Simple things
one wants to say
like, what’s the day
like, out there–
who am I
and where.
poetry
For Pen by Robert Creeley
Thinking out
of the heart–
it’s up,
it’s down. . .
It’s that time
of day light
echoes the sun
setting west
over mountains.
I want to come home.
We Are Many by Pablo Neruda
Of the many men who I am, who we are,
I can’t find a single one;
they disappear among my clothes,
they’ve left for another city.
When everything seems to be set
to show me off as intelligent,
the fool I always keep hidden
takes over all that I say.
At other times, I’m asleep
among distinguished people,
and when I look for my brave self,
a coward unknown to me
rushes to cover my skeleton
with a thousand fine excuses.
When a decent house catches fire,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and that’s me. What can I do?
What can I do to distinguish myself?
How can I pull myself together?
All the books I read
are full of dazzling heroes,
always sure of themselves.
I die with envy of them;
and in films full of wind and bullets,
I goggle at the cowboys,
I even admire the horses.
But when I call for a hero,
out comes my lazy old self;
so I never know who I am,
nor how many I am or will be.
I’d love to be able to touch a bell
and summon the real me,
because if I really need myself,
I mustn’t disappear.
While I am writing, I’m far away;
and when I come back, I’ve gone.
I would like to know if others
go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have,
and see themselves similarly;
and when I’ve exhausted this problem,
I’m going to study so hard
that when I explain myself,
I’ll be talking geography.
from Love, Poetry by Paul Eluard
She leans over me
the unknowing heart
to see if I love her
she is sure she forgets
under the clouds of her eyelids
her head falls asleep in my hands
where are we
together inseparable
living living
man and woman
my head rides in her dreams.
translated by Stuart Kendall
My Beloved by Paul Eluard
She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is inside mine,
She is the shape of my hand,
She is the color of my eyes,
She is surrounded by my shadows
Like a rock by the sky.
Her eyes always opened
She never lets me sleep
Her dreams in broad daylight
Make sunlight evaporate,
Make me laugh, cry and laugh,
Speak without a thing to say.
a tanka by Ariwara No Narihira
Though winds blow,
coloring the
autumn bush clover,
my heart is no grass or leaf
that changes hue
4 line tanka by Fujiwara No Teika
I lifted her black hair
strand by strand–
the way she lay face down
rises in my mind
a three line tanka by Ishikawa Takuboku
A vague sadness
comes with the night
stealthily and sits on my bed.
3 line tanka by Wakayama Bokusui
Such loneliness!
if I could crave in stone a giant,
bound, wordless, standing
poem by Charles Reznikoff
Of course, we must die.
How else will the world be rid of
the old telephone numbers
we cannot forget.
The numbers
it would be foolish–
utterly useless—
to call.
Leonard Durso 