Thursday, December 30, 2010

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?


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

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.

--

Monday, December 27, 2010

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.


Sunday, December 26, 2010

midway 'tween then and still



midway 'tween then and still

where fervors do so tarry
instant the puissant troll

does seldom will them merry.


Thursday, December 23, 2010

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.


Wednesday, December 22, 2010

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 ...


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

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:].

Sunday, December 12, 2010

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.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

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?

Sunday, December 5, 2010

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