•' .- :-- ..

J·
~

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 .
I look into my present resting place . The analogy
INTRODUCTION
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 some-
thing 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 unreward-
ing 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 pleas-
ure 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
is impolite, but I fear the impolit eness is de-
se rv e d.
 The letters are another problem. When Mr. 0
..
JUAN RAMON JIMENEZ
A Translation for John Ryan
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, In the white endlessness
knowing that his young lady is in the distance
' now, seaweed, and salt
listening. The young lady in this case may be a
Muse, but the scarecrow nevertheless quite natu- lie lost his imagination .
rally resents the confidence. The reader, who
is not a party to this singular tryst, may be
amused by what he overhears . The color white. He walks
The dead are notoriously hard to satisfy. Mr. Upon a soundless carpet made
Spicer's mixture may please his contemporary
audience or may, ' and this is more probable, lead Of pigeon feathers.
him to write better poetry of his own. But I am
strongly reminded as I survey this curious amal-
gam of a cartoon published in an American maga- Wi.thout eyes or thumbs
zine whil e I was visiting your country in New lie suffers a dream not moving
York. The cartoon showed a gravestone on which
were inscribed the words: "HERE LIES AN OFFICER But the bones quiver .
AND A GENTLEMAN." The caption below it read:
"I wonder how they happened to be buried in the
In the white endlessness
same grave?"
Federico Garcia Lorca Ilow pure and big a wound
Outside Granada, October 1957
llis imagination left.

Snow, seaweed, and salt . Now

In the white endlessness .
BALLAD OF THE LI TTLE GIRL WHO I NVENTED THE UNJVE.RSE
A Trans l a t ion f or Ge orge Stanl ey
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 .
ll 111 I' Lorca ,
Th ese l e tters ar e to be as t emporary as
1111 1· 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.
ln my last letter I spoke of the tradi-
tion. 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 ny-
thing . 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 in-
v 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 subcon-
s 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 Y
\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.
 DEBUSSY FROG
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 II hat black forest. And the noise
( " p I ns h)
My shadow skims the water like a huge
Ill :i s ingle green needle .
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.
 BUSTER KEATON'S RIDE t 1·ightened as if they were carrying a vase
A Translation for Melvin Bakkerud t 11 I I of water and, in passing, pet the bi-
l Y ·I of Buster Keaton . )
1111 '.! l: ll KEATON: Ah, love, love !
ROOSTER: Cockledoodledoo! ( l\11ster Keaton falls to the ground. The bi-
~ycle escapes him . It runs behind two
(Buster Keaton enters carrying four children 0n rmous gray butterfl ies . It skims madly
in his · arms.) hulf an inch from the ground.)
BUSTER KEATON (takes out a wooden dagger and kil ls ll ll 'i'l'l:ll KEATON: I don ' t wan t to talk. Won ' t
them) : 0111 body please say something?
My poor children !
ROOSTER: Cockledoodledoo! VOICE: Fool !

BUSTER KEATON (counting the corpses on the
' s ad like a newly born animal, dream of lilies
One, two, three, four . (Grabs a
and goes . )
(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: I like riding a bicycle.
THE OWL: Toowit toowoo
BUSTER KEATON: How beautifully these birds sing !
THE OWL: Hoo!
BUSTER KEATON: It ' s love l y !
(Pause . Buster Keaton ineffably crosses the
rushes and little fields of rye . The land-
scape shortens itself beneath the wheels of
his machine . The bicyle has a single dimen-
sion . It is able to enter books and to ex-
pand 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 drench-
ing of innocence. Adam and Eve run by,
(I le continues walking. His eyes, infinite and
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 dis-
tance . 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 dif-
ference 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: 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.)
 11/\LLAD OF THE SHADOWY PIGEONS
THE AMERICAN: Do you have a ring with a A Translation for Joe Dunn
stone?
(Buster Keaton twists slowly and lifts an in-
11 1 h1• I ranches of laurel
quiring le g . )
THE AMERICAN: Well? w 1wo shadowy pigeons .
(Four angels with wings of a heav enly gas bal- 1111 111 them was the sun
loon piss among the flowers . The ladies of lhl i!lh r the moon .
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 I 11 I I • neighbours, I asked them,
friend. As the greatest surprise of all,
autumn has invaded th e garden lik e water ex - Wlt1 1·11 nm I buried?
p lodes a geometrical clump of sugar . ) I 11 111 y ail, said the sun .
BUSTER KEATON (sighing): I would hav e l iked to 111 111 y raw, said the moon.
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 11.I I who had been walking
mohair neckti e? What a disgrace!
Willi the earth at my waistline
(A young gir l with a wasp waist and a high
collar comes in on a bicycle. She ha s the 1w two eagles o{ marble
•'
head of a ni ghtingale.) 11.I 11 naked maiden .
YOUNG GIRL: Whom do I have the honor of saluting ? 1111 on was the other
BUSTER KEATON (with a bow): Buster Keaton . 111' th e maiden was no one.
(The young girl faints and falls off the bi-
cycle. Her legs on the ground tr emble like
two agoni zed cobras. A gramophone plays a I I I I c eagles, I asked them,
thousand versions of the same song -- "In \\Ii am I buried?
I' '
Philadelphia they have no ni ghtingales ".
111 111 y tail , said the sun.
BUSTER KEATON (kneeling) : Darling Miss Eleanor ,
pardon me! (lower) Darling (lower still ) I ii 111 y craw, sai d the moon.
Darling (lowest) Darling.
(The li ght s of Philadelphia flicker and go 1111 th e branches of l a urel
out in the faces of a thousand policemen . )
11w two naked pigeons.
111 1• one was the other
11d th e both of them no one.
 SUICIDE 11/\C ' 1IU S
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 1ched green murmur.

The young man could not remember . 111 I ig ree wants to extend me its branches.

His heart was stuffed with dead wings II 1 11 pa nther its s hadow
And linen flowers. I 11I I.. · my poe t shadow .

He is conscious that there is nothing l eft 1111 111 n has words with the do gs .
In his mouth but one word. 111 i !i mis t aken and begins ov er .

When he removes his coat soft ashes t ' rday, tomorrow, black, and green

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 xc hang ed my heart?

His watch has run down in its case /\nd the figtree s hout s at me and advanc es

He observes the way it was looking at him . 11 nible an d ex t ended .

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 .
 1'111 : LITTLE HALFWIT
A DIAMOND A Translation for Robin Blaser
A Translation for Robert Jones

1 1d, " Afternoon"

A diamond
1 t wa sn 't there .
Is there
11 1t ' rnoon was ano th er thing
At the heart of the moon or the branches or my
na kedness 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 1 o litt l e gir l.
Th e poem is a seagull resting on a pier
of th e ocean. But this is useless,
II I 1 rnoon"
1111 i s untrue, this has to it
A do g howls a t the moon The other
1111I I" a moon of lead.
A dog howls at th e branches
WI 11 never get here .
A dog how l s a t the nakedness ..
A dog howling with pure mind . t fl11d the light that everyone sees
t•t11 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
11tl at e pomegranat es .
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 thi s on e is big and green a nd I 'm not able
The dog is dead there with th e moon, with the In gr a b her in my arms or dress her.
branches, with my nak edness 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 ,

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

A song 11 1111 a ross words I do not understand, I al-
w11 "\ guess at their meaning s . I am in evi tably
Which I shall never sing 1 l ~ hl. A really perfect poem (no one yet ha s
w1 l n one) could be perfectly translated by
Ha s fallen asleep on my lips.
11 pvr son who did not know one word of the
A song l11 11 Huage it was writt en in. A reall y perf ect
11111•111 has an infinitely smal 1 vo cabulary.
Wh ic h I s hall never sing--
It is very difficult. We want to trans-
i t 1· he immediate object, the imm ediat e emo-
Above th e honeys uckle 1 Ion to the poem - - and ye t the immediate
There ' s a firefly 11I1v:tys has hundreds of its ciwn words clinging
111 it, short-lived and tenacious as barnacles .
And th e moon s tings 11 I i.t is wrong to scrape them off and sub-
l I ute others. A poet is a tim e mechanic
With a ray into the water--
1111t a n embalmer. The word s around the imme-
oll11 s hrivel and decay like flesh around the
At that tim e I'll imagine l1od y . No mummy-sheet of trad i tion can be used
111 s top the process . Obj ects, words must be
The so ng I1• I across time not pres erved a,$ ain s t it.
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
1¥ I I J fade. It will be dea d as "Alas " . But if
A so ng full of lip s I put the real cliff and the r ea l ocean into
And f ar -o ff washes 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 lo st Mos t of my fri ends lik e words too we ll.
Hours in th e sha dow 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 conno-
l 11 io n from each of th em, ever y t empora r y pun,
A so ng of a star that's a liv e 1v ry direct or indirect con nectio n -- as if
.i 1vord could become an object by mere addition
And endur i ng day . 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?
 ... :- .. THE BA LLAD OF THE DEAD WOODCUTTER
Words are wha t sticks to th e real W A Tra nsl a tion fo r Lou is Marbur y
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 em-
se ves as r ope with noth i ng t o be tied t o . I\ • a us e the fi gtr ee was s apl e ss
. . r . r ~peat -- the perf ec t poem has a n It has cracked at the root .
i nfi n i t e l y sma l l vocabul ary.

Lov e , Oh , you have f a llen down on your head

Jack u have fall en on your head.

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 .

J
 THE BALLAD OF WEE PI NG ALBA
A Tr ans l at ion for Bob Connor A Transla t i on f or Ru ss Fi t zgera ld

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

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 .
 SONG OF THE POOR
A Translation
Ay que trabajo me cue s ta
quererte como te quiero!
Because I love you the table
And the heart and the l amplight
Feel sorry for ,m e .
Who 1~ill buy from me
That small belt I have
And that sadness of white thread
To weav e handkerchi efs?
Because I l ove you the ceiling
And the heart and the air
Feel sorry for me.
Ay que trabajo me cuesta
quer er te como te quiero !
ODE FOR WALT WHITMAN
A Translation for Steve Jonas
Along Eas t River and the Bronx
Th e kids were singing, s howing off their bodies
At the wheel, at oil, the rawhide, and the hammer.
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
No one wanted to be a river
No one loved the bi g l eaves, no one
Th e blue tongue of th e coas tline .
Along East Ri ver into Que ens
Th e kids were wrestling with industry.
Th e Jews sold circumcision ' s ro se
'l'o the faun of th e river .
l'he s ky flowed through the bridges and rooftops- -
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.
 llad dreame d of be ing a r iver and of sl eepi ng lik e
one
But i f th e moon com es out
With a par ticul a r comrade, one who could put in
Th e pull eys wi ll s l i de around to disturb th e sky
your bosom
A limit of nee dl es will f enc e in your memory
The young pain of a n i gnorant l eop ard .
And ther e will be coffins to carry out your
Not fo r on e mom ent, blood-Adam, mal e ,
un employed.
Ma n a lone in th e sea, b eautiful
Old Walt Whitma n .
New Yor k of mud,
Beca us e on th e rooftop s
New York of wir e f ences and death,
Bu nched together i n bars
Wha t a nge l do you carry hi dd en in your cheek ?
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 be tw een th e l egs of t axi -dr iv er s
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
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 'l' ha t one a l so , a l so. And th ey •.th r ow th emse 1ves
down on
Or your shoulders of cor dur oy worn
ur burning vi r gin beard,
Or your muscle s of a v irgi n Apoll o
lllo nd s of t he North, n egr oes fro m th e s eas hor e ,
Or yo ur voi ce lik e a co lumn of as hes
Crowds of s hou t s an d ges tures
An c i e nt and beaut iful as th e f og.
Like ca t s or snakes
l'he cocksuckers , Wa lt \'/hi t ma n, th e cocks uckers ,
You gave a cry l i ke a bi rd
Nuddy wi th t ears , mea t f or the wh ip ,
With his pri c k p i erce d thro ugh by a nee dl e
I' oth or boo t of th e cowbo ys .
En emy of sat yrs
Enemy of th e gr ape
l'hat one a l so , a l so . Pa int ed fi ngers
And lov er of bod i es und er ro ugh c loth.
•'prou t ou t a l ong t he beach of yo ur dreams
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
And you giv e a fri end a n appl e
Wh i ch t a s t es faintly of ga s -fumes
And th e sun sings a song for the bel l ybuttons
Of t he lit t le bo ys who play gam es be low br i dg es.
But you wer en ' t looking for the scratched eye s
Or th e bl a ck swamp-countr y wher e children ar e
sinking
Or th e fro zen spit
Or th e wounded curv e s like a to ad's paun ch
Which cocks uck ers wear in bars and n ig ht - c l ubs
Whil ~ the moon beats th em a l ong th e corner s of
t error.
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 .
Fo r i t is ju s t th a t a man not
In th e f ores t of bl oo d of th e fo ll owing morni ng .
Th e s ky 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 .
The dead decompose th emse l ves und er th e clo ck of
t he cities .
Wa r ent er s weep ing , with a mi ll io n gray rats .
The ri ch giv e t o th eir gi r l frie nds
Ti ny il lum i nat ed dyi ngs
And l ife i s not nobl e , or goo d , or sacr ed .
A man is abl e i f he wi s hes t o l ea d his des i r e
Thro ugh vein of cora l or the ce l es t ia l nak ed.
;romorrow his l oves wi ll be rock and Time
A bree ze that com es s l eep ing thro ugh th ei r c l us t ers .
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
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
Who lov e men an d scald th eir lip s in sil ence ,
Ru t ag ains t th e re s t of you , cocks ucker s of cities,
ll ar d-up and dirty - brai ned,
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 .
Against the rest of you always, who give C 1nrades to keep vigil over your gazelle without
Drippings of sucked-off dea th wi th sour poison. 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.
I. t the hard air of midnight
Joto s of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cadiz, , \~cep a way all th e flowers and letters from the
arch in which you sleep
Apios of Seville,
And a little black boy announce to the white men of
Cancos of Madrid, 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 FOREST
A Tr ansl a tion for Jack Sp i cer A Tr ans l a tion f or Joe Dunn

A gr een boat
Yo u want me t o t e ll you
Fi s hing i n blue wa ter
The se cre t of spr i ngtime

The gull s cir c l e th e pier And I r e l a t e to that se cre t

Ca lling th e ir hun ger
Like a hi gh-branchin g f i rtr ee

A wind ris es from th e west

Whose thou s and littl e f inger s
Li ke th e pass ing of desire Poi nt a thousand littl e r oa ds .

Two bo ys pl ay on th e bea ch I will t e ll yo u never, my l ove ,

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

Their gang lin g l eg s . cast sh a dow s Bu t I s ha ll put i nto my br anchin g voice

On th e we t sand
'J'he as hy s ky of yo ur gaze .

Then,
Turn me ar ound, brown child
Sprawli ng in th e boat
Be car eful of my needl es .

A beauti f ul bl ac k fis h.
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 . How

I wis h I coul d t e ll you !
Dear Lorca,
Things do not connect; they correspond. rhat
I would like to mak e poems out of real is what makes it possible for a poet to translate
objects. The lemon to be a lemon that the read - real objects, to bring them across languag e as
er could cut or squee ze or taste -- a real lemon easi ly as he can bring them across time. That
lik e a newspaper in a collage is a real newspape r tree you saw in Spain is a tree I could never hav e
I would like the moon in my poems to be a real seen in California, that lemon has a different
moon, one which could be suddenly covered with a sme ll and a different tast e , BUT the answer is
cloud tha t has nothing to do with the poem -- a this -- every place and every time has a real ob-
moon utterl y independent of images. The imagi- ject to correspond with your real object -- tha t
nation pictures are real . I would like to poin t lemon may become this lemon, or it may even be-
to the real, disclose it, to make a poem that ha s come this piece of seaweed, or this particular
no sound in it but the pointing of a finger. co lor of gray in this ocean. One does not need
to imagine that lemon; one needs to discov er it .
We have both tried to be independent of
i mages (you fro~ the start and I only when I gre Even these letters . They correspond with
old enough to tire of trying to make things con - something (I don ' t know what) that you have writ-
nect), to ma ke things visible rather than to mak ten (perhaps as unapparently as that lemon corre-
pictures · of them (phantasia non imaginari). s ponds to this piece of seaweed) and, in turn,
easy it is in erotic musings or in the truer some future poet will write some thing wh ic h
imagination of a dream to invent a beautiful bo y, orresponds to th em. That is how we dead men
How difficult to take a boy in a blue bathing wri te to each other.
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 Lov e ,
visible, not as a n image or a p i cture but as
s ome thing alive -- caught forever in the struc- J ack
tur 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 for-
gotten 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 . ~
 NARCI SS US HE DIED AT SUNRISE
A Translation for Basil King A Tra nslation for Allen Joyce

Poor Narciss us NL ght of four moons

Your dim fragrance
And th e dim heart of the river
I want to stay at your edge
Flower of love
Poor Narcissus
Nippl es and sleeping fish
Cross your whit e eyes
Songbirds and butterfl ies
Japanese min e
And a single tre e,
WLth a si ngl e shadow
And a single bird .
I look into my body for
Th e tracks of your lips.
A s tream kiss es th e wind
I~ i thou t touch.
I carry t he No you gave me
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 my lov e, spinning.
In whi c h yo ur madness a nd my madn ess
Mirrors itself

Poor Narcissu s
My sorrow
Se lf of my sorrow.
 BALLAD OF THE TERRIBLE PRESENCE BALLAD OF SLEEPING SOMEWHERE ELSE
A Translation for Jo e Las eur 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. But don't show me that cool flesh. My heart was full of paper.)

Five hundre d miles away

The stars are g l ass that is br eaking .

The windows sag on the wall
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.
Can you hear th em crumble
There where we are sleeping?
f'
Dear Lorca,
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?
Some poems are easily laid. They will
gi ve themselves to anybody and anybody phys-
ically 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 .
But I am speaking of the first n igh t, when
I l eave my apartment almost breathless, search-
in 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 lit-
l 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?
 NARCISSUS
There are the young, of course. I have A Translation for Richard Rummond
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 Child,
device of yours to use. Yours, that's the
trouble . Yours and not the poem ' s. They read How you keep falling into rivers .
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 At the bottom there's a rose
poem . That ' s all. I know. I used to do it And in the rose there's another river.
myself .
When you are in love there is no real prob -
lem . The person you love is always interested Look at that bird . Look
because he knows that the poems are always That yellow bird .
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 My eyes have fallen down
better poet when I am in love, but I am a far
less frustrated one . My poems have an audience . Into the water.
Finally there are friends. There have only
been two of them in my life who could read my My God,
poems and one of that two really prefers to
put them in print so he can see them better. How they ' re slipping! Youngster!
The other is far away.
All this is to explain why I dedicate each -- And I ' m in the rose myself .
of our poems to someone.

Love, When I was lost in water I

Jack Understood but won't tell you.
 BALLAD OF THE DEAD BOY SONG FOR SEPTEMBER
A Translation for Graham Mackintosh ' ·· A Translation for Don Allen

Every afternoon in Granada In the distant night the children are singing:
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
All the dead wear wings of moss. from your holiday?
The ~loudy wind and the bright wind I: When my words no longer need me.
Are two pheasants who fly around towers THE CHILDREN: You have left us here to sing the
And the day is a boy with a wound in him. death of your summer
A little river
There wasn ' t a touch of lark in the sky And a colored fountain
When I met you at the wine cavern What September flowers do you hold
in your hand?
..
Or a fragment of cloud near the earth
When you drowned on the river . I: A bloody rose and a white lily.
THE CHILDREN: Dip them in the water of an old
A giant of water went slopping over the song
mountains A little river
And the c~nyon 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: The flavor of the bones of my big skull.
THE CHILDREN: Drink the kind water of an old
J'
song
 A l i ttle river BUSTER KEATON RIDES AGAIN: A SEQUEL
And a colored fountain 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 . BUSTE R KEATON (e nt ering a long dark corridor) : This
mu s t be Room 73 .
THE CHILDREN: And how wil l you find the highway
PIGEON: Sir , I am a pigeon .
of poets?
BUSTER KEATO N (taking a dict io nary out of hi s back
I: The fo unt ain and a river an d an old song . poc ke t ) : I don't und ers tand what anybody is talk-
THE CHILDREN : You are going very far. ing about.

I: I am go ing very far, farth er than my poems, (No one rides by on a bi cyc l e. The corridor is
farther than the mount ai ns, farther than quite s il ent . )
th e birds . I am go ing to ask Christ PIGEON: I have to go t o the bathroom.
to give me back my childhood, ripe with
s unburn a nd feathers and a wooden sword. BUSTE R KEATON: In a mi nut e.
(Two chambermaids come by car r ying towels. They
THE CHILDREN : You have l eft us here to si ng give one to th e pigeo n and one t o Buster Kea ton )
the death of yo ur s ummer . And you will never 1s t CHAMBE RMAID: Wh y do you suppos e hum an beings
return. have lips?

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

chambermaids.
And yo u will never return.
(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 : Yes .
BUSTER KEATON: I am not a Ca tholi c .
PI GEON: Don't you beli eve that God di ed?
BUSTER KEATON (c rying) : No.
(4 Spanish da nce r s com e in . The y are mostly
ma l e . )
1st SPANIS H DA NCE R: I hav e a little ALCOHOL : If I weren't ton e-d eaf I would si ng.
my ass . BUSTER KEATON (sadly): I announce a n ew world .
4 Cl IAMBERMAIDS : Oh! (Three lit erary critics di sg uised as chamb er -
(Bus t er Keaton forgets his po liteness and maids bring down the curtain. Bust er
becomes a Catholic . He takes ma ss, says Keaton, bleeding , br eaks through th e cur-
llo l y Mary Mother of God, a nd distribut es tain. He s t ands in the middl e of th e stage
rosar ie s to all the policemen in the room. holding a fr es h pomegranate in hi s arms.)
li e hang s by his heels from a crucifix . ) BUSTER KEATON (even more sadly) : I announc e the
VIRGIN MARY (coming in abruptl y) : Buster Keaton death of Orph eus.
yo u have bumped The Car. (Everyone comes in . Policemen , wa itresses,
and Irene Tav ener . Th ey perform a compli -
BUSTER KEATON : No . cat ed symbolic dance. Alcohol nibbl es a t
(A l cohol corh es in wearing the disguise of th e legs of every dancer. )
a coc kro ac h. It is blu e . I t crawls si - BUSTER KEATON (bl ee ding profusely) : I love you.
l en tl y up Bus t er Keaton' s le g . ) I lov e you. (As a l ast effort he throws the
BUSTER KEATON: No . bl ee ding pomegrana t e from his heart. ) No
kidding , I love yo u.
(A lc ohol and the Virgin Mary perform a
dance . The y both pretend to hav e been VIRGIN MARY (taking him into her arms) : You
lovers. ) hav e bumPed th e car .
BUSTER KEATON: I will never see e ith er of you (The gaudy blue cur t ain, s il ent a nd alive
in Rockland . I am not goi ng t o Rockl a nd. lik e th e mouth of a seagull, cover s every -
(He takes th e chess bo ar d and i nv ent s a new thin g . )
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 . (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. )
 THE BALLAD OF ESCAPE VENUS
A Translation for Nat Hard en A Translation for Ann Simon

I have become lost many time s a lon g th e ocean
With my ears filled with newl y cut flowers
Wi th my tongue full of lovin g and agony
I hav e become los t many tim es a long th e ocean
Like I los e myself in th e hear t s of some boys.
There is no night in which, gi v ing a kiss,
One do es not feel th e smiles of th e fac e less
people
And there is no one in touching some thing rec ent!
born
Who can quite forge t the motionl ess sk ulls of
horses.
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.
The dead girl
In the winding shell of the bed
Na ked of the little wind and flow ers
Surges on into pere nni a l l ight.
The world stayed behind
Lily of cotton and shadow.
It pe e ke d timidly out of th e mirror
Looking on at tha t infinite passage .
The dead girl
Was eaten from inside by love.
In the un yi e ldingness of seafoam
She l ost her hair .

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
 FRIDAY, THE 13TH SONG OF TWO WINDOWS
A Translation for Will Holther 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 From the sky
In which there is nothing The voices of two girls .
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
Lon e lin ess is necessary for pure poetry.
It s rider of some th ing Wh en someon e intrudes into th e poet ' s l ife
And in the air it s gray nipples (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
Vibra t e with f rogs . loses hi s balance for a mom en t, slips i nto
God, 1ve ha i l you . \\·e will make payments bei ng who he is , uses hi s poetry as o ne would
u se money or sympathy . The person who writes
To Our La dy of Water th e poe tr y emerges , t entative l y , lik e a her-
For th e girl i n tlrn poo l mit crab from a conch shel l. The poet, for
that i nsta nt, ceases to be a dead man .
 THE MOON AND LADY DEATH
I, for exampl e , could not finish th e last A Translation for Helen Adam
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 The moon has marb l e t ee th
of my life. I· could not t e ll yo u about it How old and sad she l ooks !
because both it and I were momentary.
There is a dry river
Even th e objects change . The seagulls,
th e greenness of the ocean, th e fish -- th ey · There is a hi ll without grass
become things to be tra ded for a smi l e or the There is a dead oak tr ee
sound of conversation -- counters rather than
objects . No thing m~tters except the bi g lie Near a dr y river .
of th e personal -- the li e in which th ese ob-
j ec t s do not beli eve .
Lady Death, wrinkled,
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 - Goes looki ng fo r custom
mi se yo u, Garcia Lorca, th e lon e liness returns . At the hee l s of a crowd
The poe t enc ys ts the intruder. The obj ec ts
come back to th eir own places, si l ent a nd un- Of t enuou s phantoms .
smiling . I agai n begi n to write yo u a l ett er Near th e dead oak t ree
on th e so und of a poem . And thi s imme dia t e
thing , thi s personal adventure , will not have Near th e dry river
bee n tra nsferre d into th e poem like the waves There is a fair wi thout t rumpets
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 And t ents made of shadow.
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 She sells th em dry pain t
tra nsferred a t last i nto poetry l ike th e waves Made of wax and torture,
a nd th e birds.
Wicked and twisted
And I will agai n become your specia l com -
rad e. Like a witch in a story .
Love,
There is a dry river
Jack There is a hill with out grass

\ There is a dead oak tree

ear a dry river.
1
 AFTERNOON
The moon 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. A bl ack cloud
There is a fair without trumpets Ha s crossed one of th e white clouds .
And tents made of shadow. 13 empty boats
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 ,
Saying goodbye to a ghost is more final
Thi s is the last l e tter. Th e connection than say ing goodbye to a lover. Even th e
be twe e n us, which had been fading away with dead return, but a gho s t, once loved, depart-
the summer, is now fin a ll y broken. I turn in ing wil 1 nev er reappear.
anger a nd dis s at isfaction t o the things of my Lov e,
l jfe and you return, a disembodi ed but con -
t agio us spir~ t, to the printed pag e. It is Jack
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 . ~
 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.
 •i•

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