Joe Mills: How Do You Know

How do you know if it’s love? she asks,

and I think if you have to ask, it’s not,

but I know this won’t help. I want to say

you’re too young to worry about it,

as if she has questions about Medicare

or social security, but this won’t help either.

“You’ll just know” is a lie, and one truth,

“when you still want to be with them

the next morning,” would involve too

many follow-up questions. The difficulty

with love, I want to say, is sometimes

you only know afterwards that it’s arrived

or left. Love is the elephant and we

are the blind mice unable to understand

the whole. I want to say love is this

desire to help even when I know I can’t,

just as I couldn’t explain electricity, stars,

the color of the sky, baldness, tornadoes,

fingernails, coconuts, or the other things

she has asked about over the years, all

those phenomena whose daily existence

seems miraculous. Instead I shake my head.

I don’t even know how to match my socks.

Go ask your mother. She laughs and says,

I did. Mom told me to come and ask you.

U. A. Fanthorpe: Kedves Lee Úr!

Kedves Lee Úr* (Okos Tanár Úr szerint
nem illik Laurie-nak szólítanom, de
így gondolok Önre, mivel Önnel éltem
egy teljes tanéven át), Kedves Lee Úr
(Laurie) csak szeretném, ha tudná,
hogy régebben utáltam az angolt, és Okos Tanár Urat
kedvelem talán a legkevésbé,
és ami Shakespeare-t illeti (őt is vesszük),
szerintem ő egy nemzeti katasztrófa, a vicceivel,
amiket Okos Tanár Úrnak kell megmagyaráznia,
és igazából attól se lesznek viccesek,
és T. Hughes és P. Larkin, meg a többiek
a szöveggyűjteményünkben, hát ők se túl humorosak,
sőt eléggé komor egy társaság, szóval ezért
akartam mondani, Kedves Laurie (bocsi) hogy a könyved
kárpótolt az összes többiért, ha
látnád a példányomat, tudnád, hogy együtt élt
velem, cola és kitkat foltok díszítik
és megfázásom nyomai, és gyakran
az ágyamba is magammal vittem, hogy felvidítson,
szóval kedves Laurie, bocsánatot szeretnék kérni,
nem kellett volna a fejlécek alatt a mamádról
skiccelnem rajzokat, valahogy
helytelennek tűnt, ha már ilyen kedves a könyvben a mamád,
és egyáltalán nem tetszettek azok a kérdések
a vidéki közösség szociális jólétéről
és az évszakok kamaszkorban történt észleléséről,
nem hinném, hogy azt akartad, hogy
így olvassák a könyvedet, de egyes részeket kívülről fújok,
és bárcsak a nagybátyáiddal és féltestvéreiddel
élhetnék én is Slad-ben, noha Okos tanár úr szerint a nézeted
az osztályharcról naív, és a vizsgáztatókat
nem fogja lenyűgözni, hogy mit tudok kívülről,
ők tömör és meggyőző válaszokat várnak
majd a kérdéseikre, de nekem nem erősségem a tömör és meggyőző,
én csak olyan szeretnék lenni, mint te, szeretném nem bánni a szegénységet,
szeretnék mindent szépnek és különösnek látni, ahogy te,
és már ki is vettem a következő kötetet a könyvtárból,
Spanyolországról, és kérdeztem is a mamát, tanulhatok-e
hegedülni, de Okos Tanár Úr szerint Spanyolország
már egyáltalán nem is olyan, már csupa üdülési jog
meg Torremolinos, és hány éves voltál,
amikor elkezdtél verseket írni? (Okos Tanár Úr szerint,
az én központozásommal a költészeti pályát fontolgatni,
megríkatja az angyalokat).

Ui: Kedves Laurie, kérlek, ne vedd magadra,
hogy megbuktam a vizsgán, nem a te hibád volt,
hanem az enyém, és Shakespeare-é,
és talán Okos Tanár Úré is, még mindig szeretem Cidert,
e téren semmi sem változott.

* ld: Laurie Lee: Cider with Rosie

Odette Alonso: Caja de música

 A Veleta. A Piri

Alza la tapa.
Escucha.
La música será como un alivio
como un bálsamo azul
como un portazo y luego este silencio.
Los amigos se fueron
perdieron el camino y los recuerdos.
Sólo queda esa música.
Alza la tapa y oye.
Piensa que ellos han vuelto y empujarán la puerta
que traen los rones viejos y la inconformidad
que bailarán de nuevo aquella melodía
aunque no sea igual
aunque no lleguen nunca
aunque alces la tapa y no suene la música.

Jacques Prévert: Alicante

An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life

Jacques Prévert: Alicante

Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux présent du présent
Fraîcheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie. 

Dorothy Parker: A Very Short Song

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.

Finy Petra: Eső

Szerintem csak egy egyszerű eső,
Te mégis hosszan elnézed,
Én meg Téged, ahogy nézed,
Végül halkan közlöd,
Ahogy a cseppek a földet csókolják,
Az, az előjáték.

El sem merem képzelni,
A villámlás mi lehet.

Andrea Gibson: Photograph

I wish I was a photograph
tucked into the corners of your wallet
I wish I was a photograph
you carried like a future in your back pocket
I wish I was that face you show to strangers
when they ask you where you come from
I wish I was that someone that you come from
every time you get there
and when you get there
I wish I was that someone who got phone calls
and postcards saying
wish you were here
I wish you were here
autumn is the hardest season
the leaves are all falling
and they're falling like they're falling in love with the ground
and the trees are naked and lonely
I keep trying to tell them
new leaves will come around in the spring
but you can't tell trees those things
they're like me they just stand there
and don't listen
I wish you were here
I've been missing you like crazy
I've been hazy eyed
staring at the bottom of my glass again
thinking of that time when it was so full
it was like we were tapping the moon for moonshine
or sticking straws into the center of the sun
and sipping like icarus would forever kiss
the bullets from our guns
I never meant to fire you know
I know you never meant to fire lover
I know we never meant to hurt each other
now the sky clicks from black to blue
and dusk looks like a bruise
I've been wrapping one night stands
around my body like wedding bands
but none of them fit in the morning
they just slip off my fingers and slip out the door
and all that lingers is the scent of you
I once swore if I threw that scent into a wishing well
all the wishes in the world would come true
do you remember
do you remember the night I told you
I've never seen anything more perfect than
than snow falling in the glow of a street light
electricity bowing to nature
mind bowing to heartbeat
this is gonna hurt bowing to I love you
I still love you like moons love the planets they circle around
like children love recess bells
I still hear the sound of you
and think of playgrounds
where outcasts who stutter
beneath braces and bruises and acne
are finally learning that their rich handsome bullies
are never gonna grow up to be happy
I think of happy when I think of you
so wherever you are I hope you're happy
I really do
I hope the stars are kissing your cheeks tonight
I hope you finally found a way to quit smoking
I hope your lungs are open and breathing you life
I hope there's a kite in your hand
that's flying all the way up to orion
and you still got a thousand yards of string to let out
I hope you're smiling
like god is pulling at the corners of your mouth
cause I might be naked and lonely
shaking branches for bones
but I'm still time zones away
from who I was the day before we met
you were the first mile
where my heart broke a sweat
and I wish you were here
I wish you'd never left
but mostly I wish you well
I wish you my very very best


Read and listen at the same time here:
  Andrea Gibson performing the poem Photograph

Martín Espada: When Leather is a Whip

At night,
with my wife
sitting on the bed,
I turn from her
to unbuckle
my belt
so she won't see
her father
unbuckling
his belt

Jeffrey McDaniel: Where Babies Come From

For my eighth birthday
I got a toy train set
my father helped assemble.

My job was to hand him
pieces of track and re-light
the cigarettes that went out

in his mouth. Halfway
through, I asked him
where babies come from.

He told me that eight years
ago today I showed up
on the front stoop

in a cardboard box, how
he spent the whole afternoon
putting me together,

just like this train set,
that I was probably lucky
the box arrived on a Saturday.

Dana Levin: Ars poetica (hernyók)

Hat pompás királylepke hernyója
csüngött a torkod mélyén –
érezted arany szárnyuk rezzenését.
Pánikba estél. Mintha megfertőztek volna.
A családi otthon földszinti fürdőjében
öklendezve próbáltál szabadulni tőlük –
s közben egy hang intett: Ne tedd –

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer: Rima XXX

Asomaba a sus ojos una lágrima
y a mi labio una frase de perdón;
habló el orgullo y se enjugó su llanto,
y la frase en mis labios expiró.

Yo voy por un camino; ella, por otro;
pero, al pensar en nuestro mutuo amor,
yo digo aún: ?¿Por qué callé aquel día?
Y ella dirá: ?¿Por qué no lloré yo?

Muriel Spark: The Goose

Do you want to know why I am alive today?
I will tell you.
Early on, during the food-shortage,
Some of us were miraculously presented
Each with a goose that laid a golden egg.
Myself, I killed the cackling thing and I ate it.
Alas, many and many of the other recipients
Died of gold-dust poisoning.

Jack Gilbert: Divorce

Woke up suddenly thinking I heard crying.
Rushed through the dark house.
Stopped, remembering. Stood looking
out at bright moonlight on concrete.

Yehuda Amichai: Wildpeace

Not the peace of a cease-fire 

not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb, 

but rather 

as in the heart when the excitement is over 

and you can talk only about a great weariness. 

I know that I know how to kill, that makes me an adult. 

And my son plays with a toy gun that knows 

how to open and close its eyes and say Mama. 

A peace 

without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares,

without words, without 

the thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be 

light, floating, like lazy white foam. 

A little rest for the wounds - who speaks of healing? 

(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation 

to the next, as in a relay race: 

the baton never falls.)

 

Let it come 

like wildflowers, 

suddenly, because the field 

must have it: wildpeace.

asіt f’ldbe “tve hagyta mintha

For those who search for the poem writing the above words in the search program.

You may find that poem here:

Baranyi Ferenc: Körözvény

Finy Petra: kérem, ne ijesztgesse a halakat

megkérném a kedves öngyilkosjelölteket,
hogy csak halkan ugorjanak tóba,
mert zavarják a halak nyugalmát.

Wendell Berry: How To Be a Poet (to remind myself)

Make a place to sit down.

Sit down. Be quiet.

You must depend upon

affection, reading, knowledge,

skill — more of each

than you have — inspiration,

work, growing older, patience,

for patience joins time

to eternity. Any readers

who like your work, 

doubt their judgment.

Breathe with unconditional breath

the unconditioned air.

Shun electric wire.

Communicate slowly. Live

a three-dimensioned life;

stay away from screens. 

Stay away from anything

that obscures the place it is in.

There are no unsacred places;

There are only sacred places

And desecrated places. 

Tukaram: A Good Poem

A good poem is like finding a hole
      in the palace
          wall--
      never know what you
          might
           see.

Mary Oliver: I Want to Write Something So Simply

I want to write something
so simply
about love
or about pain
that even
as you are reading
you feel it
and as you read
you keep feeling it
and though it be my story
it will be common,
though it be singular
it will be known to you
so that by the end
you will think—
no, you will realize—
that it was all the while
yourself arranging the words,
that it was all the time
words that you yourself,
out of your heart
had been saying.

Antonio Machado: Proverbios y cantares XXIX

Wayfarer, the only way
is your footsteps, there is no other.
Wayfarer, there is no way,
you make the way by walking.
As you go, you make the way
and stopping to look behind,
you see the path that your feet
will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way - 
Only foam trails to the sea.

(Translated by A. Trueblood)

Antonio Machado : Proverbios y cantares XXIX

Caminante, son tus huellas

el camino y nada más;

Caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace el camino,

y al volver la vista atrás

se ve la senda que nunca

se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino

sino estelas en la mar.

Naomi Shihab Nye: Shoulders

A man crosses the street in rain,

stepping gently, looking two times north and south,

because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.

No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo

but he’s not marked.

Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,

HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.

He hears the hum of a boy’s dream

deep inside him.

We’re not going to be able

to live in this world

if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing

with one another.

The road will only be wide.

The rain will never stop falling.

Rumi: My heart is so small

My heart is so small

it's almost invisible.

How can You place 

such big sorrows in it?

"Look," He answered,

"your eyes are even smaller,

yet they behold the world."

Judy Brown: Wooden Boats

I have a brother who builds wooden boats,

Who knows precisely how a board

Can bend or turn, steamed just exactly

Soft enough so he, with help of friends,

Can shape it to the hull.

The knowledge lies as much

Within his sure hands on the plane 

As in his head;

It lies in love of wood and grain,

A rough hand resting on the satin 

Of the finished deck.

Is there within us each 

Such artistry forgotten

In the cruder tasks 

The world requires of us,

The faster modern work 

That we have

Turned our life to do?

Could we return to more of craft

Within our lives, 

And feel the way the grain of wood runs true,

By letting our hands linger 

On the product of our artistry?

Could we recall what we have known

But have forgotten, 

The gifts within ourselves, 

Each other too,

And thus transform a world 

As he and friends do,

Shaping steaming oak boards

Upon the hulls of wooden boats? 

Dsida Jenő: Szeretnék

Szeretnék:
kimenni messze, a víz partjára
s a lemenő nappal szembenézve
nekidőlni egy fának.

Hetenként többször.

A fejemet is hátravetve
hallgatni a halk szúnyogdongást,
meg a zsongó, csobogó vizet,
mikor beszél a Csenddel.

Úgy maradni,
míg feljönnek a csillagok
és simogató ezüst fényüket
fejemre hintik.

...Először egy napig maradni ott
azután két napig,
azután három napig,
azután mindig...

Billy Collins: The Night House

Every day the body works in the fields of the world

mending a stone wall

or swinging a sickle through the tall grass --

the grass of civics, the grass of money --

and every night the body curls around itself

and listens for the soft bells of sleep.

 

But the heart is restless and rises

from the body in the middle of the night,

and leaves the trapezoidal bedroom

with its thick, pictureless walls

to sit by herself at the kitchen table

and heat some milk in a pan.

 

And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe

and goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,

and opens a book on engineering.

Even the conscience awakens

and roams from room to room in the dark,

darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

 

And the soul is up on the roof

in her nightdress, straddling the ridge,

singing a song about the wildness of the sea

until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.

Then, they all will return to the sleeping body

the way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

 

resuming their daily colloquy,

talking to each other or themselves

even through the heat of the long afternoons.

Which is why the body -- that house of voices --

sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen

to stare into the distance,

 

to listen to all its names being called

before bending again to its labor.

Mihri Hatun: At one glance

At one glance

I loved you

With a thousand hearts

They can hold against me

No sin except my love for you

Come to me

Don’t go away

Let the zealots think

Loving is sinful

Never mind

Let me burn in the hellfire

Of that sin

Naomi Shihab Nye: Gurulva

Egy srác mesélte,
ha elég gyorsan görkorizik,
magánya nem tudja utolérni –

tán a legjobb indok
a versenyzéshez.

Ma este ezen tűnődöm,
őrülten tekerve a King William úton,
vajon igaz-e ez a kerékpárra is.

Micsoda győzelem! Az utcasarkon hagyva
ziháló magányomat,
azáleafelhőben gurulva lesni a
lassan hulló, mégsem magányos
rózsaszín szirmokat.

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer: Amor eterno

Podrá nublarse el sol eternamente; 
Podrá secarse en un instante el mar; 
Podrá romperse el eje de la tierra 
Como un débil cristal. 
¡todo sucederá! Podrá la muerte 
Cubrirme con su fúnebre crespón; 
Pero jamás en mí podrá apagarse 
La llama de tu amor.

Mairead Byrne: Real Life

Instead of the heart-broken person I could be,
I am here today,
quite happy.

Langston Hughes: I loved my friend

I loved my friend
He went away from me
There's nothing more to say
The poem ends,
Soft as it began-
I loved my friend.

Leonard Nathan: Bladder Song

On a piece of toilet paper
Afloat in the unflushed piss,
The fully printed lips of a woman.
Nathan, cheer up! The sewer
Sends you a big red kiss.
Ah, nothing’s wasted, if it’s human.

Franklin P Adams: Prohibition

Prohibition is an awful flop.
We like it.
It can't stop what it's meant to stop.
We like it.
It's left a trail of graft and slime,
It don't prohibit worth a dime,
It's filled our land with vice and crime.
Nevertheless, we're for it.

Charles de Lint: The Puppet

The puppet thinks:
It's not so much
what they make me do
as their hands inside me.

Dsida Jenő: Menni kellene házról házra

Nem így kellene hűvös, árnyas
szobából, kényelmes íróasztal
mellől szólani hozzátok, jól
tudom. Menni kellene házról
házra, városról városra, mint
egy izzadt, fáradt, fanatikus
csavargó. Csak két égő szememet,
szakadozott ruhámat, porlepett
bocskoromat hívni bizonyságul
a szeretet nagy igazsága mellé.
És rekedt hangon, félig sírva,
kiabálni minden ablak alatt:
Szakadt lelket foltozni, foltozni!
tört szíveket drótozni, drótozni!

Jane Hirshfield: Lying

He puts his brush to the canvas,

with one quick stroke

unfolds a bird from the sky.

Steps back, considers.

Takes pity.

Unfolds another.

Linda Pastan: Why Are Your Poems So Dark?

Isn’t the moon dark too,
most of the time?

And doesn’t the white page
seem unfinished

without the dark stain
of alphabets?

When God demanded light,
he didn’t banish darkness.

Instead he invented
ebony and crows

and that small mole
on your left cheekbone.

Or did you mean to ask
“Why are you sad so often?”

Ask the moon.
Ask what it has witnessed.

Emily Dickinson: A word is dead

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day. 

Sharon Bryan: Fűrészpor

Miért nem hárspor,
májusfa, bürök,
tölgy, juhar,
miért a penge
szabja a por nevét,
s nem a fa, amit kaszabol?

Most látom csak,
hogy a köröttem cikázó
porszemnyi, éles csillagok hada
minden útját álló
élőlényen
keresztülhasít.

Mario Benedetti: ¿Qué les queda a los jóvenes?

¿Qué les queda por probar a los jóvenes
en este mundo de paciencia y asco?
¿sólo grafitti? ¿rock? ¿escepticismo?
también les queda no decir amén
no dejar que les maten el amor
recuperar el habla y la utopía
ser jóvenes sin prisa y con memoria
situarse en una historia que es la suya
no convertirse en viejos prematuros

¿qué les queda por probar a los jóvenes
en este mundo de rutina y ruina?
¿cocaína? ¿cerveza? ¿barras bravas?
les queda respirar / abrir los ojos
descubrir las raíces del horror
inventar paz así sea a ponchazos
entenderse con la naturaleza
y con la lluvia y los relámpagos
y con el sentimiento y con la muerte
esa loca de atar y desatar

¿qué les queda por probar a los jóvenes
en este mundo de consumo y humo?
¿vértigo? ¿asaltos? ¿discotecas?
también les queda discutir con dios
tanto si existe como si no existe
tender manos que ayudan / abrir puertas
entre el corazón propio y el ajeno /
sobre todo les queda hacer futuro
a pesar de los ruines de pasado
y los sabios granujas del presente.

Ros Barber: How to Leave the World that Worships Should*

Let faxes butter-curl on dusty shelves.
Let junkmail build its castles in the hush
of other people’s halls. Let deadlines burst
and flash like glorious fireworks somewhere else.
As hours go softly by, let others curse
the roads where distant drivers queue like sheep.
Let e-mails fly like panicked, tiny birds.
Let phones, unanswered, ring themselves to sleep.

Above, the sky unrolls its telegram,
immense and wordless, simply understood:
you’ve made your mark like birdtracks in the sand -
now make the air in your lungs your livelihood.
See how each wave arrives at last to heave
itself upon the beach and vanish. Breathe.




* The word 'should' should be in italic :-)