Deborah Rocheleau is an English major, Chinese minor, and all-around language fanatic. Her writing has been published by Tin House, 100 Word Story, Flights, and Thema, among others. She is currently writing her third contemporary young adult novel. Immigration by Deborah Rocheleau
Every word wants to make it to English It’s very accommodating, they’ve heard once you’re settled Piñata made it Feng shui even Burka For Tundra, though, things were harder coming from an obscure background raised on the snow of Norway among reindeer herders He longed to immigrate, even as the dream seemed a melted ocean away. Then came a political shift, someone pointing out the benefits of a diverse language how thought was limited by a starved vocabulary one word stifling the imagination While speakers of languages with six words for snow skated icy circles around their one-word counterparts The idea, though faulty, inspired measures to stockpile words snatched here and there from foreign languages. Thus Tundra arrived and established himself in the scientific jargon and thesauruses of one of the world’s most widely spoken language He has arrived, only to find himself alone, the sole immigrant from Sami, his mother tongue.
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D.G. Geis divides his time between Houston and the Hill Country of Central Texas. He has an undergraduate degree in English Literature from the University of Houston and a graduate degree in philosophy from California State University. His poetry has appeared in 491 Magazine, Lost Coast, Blue Bonnet Review,The Broadkill Review and A Quiet Courage. He will be featured in a forthcoming Tupelo Press chapbook anthologizing 9 New Poets and is also winner of Blue Bonnet Review's Fall 2015 Poetry Contest. Dancing with the Stars by D.G. Geis For Jeffrey Levine There was that night you stood on the balcony and the stars counted you-- one of many squeaking things. that smallness serves on a skinned plate. Mr. Universe (an omnivore), did not have enough light to read the menu, so he made a flashlight from your rib, and after he cooked it, he swallowed the rest of you whole. Your skin he fashioned into a tattooed brick which he hurled through morning’s window. And left you standing in daylight’s slippers with morning’s coffee and a cigarette; as if nothing happened, as if you were invisible, as if the smoke curling around your fingers was the winter breath of a dazed runner or ash from a starry crematorium. Texas Eagle by D.G. Geis Between Mineola and Texarkana the mystery of trampolines in the backyards of the poor Outside St. Louis glass-eyed factories blinded by recession guided home by the kindness of power lines dieseled skank the Mississippi lifting her muddy skirt Near Alton Illinois palsied farm houses shaking circles of bony elm herefords in feedlots waddling through duvets of manure and snow skinned of corn detasseled fields scabbed with ice sun hung over retching behind a barn At the Springfield Amtrak Station the buttoned down Amishman sitting on a bench calmly peeling an orange with a spoon. On the Illinois River outside Havana brick streets red teeth rattling loose rusted cars hovering on blocks barges nudged by mothering tugs children shoving their way into a school bus the Ameren plant night cleansing aerosol plumes of lengthening smoke In Chicago under the El two vagabonds making out on a Hefty bag Wheel of Fortune on Econolodge lobby TV night sting of streetlights morning yolk unbroken dawn over easy When dead friends appear by D.G. Geis
When dead friends appear be kind enough to ask them in. They have traveled a long way and are doubtless tired. Be sure they have a comfortable place to sit and remember the laws of hospitality. Perhaps a cup of coffee or a carafe of wine. Inquire about their well being without being overly curious or intrusive. Trust their past with the same conviction you can trust your future. When they speak, listen carefully. Be considerate of those still sleeping. It has been said attention is the purest form of generosity and the only gift of the living to the dead. Never forget you will either be remembered or forgotten. Be thankful—be careful. There is nothing else. One day you will visit too. Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. burnt out over the edge an ember over the sun burning luminous-- thrust fill and 'scape the earth ash whirl round and out: find out what where and who for everything you are the little man pursues his dream behind his screen of death shifting many things beneath his robe the cope the dope the rope the soap the terrible burden of love all colors and all mysteries are pasty white behind his eyes the dry and life shred easily sighing their way with them: hear me describe hear me enliven hear me divide his head from the screen: here, boy, let me tell you: it was a bad idea, this little dream come out and in this sin is nothing special just provincial this landscape knows no god and no device it's alive and with a woman he stems out to find the rule the sooner tool bray mound and roll the earning of the luck and the sterning of the fool into a warrior no use but reuse in the long bowl of the depression and no winning but through terror each your own come in, and sit down and be ready for the mull of the engines we bring you now surround break mask and fail take here the better staff to beat her in the district cold cartoon and fled: break the lost last and lust for better better better be I die the right king underneath this singing Marea Needle has been writing poetry, short stories, fiction, non-fiction for many years. She published in various media: websites, magazines, journals, etc. Latest work is a collection of short stories titled: From My Ashes, Volume 1, available on Amazon.com. She’s currently working on first novel THE 1-2-3 OF A LOVE AFFAIR (Pantoums) by Marea Needle Depending on the Whether - 1 Whether or not he likes me Or whether or not I like him To charm or be charmed Diving into his soul or looking aside Or whether or not I like him Plays the restless dream Diving into his soul or looking aside Later… -3 Swearing it off before it starts So what does it matter now Plays the restless dream You’re leaving I’m not To charm or be charmed Will there be tears or not Swearing it off before it starts More ripping apart or not Whether or not he likes me You’re leaving I’m not Obsession - 2 Walking in oblivion or not More ripping apart or not Always the questions Selling off stars or not Why the other women? What is he thinking? Walking in oblivion or not Where do I fit in? Will there be tears or not Selling off stars or not Why the other women? So what does it matter now Why isn’t it me? Where do I fit in? Why can’t he get it? Why isn’t it me? What is he thinking? Where do I fit in? Always the questions Małgorzata Skałbania was born in 1965 in Tychy, Silesia in Poland. A graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow, intern in the Academy of Fine Arts in Kampen, the Netherlands. She has published two books of poetry "Accretions" ("Naleciałości"), " Der Schmutztitel" ("Szmuctytuł"). Her poems are published in various Polish and American almanacs and are featured in literary magazines such as "Creativity"( "Twórczość") Warsaw, " Karpowicz Foudation" ("Funacja Karpowicza") Wroclaw, "The Light House" ("Latarnia Morska"), Kolobrzeg, "Indiana Voice" Anderson, , "Deltona High School Book Reviews", "RALPH The Review of Arts, Literature, Philosophy and the Humanities" San Diego, " The Accent" ("Akcent") Lublin, "Lotus-Eater" Rome, „ The Philosophical-Prosaic Aspects” ( „Aspekty Filozoficzno-Prozatorskie) Inowroclaw. She lives in Lublin, where she works as an upholsterer. She has been preparing for the issue of the poetry book entitled "Ćwirko". (Photos attached to the poems represent the author’s work) xxx for Anda Rottenberg where is your brother abel anda's question taken straight from the bible has some cultural value curator says ejected from encouraging gallery for contempt of feelings invited to a night of culture by the labyrinth asks for switching off the light too hard rottenberg my son delights in word in black coat daughter in black I black paint to revive mix by heat 4 ounces of blue tree Gallus sulphuric acid of copper iron filings after 1 oz 1 quart vinegar when cooled down add beef bile the mixture good for fading color of black cloth I promised the recipe for my technical manager of the theater xxx like a clown david was tiny and goliath a great lout lejzorek rojtszwaniec thinks poster designed for people of a medium height theater reserves the right to change the repertoire the sweetness of freedom sweetness of error hamlet in red panties like stanczyk on the green wall the wall sounds proudly in town of spider where from spiders are new worlds a third religious song xxx I will believe eye sockets of skeleton dressed souvenir from mexico it could not pray to god that is everywhere not there claimed goethe not in this part of woman theater did not build a creator of faust more a prophet's austerity he could not be a poet convicting a woman to poetry xxx communing in a culture of inequality of state not fully developed renouncing i do not like when the waiter has shaking hands if the people for their sins do not kill their animals unnecessary would be menu the cards on which we are not allowed to draw anywhere i do not hurry i am stuck in the common ethical foundation in the kitchen where the lunch was forgotten for scullery maids a back of waiter it supposedly always innocent move away to own hotel just when we will change the cover xxx stairs element of a vertical communication between the different levels internal external main service cellar escape single speed two-speed with the direction of the return winding quarter landing stair case refractory non-refractory cantilevered spiral ladder stringer plate moving with or without a soul (ART BELONGS TO AUTHOR)
Neil Slevin is a 26 year-old writer from Co. Leitrim, Ireland. A former English teacher in the U.K., having graduated with a B.Sc. in Physical Education with English from the University of Limerick in 2011, he has returned to university to complete an M.A. in Writing at N.U.I. Galway and to pursue a writing-based career. His work has been published by The Galway Review and various American journals. SEWING THE SEA by Neil Slevin Fishing for water, sewing the sea, you sit on your wood by water swept and beaten quay, passing no heed to ticking time nor tide, nor in the distance, me. And shimmering on the water is your joy; the sunlight’s speckle bobbing your face, settling like stardust in your golden hair’s embrace. All happening in this moment – not that you seem to notice, and not that you seem to care; for you are at labour, lost within your working world, just another day’s laissez-faire: your legs swaying to the freedom of the water’s flow and flair, its splashes freckling the day’s outlook, your life (at least right now) all moderate to fair. Because for now you are free to stitch your own ties, ones that will exert their own force, but – not now – later, in due course. And so, not having moved, you return to your post, sewing the sea, fishing for water almost. FOOD FOR THOUGHT by Neil Slevin “What’s eating you?” they ask when I push the food around my plate. “Nothing,” I say rawly, not pausing, nor stealing a moment to hesitate. I lie to them, but not myself (no, not to me, I see my fate), knowing what’s eating me: eating is, all-too-figuratively. And so, eschewing truth, I respond with nothing, quite literally… I eat myself bite by bite, bone-by-bone – body, brain, and soul. Why? Because I can. And I can’t stop me. And why should I want to stop, when this is a game that only I can win and lose – and see me, raise me, or fold? I will have to stop, in the end, but not for me: I live a life divided into selves, and each and every one of us is no longer whole. I hate my body; know that he hates me. Like a loveless marriage, we are stuck together, indefinitely. Not because we want to, need to, must, but because we have to be: I’ll eat away at him while he eats away at me. MY CURTAIN by Neil Slevin “Ich bin ein Berliner.” John F. Kennedy A sweltering summer’s day. A wall rises as if by itself, partitioning our rented flat from east to west. A stranger greets my arrival home, plays the role of builder, waves the trowel in his hand – like a flag – plastering out the light. I escape to my confinement. His grunts and sweat and sighs are the seasons changing, but I still sense the sun’s shine somewhere outside. Beyond the walls. Beyond my feeling, walls that cry out for my release, but keep me locked inside my cell – myself. Later, my communist landlord greets me. He shakes my hand, startled I shake back. He cuffs the wrist I still have, my wrist still free of state, leaves me to my divided city; I laugh, jeer in the wake of what I see as his mistake. “Tear down this wall!” Reagan declared. His command I roar each time I tread my own. Under cover of darkness, always, I make it to the other side. Years late. Charles Leggett is a professional actor based in Seattle, WA, USA. Recent publications include FRIGG Magazine, Graze, Latchkey Tales, Form Quarterly, Firewords (United Kingdom), Southword Journal (Munster Literature Centre, Cork City, Ireland), and Punchnel’s. Others include The Lyric and Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry; his long poem “Premature Tombeau for John Ashbery” is an e-chapbook in the Barnwood Press “Great Find” series LAYOVER: EMPRESS HOTEL by Charles Leggett outside Kuala Lumpur This building rises nakedly up from rows of yellow three-story flats like an elegant wart from the crown of a dentist’s hovering knuckle. Lurching half-hour’s drive from the airport; lobby and halls suffused in prayer chants piped in through a subtle P.A. system. “Help in Time of Need” leads off the Gideons’ list of “Suggested Readings” from the worn bible they’ve “Placed” —next, as it happens, to The Teachings of Buddha—in what I’ll call the drawer of need. Now, techno dance beats debouch from a stoop below, across the street, next door to Naeshan Trading, where men in t-shirts are hunched at card tables under a naked bulb’s margarine light. An equivocal phrase, “drawer of need”: drawn as a bath is drawn—immersion; or sketched, in lines of a face—mundane, sweet, straining to become familiar in a nakedness dressed to the nines. THE AGENCY by Charles Leggett Out here mumbling Poor Old Jason Bourne, his third installment warm still in the tray. Turns out he’d signed up for it after all; he’d plunked his dog tags down upon the table like hotel keys at check-out. Landlady’s stained, forsaken particle board stacked against the disused concrete planter, raindrops licking coldly at everything (two hours sitting on my ass inside’s not helping with the cold.)—but it’s the clouds of smoke that catch my eye. The hill’s tilt south down Franklin, freeway noise uncoiling, coiling; rocking back and forth on balls of chilly feet, not even sitting. Stealing the pleasure of smoke. The waters Poor Old Jason Bourne began these movies in were cleaner. They didn’t give Matt Damon time to act, much. His Bourne takes action, as if that were all the world had left to offer him. Damon simply has to be precise, to be himself the narrative. They put that Poor Old Jason Bourne up on a rooftop at the movie’s end, allowing the breathless agent who has somehow managed to corner him the choice of…well, of not shooting him right away. Bourne’s had his brief and flashback-ripe reunion with Albert Finney’s basso spymaster: a version of Polonius stripped bare without the foibles or loquaciousness —albeit the pomposity remains. (Polonius occurs because my mother reminded me of him, three decades past, advising me about my parentage.) He doesn’t even have panache enough to die, this humorless, this dry, on-task, hermetic, old Polonius, his droll pronouncements not a bit less obvious for all their rumbling portent. A spat of editorializing, then, up on the rooftop, as to what’s been asked of these two men by their superiors throughout the years; then Poor Old Jason Bourne (or whatever name does manage to be his) jumps off into the river. I still can hear in the tenor of her voice, and see by angles that her face described, the grace that conversation long ago had asked of her. That it would be all right, if I did want to know. That I was free to seek the persons out. Her tenderness, in saying that their feelings, hers and Dad’s, were not what mattered—not against the weight of that inquiry into a frightened woman (likely younger, giving birth, than I was when my mother spoke to me) who carried me nine months and would have given me a different name. STORY I TOLD MY MOTHER ON HER DEATH BED
by Charles Leggett “What happened?” comes a child’s voice ringing pure From out among the patrons. All can hear. And I am Prospero (a summer tour Of parks), with beard and scepter, arms both flailing From out a caftan, stormily regaling My daughter with the tale of being thrown From power to this “full poor” life she’s known. And there’s a little present Shakespeare’s left, A shortened line of verse, to catch one’s breath-- “What happened?” comes the child’s voice ringing then. “What happened?” comes the same voice ringing when Not ninety minutes later—all forgiven, At revels’ end—falls one last grateful silence: My daughter wending toward the changing tents With old Alonso’s son. And I imagine How all upon that island—“salvage,” human Or sprite; betrothed, bewildered (or a touch Besotted)—at the end could say as much: No longer captive, soon “reliev’d by prayer,” What happened ringing through the solemn air. I told my mother so, not two weeks later. Could say as much. And could not say it better. —Wooden O Free Shakespeare in the Parks, Seattle, WA, August 2001 Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either reading or writing. Her works have appeared in numerous publications and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web. Her debut novel, The Rose Master, was published in 2014 and was called a "strong and satisfying effort" by Publishers Weekly. Milton by Valentina Cano The Devil has taken over my life. Inserted himself into the gaps between my words, uprooting the bulbs of silence I carefully planted. He trails behind me on my morning walks. swimming in my shadow, picking up stray feathers he’ll stitch into a feral pair of wings. Birthday, 2015 by Valentina Cano I was born in another hemisphere. I was born in the whirl of pollen and sweating limbs. I live as a child of the cold, of mottled leaves. These truths are tectonic plates rubbing inside me, shrieking like split ceramic. Self-Portrait by Valentina Cano She’s a person with feathers for blood. They ruffle in the sunlight, in faded attempts at forgotten flight. She walks as if her bones are ready to slide out of their sheaths, to taste the air, to bleach themselves dry of all the muck of life. A Thought by Valentina Cano A thought grows razor wire teeth. A thought grows razor wire teeth in a loop. A thought grows razor wire teeth in a loop for a crown. A thought grows razor wire teeth in a loop for a crown I cannot wear. A thought grows razor wire teeth in a loop for a crown I cannot wear and cannot take off. The Sea by Valentina Cano She’s been chasing a red pail her entire life. It ran into the sea as she wished to do, soaking its plastic heart in churning salt, looking to see what the sea keeps. Craig Kurtz has vexed aesthetic circles since the 1981 release of The Philosophic Collage. Recent work appears in Dalhousie Review, The Madras Mag Anthology of Contemporary Writing, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Sheepshead Review, and Tower Poetry; many others would just as soon string him up. He resides at Twin Oaks Intentional Community. The Science of Insult by Craig Kurtz RECRUITMENT FOR THE SCHOOL OF SCOWERING HEADMASTER: Forsooth, the science of insult is mathematical, There’s protocols and formulas: it’s intellectual; sure, in the country, some bumpkin can merely slap a face, but in refinéd London, quarrels’ rules fill a bookcase; there’s etiquette and precedent and how to do it well, there’s statutes and concordats in the art of raising hell; good man, your coming in’s indeed an act fortuitous, the Captain here is certified a quarreling genius. CAPTAIN: I’ll tutor you on the insult disguised as compliment, I’ll teach you querulous accosts both deft and elegant; I’ll demonstrate the churlish dehort and the reproof curt and if these will not prevail ye, there’s kicking shins overt; the counter-check’s effective, the suave slander’s de rigueur, the quip intense is trendy, the snide jeer is debonair; all these prim conventions can be taught to you until you are advanced to flatter glitterati with ill will. PUPIL: I would speak according to the phrase triumphant, if you please,1 enucleating the kernel of my scabbard with ease;2 I’d like to roar out challenges to all my well-bred foes but do so with assurance that no one will slit my nose. HEADMASTER: Forsooth, the science of insult requires scholarship -- how to salute haunches, when to box ears without slip; there’s tropes and figures to map out how you should taunt and goad, and, according to Fastidious Brisk, dueling in the mode;3 now, in the countryside, breaking windows after dark may be the latest rage but we’ll expect more of you, spark; we’ve got a certain tenor here, we’ve got a subtle touch, and being Furious Inland is going to be too much.4 CAPTAIN: I’ll tutor you on feizing servants and nose-tweaking gents and why it’s a faux pas to ever mix these variants; your thump, your wherret, and your doust, essential to ache joints, tugs on the hair, bobs o’ the lips, I know the finer points; 5 I’ll demonstrate the niceties of truncheons and knife stabs, but, more importantly, I’ll show you how to dodge bar tabs; when I am done, the people you’ll love best are enemies, since friends or family won’t fight you, who needs these base sissies? PUPIL: I would insult courtiers and justle cavaliers -- anyone can brawl with peasants, I’ll hassle compeers; but, maybe prior to my transformation to gallant, you might also provide me with some weapon unguent.6 1. Fletcher and Massinger, The Little French Lawyer, Act II, sc. I.
2. Middleton and Rowley, A Fair Quarrel, Act IV, sc. I. 3. Ridiculous anecdote about a challenge in which two antagonists succeeded in only injuring their foppish attire, from Jonson’s Every Man Out of his Humor. 4. Buffoonish country ruffian in William Davenant’s News From Plymouth. 5. Middleton’s A Nice Valor, Act III, sc. III. 6. Magical salve which, placed upon a weapon, prevents injury to its victim; mentioned in Henry Glapthorne’s The Hollander. OPEN HOUSE (fictions) and an expanded edition of the prize-winning SunStone Poetry Press chapbook, EVERYTHING SPEAKING CHINESE: ENHANCED, REVISED EDITION, were published in 2015, while GROUND OF THIS BLUE EARTH and UNDER ARIES were published in 2012 and 2014, respectively. Gordon's awards include National Endowment for the Arts & Humanities Fellowships and writing residencies, while several poems have been nominated for Pushcarts. NIGHT COMPANY was nominated for an NEA Western States' Book Awards. He divides personal and professional lives among Asia, Europe, and the Mountain/Desert Southwest. BEFORE THE FALL by GTimothy Gordon Picasso lived this painting of tears, blue as the humid depths of the abyss, and full of pity. -Apollinaire- His child’s hands Keep curling, merging Moment and myth, husband, Esposa, bowed, barefoot, Shy-eyes beggaring nothing (Nothing like the maimed At Guernica, blind men, Sad acrobats, tumblers, Breasts nailed to nudes, Guitars the shapes of women, Tontos y locos), crude blues, Blueboy savior blessing all Before the tide of washed blue sea, Before duende struck, Before the scripture, “Pablo Picasso,” Título, LA TRAGEDIA, Lugar, Barcelona, España, That summer surréaliste, 1903. BAS-RELIEF BLUE by GTimothy Gordon Behold the sun as still As the flat, blue, pastel sky, And the day daily burns a slow, Fervent burn in its bas-relief beneath-- Brute lives of strays and waifs, Unnamed, unnamable, Found on the floor of earth, True as the trueblue sky, Still as the stillborn sun. DISORDER AND EARLY SPRING by GTimothy Gordon They have finally Decided to come Alive on the lower Slope, shape and color Intruding into view Mountain and brush, First faint stippled hues Effacing the comely blue And prescient sun Even unto the nightswell Where in-deep, Under starlit canopy They cease waiting, Sensing their certain sway Into the wild, Crazy with color. Cathy Bryant worked as a life model, civil servant and childminder before becoming a professional writer. She has won 22 literary awards, including the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Prize and the Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest, and her work has appeared in over 200 publications. Cathy's books are 'Contains Strong Language and Scenes of a Sexual Nature' and 'Look at All the Women' (poetry), 'How to Win Writing Competitions' (nonfiction) and 'Pride & Regicide - a Mary Bennet Mystery' (a novel). See her listings for cash-strapped writers atwww.compsandcalls.com , updated on the first of every month. Cathy lives in Cheshire, UK. Greyway by Cathy Bryant (a poem of the North of England) A grey day, a misty, hazy day as we follow the skeins of geese heading south on the motorway. 'White Rose County' 'Brontë Country' A break in the gloom, and geometric shafts of sunlight sink through clouds. The mucky god of industry beams down on his chosen, on slag heaps stepped and greening. Motorway forks on to Sheffield, engineered, proud. Brown fields, white seagulls. Green meadows, black crows. Autumn is sniffing around. Swallows go with us, and more geese, flying, fleeing to cheat the frosts nipping at their feet. A squashed anonymous fur shape in the fast lane won't see winter. Faint nausea, then it's forgotten. Tibshelf. Heanor. THE SOUTH. Robin Hood County. Fish signs on a blood-red Fiesta. Sudden bodies of grave grey water, golds and crimsons where the trees have grown their own personal sunsets, mourned by spotting tears of rain. Electronic signs say 'queue' and then 'END' amid balding trees by the hard shoulder. As we decided to publish the first issue in the honor of Mihai Eminescu, Romanian poet, who now is part of the universal literature patrimony, together with W. Shakespeare, F. Dostoievski, F. Villon, H. de Balzac, and many others, we'd like to present a few poems in advance, courtesy of www.poetrysoup.com. We will also publish a biography on Jan 15th 2016. WHAT IS LOVE? What is love ? A lifetime spent Of days that pain does fill, That thousand tears can't content, But asks for tears still. With but a little glance coquet Your soul it knows to tie, That of its spell you can't forget Until the day you die. Upon your threshold does it stand, In every nook conspire, That you may whisper hand in hand Your tale of heart's aspire. Till fades the very earth and sky, Your heart completely broken, And all the world hangs on a sigh, A word but partly spoken. It follows you for weeks and weeks And in your soul assembles The memory of blushing cheeks And eyelash fair that trembles. It comes to you a sudden ray As though of starlight's spending, How many and many a time each day And every night unending. For of your life has fate decreed That pain shall it enfold, As does the clinging water-weed About a swimmer hold. -------- English version by Corneliu M. Popescu Transcribed by Alina Micu School No. 10, Focsani, Romania http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/21487/what_is_love Written permission from www.poetrysoup.com WITH LIFE’S TOMORROW TIME YOU GRASP With life's tomorrow time you grasp, Its yesterdays you fling away, And still, in spite of all remains Its long eternity, today. When one thing goes, another comes In this wide world by heaven borne; And when the sun is setting here 'Tis somewhere else just breaking dawn. It seems somehow that other waves Are rolling down the same old stream, And somehow, tough the autumns change, 'Tis but the same leaves fall it seem. Before our night does ever ride The queen of mornings rosy skies; While even death is but a guess, Of life a notion, a surmise. Of every moment that goes by One fact each mortal creature knows; The universe is poised in time And whirling round for ever goes. Still, though this year will fly away And soon but to the bygone add, Within your soul you ever hold Each thing of worth you ever had. With life's tomorrow time you grasp, Its yesterday you fling away, And still, in spite of all remains Its long eternity, today. A radiant and brilliant view, In many rapid glimpses caught, Of infinite, unending calm, Bathed in the rays of timeless thought. ------- English version by Corneliu M. Popescu Transcribed by Liviu Buftea School No. 10, Focsani, Romania EVENING STAR There was, as in the fairy tales, As ne'er in the time's raid, There was, of famous royal blood A most beautiful maid. She was her parents' only child, Bright like the sun at noon, Like the Virgin midst the saints And among stars the moon. From the deep shadow of the vaults Her step now she directs Toward a window; at its nook Bright Evening-star expects. She looks as in the distant seas He rises, darts his rays And leads the blackish, loaded ships On the wet, moving, ways. To look at him every night Her soul her instincts spur; And as he looks at her for weeks He falls in love with her. And as on her elbows she leans Her temple and her whim She feels in her heart and soul that She falls in love with him. And ev'ry night his stormy flames More stormily renew When in the shadow of the castle She shows to his bright view. * * And to her room with her slow steps He bears his steps and aims Weaving out of his sparkles cold A toil of shaking flames. And when she throws upon her bed Her tired limbs and reposes, He glides his light along her hands And her sweet eyelash closes. And from the mirror on her shape A beam has spread and burns, On her big eyes that beat though closed And on her face that turns. Her smiles view him; the mirror shows Him trembling in the nook For he is plunging in her dream So that their souls may hook. She speaks with him in sleep and sighs While her heart's swelled veins drum: -"O sweet Lord of my fairy nights, Why comest thou not? Come! Descend to me, mild Evening-star Thou canst glide on a beam, Enter my dwelling and my mind And over my life gleam!" And he listens and trembles and Still more for her love craves And as quick as the lightning he Plunges into the waves. The water in that very spot Moves rolling many rings And out of the unknown, dark, depth A superb young man springs. As on a threshold o'er the sill His hasty steps he leads, Holds in his hand a staff with, at Its top, a crown of reeds! A young Voivode he seems to be With soft and golden hair; A blue shroud binds in a knot on His naked shoulder fair. The shade of his face is of wax And thou canst see throughout - A handsome dead man with live eyes That throw their sparkles out. -"From my sphere hardly I come to Follow thy call and thee, The heaven is my father and My mother is the sea. So that I could come to thy room And look at thee from near With my light reborn from waves my Fate toward thee I steer. O come, my treasure wonderful And thy world leave aside; For I am Evening-star up from And thou wouldst be my bride. In my palace of coral I'll Take thee for evermore And the entire world of the sea Will kneel before thy door. " -"O thou art beautiful as but In dreams an angel shows, The way though thou hast oped for me For me's for ever close. Thy port and mien and speech are strange Life thy gleams don't impart, For I'm alive and thou art dead And thy eyes chill my heart. " * * Days have past since: but Evening-star Comes up againd and stays Just as before, spreading o'er her His clear, translucent rays. In sleep she would remember him And, as before, her whole Wish for the Master of the waves Is clinching now her soul. -"Descend to me, mild Evening-star Thou canst glide on a beam, Enter my dwelling and my mind And over my life gleam!" He hears: and from the dire despair Of such an woeful weird He dies, and the heavens revolve Where he has disappeared. Soon in the air flames ruddy spread, The world in their grip hold; A superb form the spasms of the Chaotic valleys mold. On his locks of black hair he bears His crown a fierce fire frames; He floats as he really comes Swimming in the sun's flames. His black shroud lets develop out His arms marbly and hale; He pensively and sadly brings His face awfully pale. But his big wonderful eyes' gleam, Chimerically deep, Shows two unsatiated spasms That but into dark peep. -"From my sphere hardly I come to Follow thy voice, thy sight; The bright sun is my father and My mother is the night. O come, my treasure wonderful And thy world leave aside For I am Evening-star from up And thou wouldst be my bride. O come, and upon thy blond hair Crowns of stars I shall crowd, And more that all of them, up there, Thou wild look fair and proud. " -"O thou art beautiful as but In dreams a demon shows, The way though hast oped for me For me's for ever close. The depths of my breast ache from the Desire of thy fierce love My heavy, big eyes also ache When into them thine shove". -"But how wouldst thou that I come down? Know this - for, do I lie? -: I am immortal, while thou art One of those that must die!" -"I hate big words, nor do I know How to begin my plea; And although thy discourse is clear I don't understand thee. But if thou wantest my flamed love And that would not be sham, Come down on this temporal earth, Be mortal as I am!" -"I'd lose my immortality For but one kiss of thine! Well, I will show thee how much too For thy fierce love I pine! Yes, I shall be reborn from sin, Receive another creed: From that endlessness to which I Am tied, I shall be freed!" And out he went, he went, went out, Loving a human fay, He plucked himself off from the sky, Went for many a day. * * Meanwhile, the house-boy, Catalin, Sly, and who often jests When he's filling with wine the cups Of the banqueting guests; A page that carries step by step The trail of the Queen's gown, A wandering bastard, but bold Like no one in the town; His little cheek - a peony That under the sun stews; Watchful, just like a thief, he sneaks In Catalina's views. -"How beautiful she grew" - thinks he - "A flower just to pluck! Now, Catalin, but now it is Thy chance to try thy luck!" And by the way, hurriedly, he Corners that human fay: -"What's with thee, Catalin? Let me Alone and go thy way!" -"No! I want thee to stay away From thoughts that have no fun. I want to see thee only laugh, Give me a kiss, just one!" -"I don't know what it is about And, believe me, retire! But for one Evening-star up from I've kept my strong desire!" -"If thou dost not know I could show Thee all about love's balm! Only, don't give way to thy ire And listen and be calm. So as the hunter throws the net That many birds would harm, When I'll stretch my left arm to thee, Enlace me with thy arm. Under my eyes keep thine and don't Let them move on their wheels And if I lift thee by the waist Thou must lift on thy heels. When I bend down my face, to hold Thine up must be thy strife; So, to each other we could throw Sweet, eager, looks for life. And so that thou have about love A knowledge true and plain, When I stoop to kiss thee, thou must Kiss me too and again. " With much bewilderment her mind The little boy's word fills, And shyly and nicely now she Wills not, and now she wills. And slowly she tells him:- "Since thy Childhood I've known thy wit, And as thou art and glib and small My temper thou wouldst fit. But Evening-star sprung from the calm Of the oblivion, Though, gives horizon limitless To the sea lone and dun. And secretly, I close my eyes For my eyelash tears dim When the waves of the sea go on Travelling toward him. He shines with love unspeakable So that my pains he'd leach, But higher and higher soars, so That his hand I'd ne'er reach. Sadly thrusts from the worlds which from My soul his cold ray bar. . . I shall love him for ever and For ever he'll rove far. Like the unmeasured steppes my days Are deaf and wild, therefore, But my nights spread a holy charm I understand no more!" -"Thou art a child! Let's go! Through new Lands our own fate let's frame! Soon they shall have lost our trace and Forgot even our name! We shall be both wise, glad and whole As my judgement infers And thou wouldst not long for thy kin Nor yearn for Evening-stars!" * * Then Evening-star went out. His wings Grow, into heavens dash, And on his way millenniums Flee in less than a flash. Below, a depth of stars; above, The heaven stars begem, - He seems an endless lightning that Is wandering through them. And from the Chaos' vales he sees How in an immense ring Round him, as in the World's first day, Lights from their sources spring; How, springing, they hem him like an Ocean that swimming nears. . . He flees carried by his desire Until he disappears. For that region is boundless and Searching regards avoids And Time strive vainly there to come To life from the dark voids. 'Tis nought. 'Tis, though, thirst that sips him And which he cannot shun, 'Tis depth unknown, comparable To blind oblivion. -"From that dark, choking, endlessness Into which I am furled, Father, undo me, and for e'er Be praised in the whole world! Ask anything for this new fate For with mine I am through: O hear my prayer, O my Lord, for Thou gives life and death too. Take back my endlessness, the fires That my being devour And in return give me a chance To love but for an hour! I've come from Chaos; I'd return To that my former nest. . . And as I have been brought to life From rest, I crave for rest!" -"Hyperion, that comest from The depths with the world's swarm, Do not ask signs and miracles That have no name nor form. Thou wantest to count among men, Take their resemblance vain; But would now the whole mankind die Men will be born again. But they are building on the wind Ideals void and blind; When human waves run into graves New waves spring from behind. Fate's persecutions, lucky stars, They only are to own; Here we know neither time nor space, Death we have never known. From the eternal yesterday Drinks what to-day will drain And if a sun dies on the sky A sun quickens again. Risen as for ever, death though Follows them like a thorn For all are born only to die And die to be reborn. But thou remainest wheresoe'er Thou wouldst set down or flee. Thou art of the prime form and an Eternal prodigy. Thou wilt now hear the wondrous voice At whose bewitched singing Mounts woody get skipping to skies Into sea Island sinking! Perhaps thou wilt more: show in deeds Thy sense of justice, might, Out of the earth's lumps make an empire And settle on its height! I can give thee millions of vessels And hosts; thou, bear thy breath O'er all the lands, o'er all the oceans: I cannot give thee death. For whom thou wantest then to die? Just go and see what's worth All that is waiting there for thee On that wandering earth!" * * His first dominion on the sky Hyperion restores And like in his first day, his light All o'er again he pours. For it is evening and the night Her duty never waives. Now the moon rises quietly And shaking from the waves, And upon the paths of the groves Her sparkles again drone. . . Under the row of linden-trees Two youths sit all alone. -"O darling, let my blessed ear feel How thy heart's pulses beat, Under the ray of thy eyes clear And unspeakably sweet. With the charms of their cold light pierce My thought's faery glades, Pour an eternal quietness On my passion's dark shades. And there, above, remain to stop Thy woe's violet stream, For thou art my first source of love And also my last dream!" Hyperion beholds how love Their eyes equally charms: Scarcely his arm touches her neck, She takes him in her arms. The silvery blooms spread their smells And their soft cascade strokes The tops of the heads of both youths With long and golden locks. And all bewitched by love, she lifts Her eyes toward the fires Of the witnessing Evening-star And trusts him her desires: -"Descend to me, mild Evening-star Thou canst glide on a beam, Enter my forest and my mind And o'er my good luck gleam!" As he did it once, into woods, On hills, his rays he urges, Guiding throughout so many wilds The gleaming, moving, surges. But he falls not as he did once From his height into swells: -"What matters thee, clod of dust, if 'Tis me or some one else? You live in your sphere's narrowness And luck rules over you - But in my steady world I feel Eternal, cold and true!" ----------------- Poezii Romanian Voice |
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