unask

 

 

tiger

 

I've always wanted to do something bigger--
bigger than poetry, bigger than prose--
you know? that would let us talk to each other
without all this fiddle, these exquisite regrets?

the whole point of poetry is outrage
you write what you didn't know about yourself:
suddenly a tiger is standing in front of you,
looking at you, thoughtfully. Lashing its tail.

that's why we say poetry comes from the other side
from somewhere holy, but hardly an angel.
I don't know why poets are so vain
they show us who they really really are.

the purpose of poetry is to let us know
how stupid I am to think that I am me:
the house of me is wide open, it has no locks
and god knows what can come and go at will.

From Czeslaw Milosz, Ars Poetica?, transl. Tom Davis

 

 

 

 

 

golden compass

 

Hafiz
look at him
inside his own circle
the centre of everything
spinning, a gyroscope
one hand out
he is pointing at everywhere
a golden compass
he is giving it back,
all the love the world gave him,
by pointing at God.

Tom Davis, after Hafiz

 

 

 

 

 

squares

 

Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.

From Wallace Stevens, Six Significant Landscapes

 

 

 

 

 

scamel

there is a new entry in our scamel blog.

 

 

 

 

dandelion

 

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hands.
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I, who have seen you amid the primal things,
Was angry when they spoke your name
In ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion seed-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

Ezra Pound, Francesca.

 

 

 

 

 

baby

 

Korf has invented a delayed action joke:
you hear it, but you don't get it, and you feel
quite sad. But, somewhere, the joke is working away
and, that night, in bed, you will suddenly wake
to new joy; and smile, like a well-loved baby: blest.

Christian Morgenstern, Korf erfindet eine Art von Witzen, transl. Tom Davis

 

 

 

 

 

these our actors

 

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Shakespeare, The Tempest

 

 

 

 

 

a happier cabbage

 

If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last,
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

Wendy Cope