POOR : OLD : TIRED (HORSE: MONTHLY number seven 9d per Issue (tus 34 p&p) THE WILD HAWTHORN PRESS 24 Fetes Row Edinburgh Seotlane SUBSCRIPTIONS : 12 Issues—12 shillings or $1.75 6 Issues—T shillings or $1.00 At the lion's roar Rubbish-Barge the deer cannot hold stil Hyenas sniff the ai. ‘Watertime, the rubbjsh-barge ART CAN FULFIL. lakes us to evening, we too feet no hurry, a dead Kurt Schwitters why stands in the bow. (Germany) ee trans, Lesley Lendram (Scotland) Lightened. The lung, the jellyfish blows up into 2 bell, a brown ‘extension of soul arrives at the brightly breathed ne. ; 7 A wooden star, blue, 3 Poems From ‘Wordtrellis’ pieced of small facets, Today by the youngest of our hands, Return “The word, while you fell salt from’ the might, the eye Jooks for the wind-spite again Snowiall, more and more dense, as yesterday, the color of doves, MA star, doit ‘snowfall se if you were still merely sleeping do the star in the night On inte the distance, layers of whit (in mine, in ‘And crossing, the endless sino) Sleighirack of him hat is gone a Paul Celan ‘Underneath, held safe, (Germany) buckles upward Helmut Bonbeim that which so stings the oye: wn) bill oo hil, sovisble on each, Drought home to his today, fan T that slipped away inte the mute: ‘wooden, 2 stake. A Fragment On the street Tam met with constant hostility and I would have finally nothing else around me, except for my children who are trained 10 love Yonder: ease Shu whom T intend to leave as relics of my intentions lowe over by the icy wind Shieh fastens its dove- and sn0% Robert Creeley Colored Banner (USA)E the dawn with its (as music) ‘odor of san and white met (casts) maid lips Begonia woven (gladly madness over { suppose mad people who} tugs at my chest hair darling (owere trying to clude who by swallowing their skulls Tike pill i think ‘you have given me a litle brother for sleep Epilogue as i dink tea whieh smells of you the small leaves whirl and rap against the cup {tum thinking you are behind me soon all the doors inside me open fon tissue hinges this to tell you how my heart caught «cold who is now lying in bed with a hundred and four fever amy heart which wed to fi Piero Heliczer (USA) Poem old earthenware jar guarding the door boy Joking for cracks in cracked walls 19 tear ‘the titel from the lizar’s tail to see the train into the tunnel cover the bridge at sundown lolling fon rock ehamping at bits of Mario Trufelli (italy) * trans, Cid. Corman (USA) New York Airport At Night (rom The Three-comered Pear) The Facade My self-portrait, retort of neon, apostle of the heavenly portals—the airport! Ikons of duralumin fash and soar Hike X-ray photos of the soul. How fearful jt is ‘when your sky is fixed in the smouldering tracks of ‘unknown capitals! “Twenty-four hours a day ‘you are filed up like a sluice with the starry fates of freightmen and loose ‘women, Your alcoholic: drain the bar, like angels! You speak to them with tongues! You lift them up, fhe beats and bums, You say ‘Advent— roll that on your drums! The Airfield A place of walung . escorts, destinies, trunks, marvels ‘Waten five Caravels ‘rift dazzlingly own from the heavens! Five night birds let down their yawning undercerriages Is there a sixth of these voyagers? It seems to heve been whirled up—tossed— liter, 2 tiny stork, a star!Cities dance below i ‘on electric grids. ‘Where is it floating, ‘droning, having its fling? ‘And burning Tike cigarette in the mist? It fails to understand the forecast, ‘The earth is closed to it The Interior ‘The forecasts are bad. And you, in the storm of anxiety, go out into your entrance halls, your guerilla army. Governments snore on ‘in oblivious pais Quiet as a chemist, the control tower plots their ight, A huge eve stares out to other spheres. Window-clesners climb over you like greeafly, stellar commando, prodigy of crystal, how sweet, how terrible {to be the son of the farure where there are no more fools or wedding-cake stations— only poets and airports! ‘The sky moans in the aquarium glass, welded to the earth at last, Structures Aixports—aceredited legations of all sun and ozone! ‘A Inandred generations— could they touch this mastery of immaterial stroctares? Tnstead of a stony mass like an idol, 2 cool lass of dark blue—without the glass. With its hushed geilles and counters ite Hike @ vapour ‘of anti-matter. Brooklyn's blockhead, a devil in hard stone. ‘The monument for this age 's the airport alone. Andrei Voznesensky (USSR) trans, Bawin Morgan (Scotland) Janet At The Seaside Breakers, and grey gulls ‘Across the erying land: Blue in the distance, hills; ‘And, underfoot, white sand. Gay in summer dress, Sedately Janet walks; Over the sandy grass, (On to the sandy rocks, er pail is filled with seaweed ‘To hold the various creatures She intends to study, indeed One of the attractive features (Of the seaside, che maintains, Is the way you can fill your Bucket with specimens With which you're unfamiliar Her older brother! paddle ‘About the silver shallow: ‘She doesn't care to meddle With amusements s0 callow. Determined Janet goes, Gay in selfreliance, watch, and blink my eyes Which are blinded by her science Crombie Saunders (Scotland) Affinities IT Walking out of Lovis Zukofsky's now place Columbia. Heights at 1.35 in the morning there's the smell of sea the sound of boats / that ten of the bay into river and up crossing, the engines over the night, the hight over the bridge, the bridge lover the river and op 2 blocks the smell of all that goes into memory of itself und, by Hicks St. the only real thing is the odor of already-walked dogs and one's own sweat jo the summer night How keep this thief from home and the guaré down for 2 moment? to torn back, 10 ‘make harbor at that, that moment of crossing Paul Blackburn (USA)We Hardly We hardly bad gotten the man's pants down, and he stood there stripped to his nuts, amazed at all the raphe, and he said turning red:'"How dare you!” and we said, where there's a will thero's a way, and the nly virtwe is know-how, if you only look at it riebt And the man sad, that’s & pretty good one, znd everyone shook everyone else's hand, ‘That was the time when the sing-song of the bells was deluding the sinners, and they stepped from the house, discarding their glasses, and they threw away their crutches, and when the eruiches were thrown, they threw away their rags the rose-colored and most certainly the Illsecolored neckties, fand when the llac-colored neckties were most positively thrown away, they threw themselves away and throwing themselves away: they threw themscives forward. And we met them in the market, where the flag was saluting the Kaiser. The Kaiser was only a young man, and he had the worid fon a string, and he wore the imperial orb as a jock- strap like the upright man thot be was And he said he ‘was as upright as he could possibly be, and he raised the imperial orb (which we call the imperial apple) fand he pulled it right up towards the Adams apple of the great German Nation, ‘and the Great German Nation threw apples at him, and everyone rejoiced in everyone else's apples. ‘And the man, when we had gotten his pants down, stood there and considered his fate, “The ait is heavy with sulphur,” he said, “and the rivers are slithering ont towards the horizon, And the houses are parched by the un and the wind, and people are crowding together like frogs in a puddle, and everyone's crowding. with everyone cle.” And we took hold of Freedom and we reasoned with her, ‘while the boys hung around and lamented the ‘general lot of mankind. And a woman pulled zolls rom her breadbox and she sald: “Aha.” And everyone answered: eee ‘That was the time when the years grew silver and black in the glow of infinity, and the infra-red lights were all fading, and the song of the stars no longer was heard Richard Huelsenbeck (Germany) trons. Jerome Rothenberg (usa) ‘There ate many things forgotten (@ farm not far i have been there for mill ‘over the mud roads in wet black barn wood touched my thumb) through the open window i hold the dusk son everywhere yellow Tike a cat tongue ‘There ate many things forgotten ( sound not far many together called woods T have been there in spring the green clay fgeinst my skin) Jook . . . there through the open window over the farm ‘white pigeons against the grey sky Took... there like those butterfies of summer ‘There are many things forgotten She asked me to write a poem it was the way she said it her head slightly bent in autumn i think yes, once in her red sweater remember how cold it was for sutuma Robert Simmons (USA) Girl’s Song For Seafarer 1 will knit him a foamewhite jersey, Soft as the breast of the mew: Or, if he prefers, he May have it of deop-sea blue. 1 will knit him stockings of erimson Soft as the fall of flowers, Of the colour that dims on The islands in evening. hours. And I will knit him 2 bonnet Soft as the breast of the dove, With tassel-bobs on it— Oh, my laddic, my love! Hamish McLaren (1901-) (Scotland)