ' t wan t to talk.
0111 body please say something?
VOICE:

Cockledoodledoo!

It ' s love l y !

Ah, love, love !

Won ' t

Fool !

(I le continues walking. His eyes, infinite and

s ad like a newly born animal, dream of lilies
und angels and silken belts. His eyes of a
mad child . Which are most faithful. Which
LJre most beautiful. The eyes of an ostrich.
llis human eyes with a secure equipoise with
melancholy. Philadelphia is seen in the distance . The inhabitants of that city now know
hat the old poem of a Sin~er machine is able
to encircle the big roses of the greenhouse
but not at all to comprehend the poetic difference between a bowl of hot tea and a bow l
of cold tea. Philadelphia shines in the
distance . )
(An American girl with eyes of celluloid comes
through the grass . )
1111: AMERICAN:

(Pause . Buster Keaton ineffably crosses the

rushes and little fields of rye . The landscape shortens itself beneath the wheels of
his machine . The bicyle has a single dimension . It is able to enter books and to expand itself even into operas and coalmines .
The bicycle of Buster Keaton does not have a
riding seat of caramel or sugar pedals like
the bicycles bad men ride . It is a bicycle
like all bicycles except for a unique drenching of innocence. Adam and Eve run by,

Hello.
( Buster Keaton smiles and looks at the shoes
of the girl . Those shoes! We do not have to
admire her sho_e s. It would take a crocodile
to wear them . )

llUSTER KEATON:

I would have liked

l'll E AMERICAN (breathless): Do you carry a sword

decked with myrtle leaves?
(Bus ter Keaton shrugs his shoulders and lifts
his__r~ht foot.)

THE AMERICAN:
stone?

(Buster Keaton twists slowly and lifts an inquiring le g . )

THE AMERICAN:

11 1 h1 I

BUSTER KEATON (sighing): I would hav e l iked to

have been a swan. But I can't do what I would
have liked. Because -- What happened to
hat? Where is my collar of little white
mohair neckti e? What a disgrace!
(A young gir l with a wasp waist and a high
collar comes in on a bicycle. She ha s the
head of a ni ghtingale.)
Whom do I have the honor of saluting ?

BUSTER KEATON (with a bow):

ranches of laurel

w 1wo shadowy pigeons .

Well?

(Four angels with wings of a heav enly gas balloon piss among the flowers . The ladies of
the town play a piano as if they were riding
a bicycle. The waltz, a moon, and sevent een
Indian canoes rock the precious heart of our
friend. As the greatest surprise of all,
autumn has invaded th e garden lik e water ex p lodes a geometrical clump of sugar . )

YOUNG GIRL:

11/\LLAD OF THE SHADOWY PIGEONS

A Translation for Joe Dunn

Do you have a ring with a

Buster Keaton .

(The young girl faints and falls off the bicycle. Her legs on the ground tr emble like
two agoni zed cobras. A gramophone plays a
thousand versions of the same song -- "In
Philadelphia they have no ni ghtingales ".
BUSTER KEATON (kneeling) : Darling Miss Eleanor ,
pardon me! (lower) Darling (lower still )
Darling (lowest) Darling.
(The li ght s of Philadelphia flicker and go
out in the faces of a thousand policemen . )

1111

111 them was the sun

lhl

i!lh

11 I I

r the moon .
neighbours, I asked them,

Wlt1 111 nm I buried?

I 11 111 y

ail, said the sun .

111 111 y

raw, said the moon.

11.I I who had been walking

Willi the earth at my waistline

1w two eagles o{ marble

11.I
1111

11

on

naked maiden .
was the other

111' th e maiden was no one.

I I I I c eagles, I asked them,

am I buried?
111 111 y tail , said the sun.
I ii 111 y craw, sai d the moon.

\\Ii

I' '

1111 th e branches of l a urel

11w two naked pigeons.
111 1 one was the other
11d th e both of them no one.

'

11/\C ' 1IU S

SUICIDE
A Translation for Eric Weir

A Tran s lation for Don Allen

At ten o ' c lo ck i n th e morning

II 1111 l ll

The young man could not remember .

111

His heart was stuffed with dead wings

And linen flowers.
He is conscious that there is nothing l eft
In his mouth but one word.

II
I

I ig

1ched green murmur.

ree wants to extend me its branches.

11 pa nther its s hadow

11I I.. my poe t shadow .

1111
111

111

n has words with the do gs .

i !i mis t aken and begins ov er .

t ' rday, tomorrow, black, and green

When he removes his coat soft ashes

Fall from his arms .

I 1111 1p aro und my circle of laur el.

Through th e window he sees a tower

Wl11 1 ' would you lo ok for my l if~ t ime

He sees a window and a tower.

11

His watch has run down in its case

He observes the way it was looking at him .
He sees

~is

shadow stretched

Upon a whit e silk cushion .

And the stiff geome tric youngs ter
Shatters th e mirror with an ax
The mirror submerges every thing
In a grea t spurt of shadow .

xc hang ed my heart?
/\nd the figtree s hout s at me and advanc es

11 nible an d ex t ended .

1'111 : LITTLE HALFWIT

A DIAMOND
A Translation for Robert Jones

A Translation for Robin Blaser

1 1d,

A diamond

Is there
At the heart of the moon or the branches or my
na kedness

" Afternoon"
wa sn 't there .

11 1t ' rnoon was ano th er thing

hl r il h d gone somep lace .

And th ere is nothing in the

No th i ng in the whole mind.

I 11 d the light s hrugged its shoulders

11

Th e poem is a seagull resting on a pier

of th e ocean.
A do g howls a t the moon
A dog howls at th e branches
A dog how l s a t the nakedness
A dog howling with pure mind .

o litt l e gir l.

But this is useless,

i s untrue, this has to it
1111
The other
1111I I" a moon of lead.
WI 11 never get here .

II

I 1 rnoon"

..

t fl11d the light that everyone sees

tt11 y d at being a sta tu e.)

I ask for the poem to be as pure as a seagull ' s

be ll y.
t IH other one was tiny
The universe falls apart and disclos es a diamon d
The words call ed seagull ar e peacefully floati ng
out where the waves are
The dog is dead there with th e moon, with the
branches, with my nak edness

11tl

at e pomegranat es .

thi s on e is big and green a nd I 'm not able

In

gr a b her in my arms or dress her.

1 n ' t she ever coming?

What was she?

And th ere is nothing in th e un iverse

Not hi ng in the who l e mind.

(fi nd the light as it went along , as a joke

\ par at ed the little halfwit from his own
s ha dow . )

VERLAINE
A Transl a tion for Pat Wilson
lh 111 Lorca ,

A song
Which I shall never sing
Ha s fallen asleep on my lips.
A song
Wh ic h I s hall never sing--

Wh n I tran s late one of yo ur poems and I

a ross words I do not understand, I alw11 "\ guess at their meaning s . I am in evi tably
1 l ~ hl. A really perfect poem (no one yet ha s
w1 l n one) could be perfectly translated by
11 pvr son who did not know one word of the
l11 11 Huage it was writt en in. A reall y perf ect
11111111 has an infinitely smal 1 vo cabulary.

11 1111

It is very difficult. We want to transhe immediate object, the imm ediat e emo1 Ion to the poem - - and ye t the immediate
11I1v:tys has hundreds of its ciwn words clinging
111 it, short-lived and tenacious as barnacles .
11 I i.t is wrong to scrape them off and subl I ute others. A poet is a tim e mechanic
1111t a n embalmer. The word s around the immeoll11
s hrivel and decay like flesh around the
l1od y . No mummy-sheet of trad i tion can be used
111 s top the process . Obj ects, words must be
I1 I across time not pres erved a,$ ain s t it.
i t 1

Above th e honeys uckle

There ' s a firefly
And th e moon s tings
With a ray into the water-At that tim e I'll imagine
The so ng
Which I shall never s ing .

I ye ll "Shit" down a cliff at a n ocean .

I v n in my lifetime the immediacy of that word

I I J fade. It will be dea d as "Alas " . But if

I put the real cliff and the r ea l ocean into
t 11 ' poem, th e word "Shit" wi l 1 ride along with
th m, travel the time -machin e until c l iffs and
ns di sappear .

A so ng full of lip s
And f ar -o ff washes
A so ng full of lo st
Hours in th e sha dow
A so ng of a star that's a liv e
And endur i ng day .

Mos t of my fri ends lik e words too we ll.

y se t th em und er the bl i nding l ight of th e
pt m a nd tr y to extract eve r y pos s ibl e connol 11 io n from each of th em, ever y t empora r y pun,
1v ry direct or indirect con nectio n -- as if
.i 1vord could become an object by mere addition
I) r con sequenc es .
Oth e rs pick up words from
th s tree t s , from the i r bars , from their
11ffic es and display th em pr oudl y in the ir
IHJ ms as if they were shouting , "See what I
ltnv e co ll ec t ed from th e Amer ican l a nguage .
l ~ ok at my butt erfli es , my s t amps , my old
,h es !" What do es on e do with a ll this crap?

...

:-

..

Words are wha t sticks to th e real

W
th em t o push th e real, t o dr ag th e re .I .e us e
th e poem. They are wha t we hold on w: th rnto
no ~h i n g e l se . They ar e as va l uab l e i n th emse ves as r ope with noth i ng t o be tied t o .
. . r . r ~peat -- the perf ec t poem has a n
i nfi n i t e l y sma l l vocabul ary.
Lov e ,

THE BA LLAD OF THE DEAD WOODCUTTER

A Tra nsl a tion fo r Lou is Marbur y

I\ a us e the fi gtr ee was s apl e ss

has cracked at the root .

It

Oh , you have f a llen down on your head

u have fall en on your head.

Jack

I\ caus e the oaktree was rootless

ha s cracked at th e br a nch .
Oh , you have fallen down on your head
u have fallen on your head .

..

II ' Caus e I walked thr ough the bran ches

I

have scra tched out my heart .

( h, you hav e fallen down on your head

You have fall en on your head .

THE BALLAD OF WEE PI NG

A Tr ans l at ion for Bob Connor

I have closed my wi ndow

Because I do not want to hear the weep ing
But behind th e gr ay wa ll s
Nothing can be he ar d but weeping.

ALBA
A Transla t i on f or Ru ss Fi t zgera ld

ff your hand had been meaningl e s s

ot a si ngl e bl a de of gras s
Would spr ing fr om th e earth ' s s ur f ace .
ilas y t o wr i t e , t o ki s s -No, I sai d, read your paper.

A few dogs mi ght bark

A few ang e ls mi ght s ing
Th er e mi ght be room f or a thou s and violin s i n
t he palm of my hand.
But the weeping i s a bi g do g
The weeping i s a bi g ange l
Th e weeping is a bi g violin
Th e t ears put a mu zz l e on th e a ir
And nothing can be heard but weeping .

Ue th er e
Li ke the ear th
Wh en sha dow cov ers th e wet gras s .

..

ODE FOR WALT WHITMAN

A Translation for Steve Jonas

SONG OF THE POOR

A Translation

Ay que trabajo me cue s ta

Along Eas t River and the Bronx

quererte como te quiero!

Th e kids were singing, s howing off their bodies

At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide, and the hammer.

Because I love you the table

And the heart and the l amplight
Feel sorry for ,m e .
Who

1~ill

buy from me

NLn e ty thousand miners were drawing silver out of

boulders
Whil e children made perspective drawings of stair ways .
llut no one went to sleep

That small belt I have

No one wanted to be a river

And that sadness of white thread

No one loved the bi g l eaves, no one

To weav e handkerchi efs?

Th e blue tongue of th e coas tline .

Because I l ove you the ceiling

Along East Ri ver into Que ens

And the heart and the air

Th e kids were wrestling with industry.

Feel sorry for me.

Th e Jews sold circumcision ' s ro se

'l'o the faun of th e river .

Ay que trabajo me cuesta

l'he s ky flowed through the bridges and rooftops- -

quer er te como te quiero !

II

r ds of buffalo the wind was pushing.

Bu t none of them would s t ay .

No one wanted to be a cloud. No one
I. oked fo r th e ferns

()r th e yello w wheel of the drum.

But i f th e moon com es out

Th e pull eys wi ll s l i de around to disturb th e sky
A limit of nee dl es will f enc e in your memory
And ther e will be coffins to carry out your
un employed.

llad dreame d of be ing a r iver and of sl eepi ng lik e

one
With a par ticul a r comrade, one who could put in
your bosom
The young pain of a n i gnorant l eop ard .
Not fo r on e mom ent, blood-Adam, mal e ,
Ma n a lone in th e sea, b eautiful

New Yor k of mud,

New York of wir e f ences and death,
Wha t a nge l do you carry hi dd en in your cheek ?

Old Walt Whitma n .

Beca us e on th e rooftop s
Bu nched together i n bars
Po ur ing out i n clus t ers from t oil e t s

Wha t perfect vo ic e will t e ll you the truth about

wh eat

1~e mblin g

Or the terribl e s l eep of yo ur we t-dreamed anemone s

Or spi nnin g upon pl a tform s of whi s key

be tw een th e l egs of t axi -dr iv er s

The cocksuck er s, Wa lt Whitman, wer e count i ng on you.

Not for on e mom ent, beauti f ul old Wa lt Whitma n,
Have I stopp ed see ing yo ur beard full of butt erfl i
Or your shoulders of cor dur oy worn

'l' ha t one a l so , a l so.

down on

ur burning vi r gin beard,

Or your muscle s of a v irgi n Apoll o

Or yo ur voi ce lik e a co lumn of as hes
An c i e nt and beaut iful as th e f og.

And th ey .th r ow th emse 1ves

lllo nd s of t he North, n egr oes fro m th e s eas hor e ,

Crowds of s hou t s an d ges tures
Like ca t s or snakes

You gave a cry l i ke a bi rd

With his pri c k p i erce d thro ugh by a nee dl e
En emy of sat yrs

l'he cocksuckers , Wa lt \'/hi t ma n, th e cocks uckers ,

Nuddy wi th t ears , mea t f or the wh ip ,
I'

oth or boo t of th e cowbo ys .

Enemy of th e gr ape
And lov er of bod i es und er ro ugh c loth.
Not for on e moment, t ig ht-coc ke d beaut y ,
Who in mount a in s of coa l, a dv erti sements,
ro ads

l'hat one a l so , a l so .

Pa int ed fi ngers

'prou t ou t a l ong t he beach of yo ur dreams

And you giv e a fri end a n appl e

Wh i ch t a s t es faintly of ga s -fumes

The dead decompose th emse l ves und er th e clo ck of

t he cities .

And th e sun sings a song for the bel l ybuttons

Wa r ent er s weep ing , with a mi ll io n gray rats .

Of t he lit t le bo ys who play gam es be low br i dg es.

The ri ch giv e t o th eir gi r l frie nds

Ti ny il lum i nat ed dyi ngs

But you wer en ' t looking for the scratched eye s

And l ife i s not nobl e , or goo d , or sacr ed .

Or th e bl a ck swamp-countr y wher e children ar e

sinking

A man is abl e i f he wi s hes t o l ea d his des i r e

Or th e fro zen spit

Thro ugh vein of cora l or the ce l es t ia l nak ed.

Or th e wounded curv e s like a to ad's paun ch

;romorrow his l oves wi ll be rock and Time

Which cocks uck ers wear in bars and n ig ht - c l ubs

A bree ze that com es s l eep ing thro ugh th ei r c l us t ers .

Whil ~

the moon beats th em a l ong th e corner s of

t error.

That is why I do not cry ou t , o l d Wa lt Whitma n,

Aga ins t the littl e boy who wri t es

You wer e looking f or a naked man who

a ri ve r
Bull and dr eam, a connec ti on be t ween
t he s eaw eed,
Be f a th er f or yo ur ag ony , your dea th ' s came lia
And mo an i n the fl ames of your hidden equa tor .

f\

gir l' s name on his pi ll ow,

r t he ki d who pu t s on a

w eddin~

dr e s s

In t he darkness of a close t
r th e lo ne l y men i n bars
Who dr ink wi th sickness th e wa t ers of prostitution
Or th e men wi th gr een e ye l ids

Fo r i t is ju s t th a t a man not

Who lov e men an d scald th eir lip s in sil ence ,

In th e f ores t of bl oo d of th e fo ll owing morni ng .

Ru t ag ains t th e re s t of you , cocks ucker s of cities,

Th e s ky

ll ar d-up and dirty - brai ned,

h ~s

coas tlin es

And some bodies mu s t not r epea t themse l ves a t

s unr ise .
Agony , agon y , dream , l eaven, and dr eam .
That is th e world , my friend , agony , agony .

Mot her s of mu d, harpi e s , dr eaml e s s enemi es

Of th e Love tha t dis t ribut es cr own s of gladne ss .

Drippings of sucked-off dea th wi th sour poison.

C 1nrades to keep vigil over your gazelle without

body .

Against the rest of yo u always

." lee p, th ere is nothing left here.

Fai ries of Nor th America,

A dance of walls shakes across the prairies

Pajaros of Havana,

And America drowns itself with machines and weeping.

Against the rest of you always, who give

I. t the hard air of midnight

Joto s of Mexico,

, \~cep a way all th e flowers and letters from the

arch in which you sleep

Sarasas of Cadiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,

And a little black boy announce to the white men of

gol d

Adelaidas of Portuga l,

'l'h c arriva l of the reign of the ear of wheat .

Cocksuckers of all th e world, assassins of

Slaves of wome n, l apdogs of th ei r dr essi ng
Op enin g their flys in parks with a fever of fa ns
Or ambushed i n th e rigid l a nd scapes of poison .
Let th ere be no mercy .

Dea th

Trickl es from all of your eyes , groups

Its e lf l ike gray flowers on beaches of mud.
Let th ere be no mercy.

Watch ou t for th em .

Let the bewildered , th e pur e ,

The classical, the appointed, the praying
Lock the ~a t es of th is Bacchanalia.
And you , beautiful Walt \'lhitman, sleep on t he ba
of tn e Hudson
J

With yo ur beard toward the po l e and yo ur pa lm s o

Soft cla y or snow, yo ur t ongue is invoking

AQUATIC PARK
A Tr ansl a tion for Jack Sp i cer

A gr een boat
Fi s hing i n blue wa ter
The gull s cir c l e th e pier
Ca lling th e ir hun ger
A wind ris es from th e west
Li ke th e pass ing of desire
Two bo ys pl ay on th e bea ch
Laughing
Their gang lin g l eg s . cast sh a dow s
On th e we t sand
Then,
Sprawli ng in th e boat
A beauti f ul bl ac k fis h.

FOREST
A Tr ans l a tion f or Joe Dunn

Yo u want me t o t e ll you
The se cre t of spr i ngtime
And I r e l a t e to that se cre t
Like a hi gh-branchin g f i rtr ee
Whose thou s and littl e f inger s
Poi nt a thousand littl e r oa ds .
I

will t e ll yo u never, my l ove ,

Be cause th e ri ve r run s s l owl y

Bu t I s ha ll put i nto my br anchin g voice
'J'he as hy s ky of yo ur gaze .
Turn me ar ound, brown child
Be car eful of my needl es .
Turn me a r ound and a round, ,_i l ayi ng
At th e we ll pump 6f l ove .
Th e secr e t of spr ing t i me .
I

wis h I coul d t e ll you !

How

Dear Lorca,
I would like to mak e poems out of real
objects. The lemon to be a lemon that the read er could cut or squee ze or taste -- a real lemon
lik e a newspaper in a collage is a real newspape r
I would like the moon in my poems to be a real
moon, one which could be suddenly covered with a
cloud tha t has nothing to do with the poem -- a
moon utterl y independent of images. The imagination pictures are real . I would like to poin t
to the real, disclose it, to make a poem that ha s
no sound in it but the pointing of a finger.
We have both tried to be independent of
i mages (you fro~ the start and I only when I gre
old enough to tire of trying to make things con nect), to ma ke things visible rather than to mak
pictures of them (phantasia non imaginari).
easy it is in erotic musings or in the truer
imagination of a dream to invent a beautiful bo y,
How difficult to take a boy in a blue bathing
suit tha t I have watched as casuall y as a tree
and to make him visible in a po em as a tree is
visible, not as a n image or a p i cture but as
s ome thing alive -- caught forever in the structur e of words . Liv e moons, liv e lemons, live
boys in bathing suits. The poem is a collage of
th e real.
But things decay , reason argues .
become garbage . The piece of l emon yo u s he llac
t o th e canvas begins to deve lop a mol d , th e new s
paper t ells of incredibly ancien t events in forgotten sla ng, th e bo y becomes a gra ndfath er . Ye
but the garbage of th e real still reaches out
i nto th e current world making its objects, in
turn, visibl e -- l emon call s to-lemon, newspaper
to newspaper, boy to boy. As thing s dec ay they
bring th eir equivalents into bei ng .
~

Things do not connect; they correspond. rhat

is what makes it possible for a poet to translate
real objects, to bring them across languag e as
easi ly as he can bring them across time. That
tree you saw in Spain is a tree I could never hav e
seen in California, that lemon has a different
sme ll and a different tast e , BUT the answer is
this -- every place and every time has a real object to correspond with your real object -- tha t
lemon may become this lemon, or it may even become this piece of seaweed, or this particular
co lor of gray in this ocean. One does not need
to imagine that lemon; one needs to discov er it .
Even these letters . They correspond with
something (I don ' t know what) that you have written (perhaps as unapparently as that lemon corres ponds to this piece of seaweed) and, in turn,
some future poet will write some thing wh ic h
orresponds to th em. That is how we dead men
wri te to each other.
Lov e ,
J ack

HE DIED AT SUNRISE
A Tra nslation for Allen Joyce

NARCI SS US
A Translation for Basil King

Poor Narciss us

NL ght of four moons

Your dim fragrance

And a single tre e,

And th e dim heart of the river

WLth a si ngl e shadow

And a single bird .

I want to stay at your edge

Flower of love

look into my body for

Poor Narcissus

Th e tracks of your lips.

A s tream kiss es th e wind

Nippl es and sleeping fish

I~ i thou t

touch.

Cross your whit e eyes

carry t he No you gave me

Songbirds and butterfl ies

Japanese min e

Cl enche d i n my palm
Like some thing made of wax

I so tall bes ide you

An a lmo s t-whit e lemon.

Flow er of lov e
Poor Narciss us

ight of four moons

nd a si ngl e tree

How wide-awake the frogs are

A th e poin t of a nee dl e

They won ' t stay out of th e sur f ace

Is

In whi c h yo ur madness a nd my madn ess

Mirrors itself
Poor Narcissu s
My sorrow
Se lf of my sorrow.

my lov e, spinning.

'

BALLAD OF THE TERRIBLE PRESENCE

A Translation for Jo e Las eur

BALLAD OF SLEEPING SOMEWHERE ELSE

A Translation for Ebbe Borregaard

I want the river lost from its bed

The pine needles fall

I want the wind lost from i ts va lleys

Like an ax i n the fores t.

I want the night to be th e re without eyes

Can you hear them crumbl e

And my heart without the go lden flow er

There where we are s l eeping?

So that the ox en talk with big l eaves

The windows are close to the wall

And the earthworm is dead of shadow

Here i n the darkness the y remain open.

So that the teeth of th e skull glisten

(When I saw you in the morning

And the yellows give a compl e te colour to silk .

My arms were full of paper.)

I can look at the agony of wounded ni ght

Five hundred miles away

Struggling, twisted up agai nst noontime

The moon is a ha tchet of si lv er .

I can stand all th e sunsets of green poison

(When I saw you in the morning

And the wornout rainbows that time suffers

My eyes were full of paper. )

But don ' t mak e your clean body too visibl e

Here th e walls are firm

Like a black cactus opened out among rushes

They do not crumble and r emai n certain .

Let me go in an anguish of star clusters

(When I saw you in th e morning

Lose me.

My heart was full of paper.)

But don't show me that cool flesh.

Five hundre d miles away

The stars are g l ass that is br eaking .

Dear Lorca,
The windows sag on the wall
When you had finished a poem what did it
want you to do with it? Was it happy enough
merely to exist or did it demand imperiously
that you share it with somebody like the
beauty of a beautiful person forces him to
search the world for someone that can declare
that beauty? And where did your poems find
I eople?

I feel cold glass in th e blanke ts .

Child, you are too tall for this bed.
The pine needles fall
Like an ax in the forest.

Some poems are easily laid. They will

gi ve themselves to anybody and anybody physically capable can receive them. They may be
beautiful (we have both writt en some that
were) but they are meretricious . From th e
moment of their conception they inform us in
a dulce t voice that, thank yo u, they can take
ar e of thems e lves. I swear that if one of
hem were hidden ben eath my carpet, it would
shout out and seduce somebody. The quiet
poems are what I worry about -- th e ones that
must be seduced . They could tr.jvel abo ut
wi th me for years and no one wo~ld notice
hem . And yet, properly wed, they are mor e
beautiful than their whorish cousins .

Can you hear th em crumble

There where we are sleeping?

But I am speaking of the first n igh t, when

l eave my apartment almost breathless, searchin g for someone to show the poem to. Often
now there is no one . My fellow poets (those
I s howed my poetry to ten years ago) are as litl e interested in my poetry as I am in their s .
IV e both compare the poems shown (unfavorably,
of course) with the poems we were writing t en
ye ars ago when we could le arn from eac h other .
IV are polit e but it is as if we were trading
naps hots of our children -- old acquaintances
who disapprove of each other's wives . Or were
y u more generous, Garcia Lorca?
I

f'

There are the young, of course. I have

been reduced to them (or my poems have) lately.
The advantage in them is that they haven't yet
decided what kind of poetry they are going to
write tomorrow and are always looking for some
device of yours to use. Yours, that's the
trouble . Yours and not the poem ' s. They read
the poem once to catch the marks of your style
and then again, if they are at all pretty, to
see if there is any reference to them in the
poem . That ' s all. I know. I used to do it
myself .
When you are in love there is no real prob lem . The person you love is always interested
because he knows that the poems are always
aboui him. If only because each poem will
someday be said to belong to the Miss X or Mr.
Y period of the poet ' s life . I may not be a
better poet when I am in love, but I am a far
less frustrated one . My poems have an audience .
Finally there are friends. There have only
been two of them in my life who could read my
poems and one of that two really prefers to
put them in print so he can see them better.
The other is far away.
All this is to explain why I dedicate each
of our poems to someone.

NARCISSUS
A Translation for Richard Rummond

Child,
How you keep falling into rivers .
At the bottom there's a rose
And in the rose there's another river.
Look at that bird .

Look

That yellow bird .

My eyes have fallen down
Into the water.
My God,
How they ' re slipping!

Youngster!

-- And I ' m in the rose myself .

Love,

When I was lost in water I

Jack

Understood but won't tell you.

SONG FOR SEPTEMBER

A Translation for Don Allen

BALLAD OF THE DEAD BOY

A Translation for Graham Mackintosh '

In the distant night the children are singing:

Every afternoon in Granada

Every afternoon a boy dies

A little river

Every afternoon the river sits itself down

And a colored fountain

To talk things over with its neighbours.

THE CHILDREN:

When will our hearts come back

from your holiday?

All the dead wear wings of moss.

The ~loudy wind and the bright wind

I:

Are two pheasants who fly around towers

THE CHILDREN:

When my words no longer need me.

You have left us here to sing the

death of your summer

And the day is a boy with a wound in him.

A little river
And a colored fountain

There wasn ' t a touch of lark in the sky

What September flowers do you hold

When I met you at the wine cavern

I:

When you drowned on the river .

A bloody rose and a white lily.

THE CHILDREN:

c~nyon

A little river

spun around with dogs and lilies .

And a colored fountain

Your body, with the violet shadow of my hands,

What are you tasting in your

Was dead there on the banks, an archangel, col d .

thirsty mouth?
I:

J'

Dip them in the water of an old

song

A giant of water went slopping over the

mountains
And the

..

in your hand?

Or a fragment of cloud near the earth

The flavor of the bones of my big skull.

THE CHILDREN:
song

Drink the kind water of an old

A l i ttle river
And a colored fountain

BUSTER KEATON RIDES AGAIN: A SEQUEL

A Tr ans l a tion for Th e Bi g Cat Up There

Why hav e you go ne s o very far

from th e death of your summer?
I:

I am look i ng for a magica l clockworkman .

THE CHILDREN:
of poets?
I:

The fo unt ain and a river an d an old song .

THE CHILDREN :
I:

And how wil l you find the highway

You are going very far.

I am go ing very far, farth er than my poems,

farther than the mount ai ns, farther than
th e birds . I am go ing to ask Christ
to give me back my childhood, ripe with
s unburn a nd feathers and a wooden sword.

THE CHILDREN :

You have l eft us here to si ng

the death of yo ur s ummer .

And you will never

BUSTE R KEATON (e nt ering a long dark corridor) :

mu s t be Room 73 .
PIGEON:

This

Sir , I am a pigeon .

BUSTER KEATO N (taking a dict io nary out of hi s back

poc ke t ) : I don't und ers tand what anybody is talking about.
(No one rides by on a bi cyc l e.
quite s il ent . )
PIGEON:

The corridor is

I have to go t o the bathroom.

BUSTE R KEATON:

In a mi nut e.

(Two chambermaids come by car r ying towels. They

give one to th e pigeo n and one t o Buster Kea ton )
1s t CHAMBE RMAID:
have lips?

Wh y do you suppos e hum an beings

A littl e river

2nd CHAMBE RMAID :

Not hing like tha t ent ere d my head .

And a color ed fountain

BUSTER KEATON : No .
chambermaids.

return.

And yo u will never return.

Th ere wer e s uppose d t o be thr ee

(He t akes out a c hessboard and begins p l ayi ng

upon it . )
PIGEON :

I cou ld love yo u if I were a dov e .

BUSTER KEATON (biting the ch es sboard ) : When I was

a chi ld I was pu t in jail for not giving informa tion t o th e po l ic e .
3 CHAMBERMAIDS :
BUSTER KEATON:
PI GEON:

Yes .
I am not a Ca tholi c .

Don't you beli eve that God di ed?

BUSTER KEATON (c rying) :

No.

(4 Spanish da nce r s com e in .

ma l e . )

The y are mostly

1st SPANIS H DA NCE R:

my ass .
4 Cl IAMBERMAIDS :

I hav e a little

VIRGIN MARY (coming in abruptl y) :

Buster Keaton

yo u have bumped The Car.

No .

(A l cohol corh es in wearing the disguise of

a coc kro ac h. It is blu e . I t crawls si l en tl y up Bus t er Keaton' s le g . )
BUSTER KEATON:

No .

(A lc ohol and the Virgin Mary perform a

dance . The y both pretend to hav e been
lovers. )
BUSTER KEATON:
in Rockland .

I will never see e ith er of you

I am not goi ng t o Rockl a nd.

(He takes th e chess bo ar d and i nv ent s a new

a lph abet . )
VIRGIN ~ lr\RY: Ho ly ~lary ~ ! o th er of God Pray For
Us Si nn er s Now At The Hour Of Our Death.
ALCO!IOL:

Dada is as da da do es .

VIRGIN MARY:

Did .

If I weren't ton e-d eaf I would si ng.

BUSTER KEATON (sadly):

Oh!

(Bus t er Keaton forgets his po liteness and

becomes a Catholic . He takes ma ss, says
llo l y Mary Mother of God, a nd distribut es
rosar ie s to all the policemen in the room.
li e hang s by his heels from a crucifix . )

BUSTER KEATON :

ALCOHOL :

(She falls i nto

BUSTER KEATO N: I wonder

love in th e un ive rse .
(Suddenly, at the last poss ibl e tim e before
th e curtain falls, somebody kisses th e
Virgin Mary, and Bus t er ' Keaton, and eve ry body. )

I announce a n ew world .

(Three lit erary critics di sg uised as chamb er maids bring down the curtain. Bust er
Keaton, bleeding , br eaks through th e curtain. He s t ands in the middl e of th e stage
holding a fr es h pomegranate in hi s arms.)
BUSTER KEATON (even more sadly) : I announc e the
death of Orph eus.
(Everyone comes in . Policemen , wa itresses,
and Irene Tav ener . Th ey perform a compli cat ed symbolic dance. Alcohol nibbl es a t
th e legs of every dancer. )
BUSTER KEATON (bl ee ding profusely) : I love you.
I lov e you. (As a l ast effort he throws the
bl ee ding pomegrana t e from his heart. ) No
kidding , I love yo u.
VIRGIN MARY (taking him into her arms) :

You

hav e bumPed th e car .

(The gaudy blue cur t ain, s il ent a nd alive
lik e th e mouth of a seagull, cover s every thin g . )

THE BALLAD OF ESCAPE

A Translation for Nat Hard en

VENUS

A Translation for Ann Simon

I have become lost many time s a lon g th e ocean

The dead girl

With my ears filled with newl y cut flowers

In the winding shell of the bed

Wi th my tongue full of lovin g and agony

Na ked of the little wind and flow ers

I hav e become los t many tim es a long th e ocean

Surges on into pere nni a l l ight.

Like I los e myself in th e hear t s of some boys.

The world stayed behind
There is no night in which, gi v ing a kiss,

Lily of cotton and shadow.

One do es not feel th e smiles of th e fac e less

people

It pe e ke d timidly out of th e mirror

Looking on at tha t infinite passage .

And there is no one in touching some thing rec ent!

born
Who can quite forge t the motionl ess sk ulls of
horses.

The dead girl

Was eaten from inside by love.
In the un yi e ldingness of seafoam

Becaus

th e roses a lways searc h i n th e forehea d

For a hard l an dscape of bone

And th e hands of a man have no other purpose
Than to be like th e roots th a t
fields.
Lik e I l ose myse l f in the heart s of some boys
I hav e become lo s t many times along the ocean
Along the vas tn ess of wat er I wand er s,earching
An end to the liv es that hav e tried t o compl e te

She l ost her hair .

FRIDAY, THE 13TH

A Translation for Will Holther

SONG OF TWO WINDOWS

A Translation for James Broughton

At the base of the throat is a little machine

Wind, window, moon

Which makes us able to say anything.

(I open the window to the sky)

Below it are carpets

Wind, window, moon

Red, blue, and green-colored.

(I open the window to the earth)

I say the flesh is not grass .

Then

It is an empty house
In which there is nothing

The voices of two girls .

From the sky

But a little machine

And big, dark carpets.

In the middle of my mirror

A girl is drowning
The voice of a singl e girl .
She holds cold fire liKe a g lass
Each thing she watch es

'

Has become doubl e .

Cold fir e is
Cold fir e is .
In th e middl e of my mirror
A girl is drowning
The voic e of a singl e girl.
A branch of ni ght
Enters through my window
A great dark bran c h
With brac e l e t s of wat er
Behind a blue mirror

Someo ne i s drowning

Dead below th e ripples .

The wounded instants

I will soo n put at her side

Along the clock -- pass .

Two sma ll gourd s

Because th ey can keep afloat,

I s ti c k my head out of th e window

Yes , even in water.

a nd I see a chopper of wind ready to cut

it off .

Upon that invisible guillotine

I have mounted th e heads without eyes of

all my desires, a nd th e odor of l emon

fills all of the in s t a nt whil e th e wind
changes to a flow er of gas .
At th e pool there has di e d
A girl of wa t er
She has pushed th e ear th aside

..

Lik e a r ipe apple

Down from her he ad t o her thighs
A fis h crosses her, ca lling softl y
The wind 1vhi spers , "Darling"
But is un ab l e to awaken her
De ar Lor ca ,
The pool ho ld s l oose l y
It s rider of some th ing
And in the air it s gray nipples
Vibra t e with f rogs .
God, 1ve ha i l you .

\\e will make payments

To Our La dy of Water
For th e girl i n tlrn poo l

Lon e lin ess is necessary for pure poetry.

Wh en someon e intrudes into th e poet ' s l ife
(and any s udden personal co nt act, whether in
the b ed or in the ~eart, i s an i ntru sio n) he
loses hi s balance for a mom en t, slips i nto
bei ng who he is , uses hi s poetry as o ne would
u se money or sympathy . The person who writes
th e poe tr y emerges , t entative l y , lik e a hermit crab from a conch shel l. The poet, for
that i nsta nt, ceases to be a dead man .

I, for exampl e , could not finish th e last

l e tt er I wa s writing you about so und s . You
were lik e a friend in a dis tant ci t y to whom
I was suddenly unabl e to writ e, not beca use
th e fabric of my life ha d changed, but be cause
I was suddenly, t empor ari l y , not in the fabric
of my life. I could not t e ll yo u about it
because both it and I were momentary.
Even th e objects change . The seagulls,
th e greenness of the ocean, th e fish -- th ey
become things to be tra ded for a smi l e or the
sound of conversation -- counters rather than
objects . No thing m~tters except the bi g lie
of th e personal -- the li e in which th ese obj ec t s do not beli eve .
Tha t instant, I sai d. It may la s t for a
minute, a ni gh t, or a month, but, this I pro mi se yo u, Garcia Lorca, th e lon e liness returns .
The poe t enc ys ts the intruder. The obj ec ts
come back to th eir own places, si l ent a nd unsmiling . I agai n begi n to write yo u a l ett er
on th e so und of a poem . And thi s imme dia t e
thing , thi s personal adventure , will not have
bee n tra nsferre d into th e poem like the waves
a nd th e birds were, will, a t best, show i n
th e lov e l y pattern of cracks i n some poem
where a utob iograp hy sha tt ered but did not
quite des troy th e s urface . And the encysted
emot ion will itself become a n object , to be
tra nsferred a t last i nto poetry l ike th e waves
a nd th e birds.
And I will agai n become your specia l com rad e.
Love,

THE MOON AND LADY DEATH

A Translation for Helen Adam

The moon has marb l e t ee th

How old and sad she l ooks !
There is a dry river
There is a hi ll without grass
There is a dead oak tr ee
Near a dr y river .
Lady Death, wrinkled,
Goes looki ng fo r custom
At the hee l s of a crowd
Of t enuou s phantoms .
Near th e dead oak t ree
Near th e dry river
There is a fair wi thout t rumpets
And t ents made of shadow.
She sells th em dry pain t
Made of wax and torture,
Wicked and twisted
Like a witch in a story .
There is a dry river
There is a hill with out grass

Jack

There is a dead oak tree

ear a dry river.

The moon

AFTERNOON
A Translation for John Barrow

Is tossing money
Down through the black air .
Near the dead oak tree

The sky asks afternoon for a word.

Near the dry river

"It is 1:36.

There is a fair without trumpets

Ha s crossed one of th e white clouds .

And tents made of shadow.

13 empty boats

A bl ack cloud

And a seagull . "

The bay asks afternoon for a word .
"Th e wind is blowing
Southwes t at nine miles an hour
I am in l ove with an ocean
Whose heart is th e colour of wet sand .
At 1 : 37
13 empty boats

And a seagull . "

Afternoon asks the ocean,
"Wh y does a man die? "
"It is 1:37

13 empty boats
And a seagull. "

Dear Lor ca ,
Thi s is the last l e tter. Th e connection
be twe e n us, which had been fading away with
the summer, is now fin a ll y broken. I turn in
anger a nd dis s at isfaction t o the things of my
l jfe and you return, a disembodi ed but con t agio us spir~ t, to the printed pag e. It is
over, thi s intimat e communion with the gho s t
of Garcia Lorca , and I wond e r now how it was
ever ab l e to happen.
It was a game, I shout to myself. A game.
Th ere a r e no angels , ghosts, or even sha dows .
It was a game made out of summer and freedom
and a nee d for a p6etry that would be more
th an th e exp r ess ion of my hatreds and des ir es .
It was a game like Yeats ' spook s or Blake ' s
sex l ess serap him.
Yet it was there. The poems are th e r e ,
th e memory not of a vis ion but a kind of
c as ua l friendship with an undramatic ghos t
who occasionally loo ked through my eyes and
whispered t o me, not rea ll y more important
then t han my other friends, but now achieving
a diff er ent l eve l of reality by bei ng missing.
Toda y , alone by myself, it is lik e having lo s t
a pa i r of eyes and a l over.
Wh a t i s real, I s uppo se , will e ndur e .
Poe ' s mechanical chessp l ayer was not the l ess
a miracle for having a man i nside i t, and when
th e man departed, the games it ha d played were
no less bea utifu l. The a na l ogy is false, of
course, but it holds both a promise and a
warnin g for each of us.
It is October now. Summer is over . Al mo s t eve r y trace of the month s that p:\oduced
these poems has been obliterat ed . Onl }'. ex planatio ns are possib l e, only regrets . ~

Saying goodbye to a ghost is more final

than say ing goodbye to a lover. Even th e
dead return, but a gho s t, once loved, departing wil 1 nev er reappear.
Lov e,
Jack

RADAR
A Postscript for Mariann e Moor e

No one exactly knows

Exactly how clouds ,look in the sky
Or the shape of the mountain s below them
Or the direction in which fish swim.
No one exactly knows .
The eye is jealous of whatever moves
And th e heart
Is too far buried in the sand
To t e ll .
Th ey a r e going on a journey
Thos e de ep blue creatures
Passi ng us as if they wer e sunshine
Look
Thos e f ins , tho se c lo se d eyes
Admiring eac h l as t drop of th e ocean .
I crawled into bed with sor r ow that nig ht
Couldn ' t t ouc h hi s fi ngers .

See th e splash

Of th e water
Th e no isy movement of c loud
Th e pu s h of th e humpbacked mountains
Deep a t the sa nd ' s e dge.

--