well, how can i tell you to pirouette

well, how can i tell you to pirouette
with shackles set in stone—

a hold, as brilliant as cold, grapple-firm
yet affords wildly fantastic comfort; abundantly
phony pabulum for (needful) soul.

amalgam of cohort and villain:
lover and rival; a confidante
and a foe;

while neither Balanchine nor gifted
with the Golden Mean of Apollo?

Somernokto - By Kálmán Kalocsay

[A spectacular reading by A.Z. Foreman of this beautiful poem written by Kálmán Kalocsay in Esperanto can be found here. Mr. Foreman's blog entry for this poem can be found here. Please visit and introduce yourselves and enjoy his many other fine translations and readings here.]

Somernokto
By Kálmán Kalocsay

La nokto de somero flustre
Ekzumas per kantet' sekreta,
La nokto lulas brust-ĉe-bruste
Nin sur insul' de Margareta.

Ĉi kie staris iam klostro
De palaj mutaj monakinoj,
Kaj kie nun amkaŝa bosko
Pagane kreskas sur ruinoj,

La nokt' incensas nin per mento,
Rezedo, malvo kaj narciso,
Kaj unktas nin per sakramento
De amo: nefinebla kiso.

Kiel jubile ĉiuj griloj
Per sia ĉirpo frenezumas!
Inter la herboj la lampiroj
Diskrete, sole por si, lumas.

Kiel grandega strasa tulo
Nin kovras la ĉiela arko,
Kaj lante kun ni la insulo
Eknaĝas kiel nupta barko.

--

Summer Night
By Kálmán Kalocsay
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The summer's night begins abuzz
Humming a secret arietta.
Night beds and lulls us breast to breast
Upon the isle of Margaretta.

Out here where once a cloister stood
Haven to pale and silent nuns,
Where now a love-secluding wood
Grows pagan over ruined stones,

The night incenses us with mint,
Mallow, narcissus and the wind,
Anoints us with a sacrament
Of love: a kiss we cannot end.

What jubilee the reveling crickets
Chirrup in one frenetic drone!
Amid the grass the glow-worms flicker
Discreetly for themselves alone.

Like an enormous veil of tinsel
Round us lies the celestial arc,
And slowly with us now the island
Here sails out like a bridal barque.

--
[This is an older, original translation]

A Summer Night
By Kálmán Kalocsay
Translated by A.Z. Foreman


The night of summer at a whisper
Hums with a secret undertone.
The night is rocking, breast to breast
On Margaret Island, us alone.

Here where there was a standing cloister
Of mute pale nuns in ages gone,
Where now a love-secluded thicket
Grows pagan over ruined stone,

The night incenses us with mallow,
Mint and narcissus burnt on wind,
Anoints us with a sacrament
Of love: a kiss we cannot end.

How jubilantly every cricket
Chirps in a sweet deranging choir!
The fireflies low amid the grasses
Discreetly light themselves a fire.

Like monumental jeweled glass netting
The skies' arc covers us, in awe
As Margaret Island swims out with us
Slow as a nuptial gondola.

--

i raise my goblet with this weary arm

i raise my goblet with this weary arm
and wonder in silence as i toast: this year,

who happened upon a diamond charm, catacombed
in warmed furrows of flaxen cesnicas? the rolls
are all but gone yet no one here shows a tell
nor one within my realm sports that brilliant a blue stone.

regardless, i warble, "je via sano, one and all,
may good fortune attend your whims and storm
through the impending yet oh such slender inaugural.
here's to heath, be well, ĝis la revido, samideanojn

oh kaj, bonŝanco (karulinojn)", this one's roughly done.

midway 'tween then and still

midway 'tween then and still

where fervors do so tarry
instant the puissant troll

does seldom will them merry.

light flickers, stretches spectral

light flickers; stretching spectral
and slender toward slip or aplomb

as stalk splinters, bouquet wizens
to the brink of parch and succumb.

sunset tones are warm

sunset tones are warm
as compared with their brethren
for while days break, shed nights
in increments;

paint with caution over grays one stroke
at a time, until, in the end, pure blues are dominant.

although not so furtive
secrets kept are just
two, holding hands;

one clasps; the other thumbs in fervent trust;
exchange baked frowns for perky emoticons.

faces flush
rose, hearts crimson.

on the other hand, if tawdry, pigments muddle
giving rise to sordid browns— a bloody mess spawns

naturally.

pardon me if i sound preachy

pardon me if i sound preachy:

although the soup contains
warm and hearty bits of seasonal bounty,
the ladle is more chilly gunmetal than sweet-
scented sandalwood spoon,

yet i slurp
less out of politeness
than say: ceaseless impracticality—
ravenous hunger is another excuse
for me to use,

in fact, it too was canned,

labeled: never to expire if kept
upright in dank and dingy holds.

if it does,
blame manifest geography
and truth be told, that fucking
awful aftertaste left

of a cultural revolution we endured;
now, i do just that, so i will survive—
merrily.

buon appetito, countess. gulp, gulp ...

oh, where you are

oh, where you are

still, my excised anima, chronic
nostalgia in flute-song,
not knowing where you've been,

insipid within, missing part of a soul
as if venter and atria have long gone
sterile—

dross-dammed heart-spring, made wadi-dry
by a life's pursuit of root & moirae;

you — my core, heartache
my love

here & now —
this diminishing umbra;

refrain fades out, harmonics begin,
mora bounds

familiar.


[This version is primarily thanks to my super talented friend, Shell, whose own work you can read and enjoy here ... do stop by over there and introduce yourself ... Shell, my heartfelt thanks to you, for this edition, it's far superior than the other ... you are indeed a fine poet (but this is not news to me) ... I'm fortunate to have you as friend ... Now, get back to work and write! ... ha:].

insipid within, missing part of a soul

insipid within, missing part of a soul
as if venter and atria have long been
barren—

chronic nostalgia
in flute-song;

dross-dammed heart-spring, made wadi-dry
by a life's pursuit of root & moirae;

you—
my core,

my excised anima;
not knowing where you've been;

oh, where you are,
still

heartache—
my love

here & now—
my ever diminishing umbra;

while harmonics begin, refrain stays in,
yet mora bounds

familiar.

bring me spun yarn

bring me spun yarn
wound tight as a ball— never mind
if Bouclé, Merino or Shetland,
as long as it's heather—
variegated:

now unwind time— to one choice
macula; a knot, invisible,
where hue faded, supplanting rosette,
one for one in order

to carry on— peristaltic winding
in interplait faith, and whatnot;
a matter of apprehension
at this point.

for what is history if not legend
agreed upon— systematically woven
or consequently wound?

before stripling notion transforms

before stripling notion transforms
into nubile, fast

with doubt; for caution
does so prevail over vim's fire

by design; while qualm's claws
have yet to clamp vise-tight—
numbness has had no time

to congeal as it faithfully does;
forgo the footnotes, write the prose

instead, for once
regret later on; if you feel you must—

before feeling succumbs to pinpricks'
lusts— tingling spine and doubt erupts;

you must

if you feel

you must

if you feel

you must

although uncertain if ukase

although uncertain if ukase
or enlightenment, it is a notion
i didn't subscribed to;

neither as a matter of fact
nor iterant cant;

now i can't say i don't get the essence
of this most aberrant of pronouncements
regarding the nature of mundane matters;
of particular faces and places or effects;

accoutrements ostensibly resplendent
yet fated entirely another way—

faithfully.

minikin verve, canny-eyed

minikin verve, canny-eyed
but without a stitch or a stare;
a glimpse slanted toward one discerning eye
in lowered stance,

still, one hell of a glare;

lucent rays cast forth a flood,
florid glows shower pure-white,
sprinkle day-glow and polychrome
siren-dust

over a now gathering crowd;

heralds the coming style—
substance subtly flung in trance
offered with abandon's flare;
grace flabbergasts

the sauce groomed throng; echos briskly basal.

yens tug true and rare—
coiled firm across restless hearts,
emanating from the very core
of a still but distant Rising Sun

where intercourse is scrupulously polished.

studious and circumspect,
but not of a puritanical form,
nor, for that matter,
of that temperament at all—

radiance doused élan permeates spine.

trepidation's better

trepidation's better
brother; my old,
uncomfortable,
blue-wool
sweater:

raspy caresses,
peculiarly warm;
bareness's tremor—
deceivingly banal
more daunting than ever;
still, i slip
you on;

less dread than fear—
seam, stich
and choker,
altogether;
how soon you rear
given all the time
gone.

tell me once more,
year over year,
how are you
still—
pal?

genuine doubt

genuine doubt
oscillates
pitch perfect
fishtails amidst
certainty and wraith
reticent foremost,
by dawn
unrestrained faith
outside obligatory
Fata Morgana
displaced
flame
hesitant
but certain
of affliction's
intermittent aura
to one extent
or another
incessant
torment—
almost
reliably
by now
love.

heat-death is possible

heat-death is possible
for us
as you know
it is fairly commonplace
but entirely another
matter
for stars
and celestial space.
entropy for us
is just: melting ice;
whereas, speculation
there, if vacuum decays;
becomes almost-dead,
abruptly revives—
sometimes.

the thing about cycles

the thing about cycles
is how they fashion
duration
and how, without them,
measure is formidable
to fathom.

once: an anomaly;
recurrences radiate
pattern
whether in monotony
or bewildering variety
(of murmurs,
of cadence,
of fractals,
of flutters),
some manifest;
others stumpers.

now darling,
do tell me something
prime
of chronicle's evident fancy
for baffling recursive recital

if not
precisely.

first fisticuffs

first fisticuffs,
then the breaking of chairs
and bone
and glass.

all throughout, calm prevails,
as evidenced by braids
and his still groomed hair;
patterns, modern and age-old,
intricately woven by capable hands--

kept intact
while under the spell.

it is primordial after all;
combustion and blast
ignited by spark,
mothered by malevolence
or fear or doubt

or else, plain old druthers,
and grain-- when liquefied;

whether legitimate or otherwise--

somewhat recondite,
particularly,
well after the fact;

scorched enemies
and apparent brothers,
spurred on by genes
and departed fathers.

the fact that

the fact that
at once

you were
and were not

is central still
as once,

but what of anon,
my love,

as waters
threaten to draw

still?

you are emerald blue: your words torrent, power

you are emerald blue: your words torrent, power
profound, propel waves apparent as they crest
even before they spontaneously break upon distant shores.
the very fact that you are is in and of itself
testament to forces i can hardly fathom,
(no, not the divines, benevolent or wise
beyond wise, nor ones who hold sway
over the guise of lines and rhyme) yet drive my desire
to rearrange posts i hold fast: restack axiom over mantra,
restore the disorders caused by magnetic pulses
you periodically discharge. i cannot square
how mere happenstance, or strain of alchemy
i am presently ignorant of, ultimately sculpts your form:
protracts flawless ripples which radiate from your core;
harmonious shuddering even when not provoked
by phases of our oscillating Moon; ardent
scion of celestial verses we lovingly call our own.

in the annals of the horn

in the annals of the horn
there's one where one paints
frail miniatures
by candlelight:

portraits and landscapes
and still-life; stamps
to be used for postage
as boy plummets—

tender feather, gust-blown
toward pearl toned daughter
who waylays for ages consigned
to musty isles; surfaces frayed,

although scattered still bound.
gagged, to some extent,
out of tradition and another
affliction— somewhat plain.

ostensibly opaque
yet oh, so luminous—
exudes most lustrous glows
even now.

quiet reins in but din

quiet reins in but din,
as though
within a giant tin drum,
reverberates
in your name;

one white cloud
in the sky— no rain
forecast,
yet,

is this shimmering
dawn or dusk
reigns
still?

to profess as though cicerone of our tongue

to profess as though cicerone of our tongue,
less the requisite color or diction—
let alone contextual touchstone,

is a bit much, for an upstart. you purport
to be tenth in line, we do not doubt that
at all; we've observed that you are

hooked, without barb, yet suspect
less tackle than bait— a savory form
of chum and so traditionally sound.

but your hasty prescription for a mass in wait
(to its abject objection to propulsion itself)
is seen overshot by the turnout here,

what's more, take note: messages sent from afar,
especially ones at desperate times— not so in Braille
as much in tongues, most certainly shroud an avatar.

he yearns for summer's growth

he yearns for summer's growth;
stems that taper to tuft
where he might brush lips,

mouth beyond sheer and sensual;
mint fresh, both sharp and rare—
crop; he exhales yesterday's breath

as thoughts spring forth of skin,
translucent, and touch, which may in fact
palliate a clutch of azures anon.

one with exuberant smile

one with exuberant smile,
shield and a form of sword,

dure as baked tile, glazed,
brittle boned. worn smooth

not so by age as such born—
bred, yet still wet gilled

and scaled; embarked on marathon
crawl to marrow and a dawn.

dagger-toss is in vogue again

dagger-toss is in vogue again
and neither mirror nor shard are smooth
as chrome, unless reflection tugs

perceptibly strong,
thus, gauze and suture retort
luxurious and rare for them.

oh my, lioness

oh my, lioness,
Hemingway's quandary
arrives across H & M--
pressed for clearance
and returns

red-cheeked,
not embellished
with pride

yet cub yelps
and trails
shy smile.

yes, the time for bonfire draws near

yes, the time for bonfire draws near,
September twenty-seventh to be precise.

Timket came and went this year—
it really was a bust, as you recall;

Meskel's the time for cross
and perfect yellows, sprung wild—

flame aroused from Helena's on,
blaze fierce, demera— my constant.

the 'u' in turn does not return

the 'u' in turn does not return
when dispensed evenly as butter

on splayed baguette

toast. when done, count matters most—
evens do not as opposed to the odds.

yet, i agree, there's this:

even if cheeks do not require powder,
nor frame nares, yet sport lips

of a sort— intimate with hiss

of silk and assorted gauge of hose;
perk and point as heels peak

on stilt and scaffold;

i too might fall if thus lorn, but then,
that's a bit of a stretch, i suppose. yes?

as much as she tends

as much as she tends
to vanish in the end,
swallowed by thirst

of sand, parched bone-white
and wind-blown perfectly flat;
stretched, formed and etched

over horizon's yon; land,
not entirely abandoned
although ostensibly expired;

trek the faintest trails left
behind and stumble upon a gash
from which she erupts time

and again; cast, at somewhat
impossible slant, divine
tone and undulating form

bathed by setting amber light.

those, the numerically able

those, the numerically able,
not of the roman kind; yet, in a pinch,
those too should satisfactorily compound,

and why on earth not?
but i digress; now moving right along—

for us, equations, which run parallel are thought
as much as love and longing are not
when they arrive.

although we know Gödel’s was not less than Bach's—
not even by an inch; we still favor, for balance,
ones beyond averages, over all.

thank you, Shell

hello all,

my dear friend and super-talented poet, Shell, of forget me now fame, has gratiously voiced / recorded one of my recent, little, poems,

you can find her recording here, please do give it a listen

and also, don't forget to hop over to her blog where you can read and enjoy all of her own wonderful poems.

i promise that you will be delighted to read her works,

as i'm sure she also will be to "meet" you, if you introduce yourselves and leave her your comments.

(thank you so very much, Shell. i look forward to hearing this one's older sibling too - i'm sure you know which).

my dearest, you've got it

my dearest, you've got it
but it's not disease.
you need no pills and for that matter
neither pricks
please.

surprise is not in order
for you've had it from the start;
from first bristles grown on hide

of asses which roam free
in the Serengeti (they did once
and some still struggle now) and of course,
though hoofed not horse

pelt for their alternating form;
surface to pit; dermis
and beyond.

yes, travails of progeny bind, that’s one;
others— etchings: processed chemical;
to gut and especially the heart,
digital or analog is immaterial.

excavated at distinct parts, reliefs

excavated at distinct parts, reliefs
reveal forms distinguished by decimal.
digits, splendidly slender, fixtures
encircled— clearly trim, held still.

a dialect woven— wound and strummed
as if on twelve stringed harp. tuned
dad gad, emit modern tone but echo
mostly ancient murmur; uniform thrum.

this too is not about tint

this too is not about tint,
a has-been, mere vapor blown,
settled, wiped clean and thrown;

"i suppose you know", he says
memory is said not to be keen;

neither are plans, penned,
even if partially grown,

for despair paints,
as you know,

are opaque and spoilt, instead
of brights or spring tone,
burnt umber in rancid oil.

as you can tell, my love—
this one is not about high-art, at all.

when nine-hundred and sixty sound few

when nine-hundred and sixty sound few
and the ones which already flew

(a flock of a dozen or more,
each of seven squares, no more,
linked-up, hip bone to hip bone)

are forever gone,

i stand—
at a loss for words,
granite faced,

tired, yet a bastard,
prepared to vomit—

will and clenched hands
and whatever else i can,
i do.

it was not a comet, not this time

it was not a comet, not this time,
nor was it one of our very own
shooting stars,

you know the ones,

they streak across the southern sky
usually when we are out,
around this time.

an hour or so before dawn,
solitary stances, interrupted—
jolt, thrust and bang, bang,
they are shaken and then are gone;

shudder first,
undulate, later on;

it was so then, and oddly enough,
also now, once again.

oblong envelopes stack themselves high

oblong envelopes stack themselves high
on surfaces all around,
none of them square,

figures within, helvetica and bold,
politely penned,
rasp,

shark tooth sharp;
if we pass,
we can bear down fast and hard.

not so the ones from abroad
or towns only a few miles
to the north,

which rarely come; flimsy and frail;
shy sentiments sport pale pastel
outerwear.

is it the licking that has this effect
or that they are so rare? plus, those do not
stack so well.

the flames in your bones

the flames in your bones
are intense. subside when doused
with a potion or something else.

reignite, without fail; monotone drone;
a split second after dawn or following
a sort of wood-wind reveille,

at any time— even if not blown
shrill at all; all consuming
boorish breeder of charred remains.

it's plain matter of circumstance

it's plain matter of circumstance
and acquired powers
of persuasion—

beware, my love,

for all, someday,
may be made to say:
five's the sum of two pair;

regardless of color of eyes
or persistence of
lingering conscience,

given a form of stress,
a Rubashov or otherwise,
shall each have to finger a Julia.

... math is known

... math is known
to be good
fun

when

one adds one
or else
subtracts another

as well

multiplies
otherwise
divides

or even squares

when found
to be
practical

or forced

by convention
or some other
form of order

then

sums or averages
all before one
is done

as such ...

you run the ward as lab

you run the ward as lab,
conjure means to juice basalt;
liquefy solid granite.

don't act surprised
when dust clouds

and while you're at it,
sea salt forgotten wounds,
for good measure, i suppose.

and how do they become

and how do they become
delusional—

diminishing regard
for fact, deride the evident,
and peddle another form of wisdom,

forcefully at that.

barely able, yet stride aloft
atop modern hill;

Pharos-nouveaux
build scaffolds of straw
for pyramid?

walls are crystal clear

walls are crystal clear,
land perfectly flat
and square.

kittens Guineveres, the female ones,
but every Tom, not quite
Lancelot,

some bring to mind Méléagant,
others simply do not
do that.

notwithstanding venue or visionary plot,
always based on temperament,
and what not;

even still diamond glare may render one blind;
addle the flow of staunchest vein—
fluttered heart.

intone buoyant melody of interior song

intone buoyant melody of interior song—
render me languid and cloy and worn;

the wind rustles pea pods gently grown
their delicate clatter rattles forth and on

from over the horizon as just one thought
or even another one is formed.

this, in my private alphabet or hers alone;
in a zephyr's gust a woodwind whir,

with a soupçon of purr in now familiar tone,
sings to me, my caroler, in modern form.

oh no, love, you have it wrong

oh no, love, you have it wrong,
i'm no Keyser Söze,
neither am i a contortionist
with Cirque du Soleil,

far from it, my life is plain
as a pikestaff—
no butler, no driver,
not even henchman,

and further, the only staff i have
is a part time gardener.
my main role is of Father;
while the other, some sort of Mother.

and if you were to, now

and if you were to, now,
somehow,

what should i do but belly-crawl
into a damp, dark trench
and long

to become but hard slag
or black coal,

otherwise
should i simply pretend to ignite,
faux-hiss and fuss— sputter or spout?

and yet, all that i likely might
is grow ever so somber and quiet,
slate-gray and ice-cold—
that's all.

oh dearest, i beg you, please,
kindly, do not.

as for me,
never would i forget you— not now,
above all that i have come to grasp
this propinquity of ours,

finally—

and what if

and what if
those yet to come
are confined to encores

played in dissonant keys
as somewhat minor variants

of this and ones
which already
have?

should you by chance

should you by chance
find your way

to my gate
tonight

my love

and find
my house
to be dark

presume
that i too
am out

pacing

your vestibule
and wondering.

not this one

not this one
my love—

possibly the next,
if we stop

at all, given
the parallels

we are
on.

this is the moment

this is the moment
of the wiser;

malcontents hover (spout
and steam and spill over);

that's what they do
as they have done

from the start,
no matter who or why

or where or whatever else
may be wrong,

even when not—
for no discernible reason at all;

regardless of a newborn—
tiger, or rabbit, or dragon;

even still, by the time
snake has come.

every order is taller

every order is taller
than the other

while
doubt reigns supreme—
casts a familiar
mechanical din;

clatters
and clangs along ancient tracks,
headed nowhere for certain;

smoke
billows

and trails
overhead—
azure

is marred by grays.