^{translated from the Spanish by Mark Schafer}

now I’m in a landscape full of mockingbirds
I get closer and closer 
when I claim that vastness
I’ll barely have the strength to wake in the brevity of death
the light strikes the air
we’re in the place where the colors open
the days are long and clench like migraines
and everything repeats
the trees casting off
the night dissolving
and then?
nothing is true but the reflection of the dream I’m trying to shatter
and which I don’t even dare to dream
constant plagiarism of myself
and time is the only meeting place
it’s all nothing but time
there where a few sprigs of bougainvillea in a glass of water
suffice to make us a garden
because we die alone
and death is just the awakening
from this first dream of living
and my grandmother said as we left the movies
dream that the dream of life is beautiful my child
the candles’ glow grows rusty
and I where am I?
I’m who I always was
the surprise of being
I come to where everything starts the beginning of the beginning
this is the time
the time for waking up
my grandmother lights the Shabbos candles from her death and looks at me
Shabbat lengthens into never into after into before
my grandmother who died of dreams
endlessly rocks the dream that invents her
which I invent 
a wild girl looks at me from inside

I am whole

From “Migraciones”

ahora estoy en un paisaje de cenzontles
cada vez estoy más cerca

cuando posea esa inmensidad
apenas tendré fuerza para despertar en la brevedad de la muerte

la luz golpea el aire
estamos donde los colores se abren
son días largos y apretados como la migraña
y todo se repite
los árboles desamarrándose
la noche deshaciéndose
¿y después?
lo único verdadero es el reflejo del sueño que trato de fracturar

y que ni siquiera me atrevo a soñar
continuo plagio de mí misma
y el lugar del encuentro es sólo tiempo
todo no es sino tiempo
allá donde unas cuantas buganvilias en un vaso de agua
bastan para hacernos un jardín
porque morimos solos
y la muerte es apenas el despertar
de este sueño primero de vivir
y dijo mi abuela a la salida del cine
sueña que es hermoso el sueño de la vida muchacha
se oxida la lumbre de las veladoras
y yo ¿dónde estoy?
soy la que fui siempre
lo inesperado de estar siendo
llego al lugar del principio donde comienza el comienzo
éste es el tiempo
es el tiempo de despertar
la abuela enciende las velas sabáticas desde su muerte y me mira

se extiende el sábado hasta nunca hasta después hasta antes
mi abuela que murió de sueños
mece interminablemente el sueño que la inventa
que yo invento
una niña loca me mira desde adentro

estoy intacta

When Mama died, I lost my air. Hit with an anvil of grief. 
In dreams, the rains came. Streets filled with sorrow. 
I’m standing with Thomas at the bridge edge seeking relief. 

The sound of her voice is fleeting. Time is a thief— 
she will never return to me. Thomas says not to follow 
his lead. Don’t hold onto it. It’s heavy. This anvil of grief. 

Without funerary activities, they say, you live in constant disbelief 
your loved one is gone. You seek the Light, if only for a moment, to borrow 
so you don’t follow Thomas to the bridge edge, seeking relief. 

I focus what little energy I have on the children. My chief 
concern. When I’m clear-eyed, I know I’m one of God’s sparrows— 
yes. Mama’s dead. But He will lift the weight of my anvil of grief. 

A flood of sadness fills my days. Is this the end? It is my belief 
Mama’s spirit is heaven-bound, her earthly body is hollow— 
there’s no use running graveside, dragging Thomas, seeking relief. 

Now I know the ways of Thomas’s moods, flitting like a leaf 
in the fall breeze. Grounded. Far away. Grounded. With Thomas, tomorrow’s 
tasks: Kiss our children. Tell them we love them. Lift off our chests the anvil of grief— 
it’s no use if we both run to the Bay bridge’s edge, seeking relief.

I burned my life, that I might find 
A passion wholly of the mind, 
Thought divorced from eye and bone, 
Ecstasy come to breath alone. 
I broke my life, to seek relief 
From the flawed light of love and grief.

With mounting beat the utter fire 
Charred existence and desire. 
It died low, ceased its sudden thresh.
I found unmysterious flesh—
Not the mind’s avid substance—still
Passionate beyond the will.

my girlfriend drives us south. There’s a smear
of hot pink on the asphalt. From the passenger’s seat
I twist my head back. Did you see that? Only a flash,
until a few miles later. Again, then again, then a whole

velvet deer burst on the shoulder, and now everything is pink.
She stares ahead and holds my hand. She has asked
me not to notice these things, but I am a glutton
for how quickly the body becomes something different.

Before we met, I imagined a wedding like this. But— 
not this. She stood with the other bridesmaids in champagne.
I followed their husbands, snuck away for hot wings with them
between the ceremony and reception. It was so strange.

The bride was so beautiful. Her family, so kind. The chicken?
The most delicious I have ever eaten, and that made it all
worse, as I jostled with the husbands over the succulent drumsticks,
startled by the unexpected ease of flesh sundered from bone.

Now, there’s a light rain. She stares ahead. The grey, the pink,
her hand—will we always unknow each other in this way?
I want the whole carcass. I want to roam the caverns of her body,
loving her like an animal howling its own name.

^{translated from the ancient Greek by Bliss Carman}

It was summer when I found you 
In the meadow long ago, 
And the golden vetch was growing
By the shore.

Did we falter when love took us 
With a gust of great desire? 
Does the barley bid the wind wait
In his course?

                      I.

The merry morn is waking
    In all its rosy light, 
While fogs and dreams are taking
    Flight, with the drowsy night;
Soft eyelashes and roses
    Open with hope new-born, 
And everything discloses
    The happy touch of morn.

And everything is singing 
    A morning hymn to love,
Flowers and tendrils springing 
    To greet the trees above;
The streams speak to the fountains, 
    The breezes to the pines,
The clouds unto the mountains, 
    The grapes unto the vines.

One throbbing pulse is shaking
    All Nature’s mighty frame,— 
The child its toys retaking,
    The ember’d grate its flame; 
Love, and folly, and madness,
    Petty aims, and grand, 
And fame, and hope, and gladness—
    To each one what he plann’d.

Still, whether loving or sighing,
    In the bridal garb or pall, 
We’re only drifting, flying
    To the final goal of all: 
We all seek what is ours,—
    A lad the joys of youth, 
A bee the daintiest flowers,
    Whilst I am seeking truth!

                      II.

O Truth! with deep devotion 
    I’ve plunged in depths profound,
And sought thee in the ocean 
    Where’er the plummets sound;
Tho’ fogs and mists may bind thee, 
    And shoals and sand-banks mock,
We’re sure at last to find thee, 
    As firm, as hard as rock!

O Truth! broad-breasted river
    Which never can be dry,
Where all may bathe for ever,
    And swim, or sink and die;
A lamp the great God places
    Near all our mortal things,
A light that always graces
    The thoughts a pure mind brings!

A gnarled tree in flower,
    Where strength and beauty blend,
Which each man, to his power,
    Shall either break or bend;
’Midwide-spread branches flinging
    Their shade, when day has sunk,
Some to the branches clinging,
    And others to the trunk.

A hill from which all floweth,
    A path which all have trod,
A gulf to which all goeth—
    The handiwork of God!
A star we’re still blaspheming, 
    Altho’, on nearer view,
After wild doubts and dreaming, 
    We’ll know its ray was true.

                      III.

O Earth! lit up with splendor
    At sunset and sunrise,
With gorgeous hues yet tender
    To suit our mortal eyes!
Shores where waves are dying!
    Woods where soft winds play!
O vast horizon! lying
    Round all things far away,

O glorious azure veiling 
    The gulf, till all is still;
Where idly floating, sailing 
    Where’er the breezes will,
I ’mid the reeds conceal me,
    And list with all my soul
To what the waves reveal me 
    In their majestic roll!

O glorious azure smiling 
    On all, from skies above,
Each wearied soul beguiling
    To dreams and thoughts of love;
And, while we’re dreaming, seeking
    To read the mystic spell,
That murmuring winds are speaking,
    That starry pages tell.

O mighty ocean wreathing,
    And girdling all the earth!
Stars which the Master’s breathing
    Call’d to their fiery birth!
Flowers whose hidden meaning
    We crush beneath our feet,
Tho’ God, perchance, is gleaning
    Honey from every sweet!

O valleys rich in May-time!
    O woodland shades and plains!
Where village towers in play-time
    Ring out their merry strains;
Hillocks and mountains bearing
    The vast skies on your breasts!
Bright stars a gay smile wearing
    Amid your gloomy nests!—

You are but one book’s pages 
    Where all may read and learn:
Where poets and where sages 
    May see what most they yearn:
Yet every thought unfurl’d there 
    Requires a mystic rod,
Tho’ some eyes see a world there, 
    And some souls find a God.

A Book which is completed 
    By virtuous deeds alone;
Where youthful dreams are greeted 
    By feelings still unknown;
Where those whom age has smitten 
    With wrinkled brows yet vast,
Have in the margin written 
    “Behold us come at last!”

A holy book concealing
    All deeds which God has done;
A thousand names revealing
    And yet revealing one—
A name that always leavens
    Whate’er we hold of worth,
But one name in the heavens,
    But one name on the earth.

A sure book, never failing,
    For all may drink its balm,
Tho’ midnight seers are paling
    Before they find its charm;
Pythagoras nearly guess’d it,
    And Moses knew it well,
And all have loved and bless’d it,
When once they learn’d the spell.

The day the deer died,
I was alive in my house. 
I was alive in a watery field
of glaciers. In the realm 
of birchwood in my throat.
The day the robins wept, the day
foxes ran from the woods on fire. 
I was alive in a decade. Sometimes
dreaming of another region 
was my religion. It was 
a place before trees, prior 
to the flame. When the deer died,
I was in my house dreaming. Then 
the drought came. Cessation 
of sound. Flames as red as apples 
lodged inside my throat hissing.

Once there was a bridge I couldn’t cross. 
Cusp of summer. Sound of insects
carried with me, from Melville’s fields
in my-heart-on-the-bridge, their zzzz.

Year’s end, now. A theory of edges. A vow
to complete certain tasks—they will not
improve me, but dissipate, burn off 
like vapor. I’ve already been too good.

I thought keys would fly out of my pocket 
and then I would have to fly after, 
to enter the terrifying room 
where things blow away to.

Scraps of lists, a paper flower,
the raspberry clouds of the day’s 
attenuation. A series of signs said 
help was there, but not for me.

^{translated from the German by Babette Deutsch and Avrahm Yarmolinsky}

She sits upon my bed at dusk, unsought,
And makes my soul obedient to her will,
And in the twilight, still as dreams are still,
Her pupils narrow to bright threads that thrill 
About the sensuous windings of her thought.

And on the neighboring couch, spread crepitant, 
The pointed-patterned, pale narcissus fling 
Their hands toward the pillow, where yet cling 
His kisses, and the dreams thence blossoming,— 
On the white beds a sweet and swooning scent.

The smiling moonwoman dips in cloudy swells,
And my wan, suffering psyches know new power, 
Finding their strength in conflict’s tortured hour.

Sphinx

 Sie sitzt an meinem Bette in der Abendzeit 
Und meine Seele tut nach ihrem Willen, 
Und in dem Dämmerscheine, traumesstillen, 
Engen wie Fäden dünn sich ihre Glanzpupillen 
Um ihrer Sinne schläfrige Geschmeidigkeit. 

Und auf dem Nebenbette an den Leinennähten
Knistern die Spitzenranken von Narzissen,
Und ihre Hände dehnen breit sich nach dem Kissen
Auf dem noch Träume blühn aus seinen Küssen,
Wie süßer Duft auf weißen Beeten.

Und lächelnd taucht die Mondfrau in die Wolkenwellen
Und meine bleichen, leidenden Psychen
Erstarken neu im Kampf mit Widersprüchen.

Who hears the humming 
of rocks at great height, 
the long steady drone
of granite holding together, 
the strumming of obsidian 
to itself? I go among 
the stones stooping 
and pecking like a 
sparrow, imagining
the glacier’s final push 
resounding still. In 
a freezing mountain 
stream, my hand opens 
scratched and raw and 
flutters strangely, 
more like an animal 
or wild blossom in wind 
than any part of me. Great 
fields of stone 
stretching away under 
a slate sky, their single 
flower the flower 
of my right hand. 
                              Last night
the fire died into itself 
black stick by stick 
and the dark came out 
of my eyes flooding 
everything. I 
slept alone and dreamed 
of you in an old house 
back home among 
your country people,
among the dead, not 
any living one besides 
yourself. I woke 
scared by the gasping 
of a wild one, scared 
by my own breath, and 
slowly calmed 
remembering your weight 
beside me all these 
years, and here and 
there an eye of stone 
gleamed with the warm light 
of an absent star. 
                               Today
in this high clear room 
of the world, I squat 
to the life of rocks 
jewelled in the stream 
or whispering 
like shards. What fears 
are still held locked 
in the veins till the last 
fire, and who will calm 
us then under a gold sky 
that will be all of earth? 
Two miles below on the burning 
summer plains, you go 
about your life one 
more day. I give you 
almond blossoms 
for your hair, your hair 
that will be white, I give 
the world my worn-out breath 
on an old tune, I give 
it all I have 
and take it back again.

There ain’t
gonna be
any more
mad parties
between
you and me
and it ain’t
gonna be
because I
love you less
but love you more.
And there ain’t
gonna be
any more
sad parties
between us two
because I’m
gonna forget
what I want
till I see
what I want
is you.
And I ain’t
gonna find
what you are
till I find
what it is
that you want
of me
and how
am I
gonna see
what it is
till all
of myself
loves you.
And I don’t
really love
you though I
love you more
than the world
till I learn
to swallow
whatever
you’d like
me to do.
And I ain’t
gonna down
whatever
that little
may be
till I love
me less and
love you more
and love you
for yourself
alone.
If there ain’t
gonna be
any loving
just you
alone
then it’s up
to me to
be taking
myself and
moving myself
off home.
And I’ll
be dragging
what’s left of me
to my lonely
room in the blue
and never
come back
and never
crawl back
till I’m through
just hugging
me.
And I ain’t
no I ain’t
gonna stop
doing that as
I ought to do
till I’m ab-
solutely and
positively
in love and
in love with
you.
And when I’ve
done that and
done only that
and done all of that
for you
you’ll hear me
on the doorstep
ringing at the
doorbell
for one more
party for two.
With nothing
mad in it
nothing sad
in it but
a long glad
lifelong spree
with me myself
loving you yourself
and you
loving me
for me.

From an old Italian urn
grew a red-orange flower like a banner,

a lone, stray mood uninterested in progress.

The air was damp and sweetish
with tuberose and lemon.

Meats and herbs seethed in oil and acid.

Many nights of brittle hail and long, stiff whips
of lightning rattled the wooden shutters.

Days filled with oppressive heat that seemed to loop
like a rope with a noose. Here is summertime.

The world was another several thousand years
older in an afternoon.

My mind sunk into the depths
of crummy fantasies which held it like concrete.

A cigarette smoking itself in the ashtray.
A great wetness staining the mountains blue.

The earth saying language and vision
are nothing.

^{—on my seventy-ninth birthday}

Nobody in the widow’s household
ever celebrated anniversaries. 
In the secrecy of my room 
I would not admit I cared 
that my friends were given parties. 
Before I left town for school 
my birthday went up in smoke 
in a fire at City Hall that gutted 
the Department of Vital Statistics. 
If it weren’t for a census report 
of a five-year-old White Male 
sharing my mother’s address 
at the Green Street tenement in Worcester 
I’d have no documentary proof 
that I exist. You are the first, 
my dear, to bully me 
into these festive occasions.

Sometimes, you say, I wear 
an abstracted look that drives you 
up the wall, as though it signified 
distress or disaffection. 
Don’t take it so to heart. 
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much 
as being who I am. Maybe 
it’s time for me to practice 
growing old. The way I look 
at it, I’m passing through a phase: 
gradually I’m changing to a word. 
Whatever you choose to claim 
of me is always yours; 
nothing is truly mine 
except my name. I only 
borrowed this dust.