poetry

from Strong Wine by Hafiz

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Winebringer, more wine! Bring me some of that strong wine that no one else
Can drink. I want to become unconscious and free of this world for a while.

I know that there’s no safety from the perils of the sky,
With the siren harp of Venus and the bloody sword of Mars.

In this age of meanness and deceit, at the world’s table,
There is no place for joy. And the food is prepared with too much salt.

So drink wine and wash your palate, so your greedy thirst will go away.

translated  by Thomas Rain Crowe

The Way by Robert Creeley

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My love’s manners in bed
are not to be discussed by me,
as mine by her
I would not credit comment upon gracefully.

Yet I ride by the margin of that lake in
the wood, the castle,
and the excitement of strongholds;
and have a small boy’s notion of doing good.

Oh well, I will say here,
knowing each man,
let you find a good wife too,
and love her as hard as you can.

Later (6) by Robert Creeley

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If you saw
dog pass, in car–

looking out, possibly
indifferently, at you–

would you–could you–
shout, “Hey, Spot!

It’s me!” After all
these years,

no dog’s coming home
again. Its skin’s

moldered
through rain, dirt,

to dust, hair alone
survives, matted tangle.

Your own, changed,
your hair, greyed,

your voice not the one
used to call him home.

“Hey Spot!” The world’s
greatest dog’s got

lost in the world,
got lost long ago.

The Quarrel by Paul Blackburn

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Dried green leaf on the door
Blackened leaf below it

Under that a metal leaf, blackened also
Below that the leafy ace of clubs

Outside the window the tree I thought a friend
has undressed all its branches & is ugly to me

Returning home defenseless
even a stray dog barked at me
I could not even declare my love to him
much less my innocence. Branches
of frozen breath writhed from both our mouths
into the air.

Even the room is cold
& here I sit and stare
& barely move

Six O’Clock by Nazim Hikmet

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Morning, six o’clock.
I opened the door of the day and stepped in–
a taste of young blue greeted me in the window,
the lines on my forehead remained in the mirror from yesterday,
and behind me a woman’s voice came softer than peach fuzz
and, on the radio, news from my country,
and now, my greed filling and overflowing,
I’ll run from tree to tree in the orchard of the hours,
and the sun will set, my love,
and I hope that beyond the night
the taste of a new blue will await me, I hope.

translated by Randy Blasing & Mutlu Konuk