An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.
An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father
Both in their temporary failure.
Our two voices met above
The Sultan's Pool in the valley between us.
Neither of us wants the boy or the goat
To get caught in the wheels
Of the "Had Gadya" machine.
Afterward we found them among the bushes,
And our voices came back inside us
Laughing and crying.
Searching for a goat or for a child has always been
The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.
Today when I woke
you were gone
was like a salesman
in a small-town hotel room
drunk on loneliness
and listening to laughter
and I was
a boy scout marooned
in a dry-rotted cabin
by the greatest snowstorm
ever seen in northern Vermont
listening to strange birds
scratching the roof
and I was
a man coming home
to his house full of children
and finding nothing there
but the echoes of his scream.
I am going out now
to look at
the green ducks
on the river
but if you should return
while I’m out marking time
this is to tell you
Like musical instruments
Abandoned in a field
The parts of your feelings Are starting to know a
The pure conversion of your
Life into art seems destined Never to occur
You don’t mind You feel spiritual and
alert As the air must feel
Turning into sky aloft and blue
You feel like
You’ll never feel like
touching anything or anyone
And then you do
This isn't torture.
Torture happens in small, dark rooms in countries with names you struggle to spell.
This is just mildly unpleasant.
This isn't heroism.
Heroism happens in churches that are also schools, performed by teachers with no names and no place to stay.
This is just a good deed for the day.
This isn't loss.
Loss happens on fields with poppies, in hospitals buzzing with flies, in distant deserts and late at night when there's no good reason for the phone to ring.
This is just longing.
This isn't important.
Important happens on bended knees and is breathed on last breaths with hands clutched tight, hearts tighter.
This is just a distraction.
After the murder, I called a meeting
to see if we were happy. I declared
I was not — I said I liked the man
we shot. You all disagreed with this.
I asked if you knew him, his wife,
none of you did. “Kill me, then,”
I said. You all stared at me. “Why,
Bernard? Of course we won’t.”
“Why not?” I said. “He was a good
man, a better man than me. And
look at what I’ve brought you —
rubbish, dodgy tales, dross.”
“Easy to dismiss that,” you said.
“We appreciated it all. And you
wandered the wild paths to bring
it back to us — your songs, your
legends, magic stories, your gold.”
I thanked you, but shook my head.
The good man was dead. I didn’t care
what I’d brought you. I needed to go.
I packed up my sagas, my song lyrics,
my alchemy potions, my gold, and
Félúton a mélység felett
millió tévénéző előtt:
megingott, s majdnem lezuhant.
Tán a sóhaj tartotta meg
s végül a túlpartra elért.
És amíg az ünneplő tömeg
végig a megingásra gondolt,
ahogy húzta a szakadék
mélyére, ökörcsont közé,
és hallotta az ordítást,
s tömeg döbbent moraját,
és azt is, ahogy vége lett -
és arra kérte hordozóit:
vigyék vissza a szakadékhoz,
köteléhez, mely ott feszült -
és fogta egykerekűjét,
és megpörgette a pedált,
és visszalökte, üresen -
döbbenten figyelt a tömeg -
és íme, éppen félúton
a gép zörögve lezuhant.
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I’m growing old, but add –
Jenny kissed me!
When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street.
Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It’s all
over: she’ll learn some words, she’ll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It’s dusk. Your daughter’s tall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
Until I lose my soul and lie
Blind to the beauty of the earth,
Deaf though a shouting wind goes by,
Dumb in a storm of mirth;
Until my heart is quenched at length
And I have left the land of men,
Oh, let me love with all my strength
Careless if I am loved again.
I have ah a lot of friends. Yeah. Friends friends friends. Friends for every day of the week I guess. I'm never stuck. On Monday I can't remember exactly but I probably did something with my friend. On Tuesday I met my friend and we had some sort of zingers. On Wednesday I met my friend for coffee. On Thursday I met my friend for calamari and Pinot Noir. Pretty sophisticated right. Then on Friday (I nearly wrote Frienday) my friends stayed over and we did a streaming video thing on Saturday morning. And Sunday is a day of rest and I'm writing this (oh yeah and last Sunday I kinda went swimming with my friend). Then tomorrow it begins all over again.
When you accept them,
you have no need of
afterlives or priorlives.
You have the single empty box
of a life and all the universe
to fill it with.
Live like this: there is an end to you.
Don’t fear it. Don’t wallow.
Flowers wilt. Rivers dry up.
Even the stars extinguish themselves.
Have your time and then let it go.
Do not shy from your ending
with mad horse eyes.
Allow the box of your life,
when you have filled it,
to have its spaces.
Resist the temptation
to stuff the gaps with gods
who do not know you.
Pull Uncertainty into your arms
and kiss her on the lips:
too many neglect her,
but she is an eager lover,
and desires only your attention.
Let her teach you how to say
“I don’t know, and that is beautiful.”
It was your idea
to park and watch the elephants
swaying among the trees
at that make-believe safari
I didn’t know anything that big
could be so quiet.
And once, you stopped
on a dark desert road
to show me the stars
climbing over each other
like an orchestra
thrashing its way
through time itself
I never saw light that way
Egyszer elmennék a világ végére.
Csak hogy tudjam végre, le tudok-e
Ülni a szélére. Megnézném, milyen
Onnan a kilátás, s elvész-e a kiáltás,
Vagy egy másik világból megjön
Rá a felelet. Elvégre meglehet,
A világ vége csak egy másik kezdet.
Talán egy híd is vezet oda át.
Már látom, ahogy sok óriásplakát
Hirdeti: „Last minute ajánlat, vissza
Nem térő alkalom, megnézheti
- Most akciós áron – mi van odaát,
A másik oldalon!” Ha a hídon túl
Nagy lenne a forgalom, fizetnék egy
Révészt, aki átvisz. S ha sokat nem is,
De maradnék néhány röpke órára,
S kipróbálnám, milyen egy másik
Világból fütyülni erre a világra.
Look at the lion in the iron cage,
look deep into his eyes:
like two naked steel daggers
they sparkle with anger.
But he never loses his dignity
although his anger
comes and goes
goes and comes.
You couldn't find a place for a collar
round his thick, furry mane.
Although the scars of a whip
still burn on his yellow back
his long legs
stretch and end
in the shape of two copper claws.
The hairs on his mane rise one by one
around his proud head.
comes and goes
goes and comes ...
The shadow of my brother on the wall of the dungeon
up and down
up and down.
Won't bat an eyelash @ a bowl of milk
It has 2b ham or something like that
Service á la carte
+ just listen to this:
He won't have anything to do with mice
He'd rather die of starvation
Than return to mother nature
A cat so corrupt as this one? Nowhere
+ a more pampered tiger?
No le da bola al arroz con leche
Tiene que ser jamón o algo x el estilo
Servicio a la carta
& lo + scandaloso de todo:
De ratones no quiere saber nada
Antes muerto de hambre
Que regresar a la naturaleza
Gato + depravado que éste no hay
Tigre + regalón