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8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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•
J ·
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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This book
has
b
een
typ ed on
an
IBM Selectr ic bl ah, bl ah, blah,
by
Ro
.bin Cones and
printed
by
Marco Polio for the Government,
with a cover from a photo by ·
bl ah,
blah, blah,
in
March, 1974 .
INTRODUCTION
Frankly I was
quite surprized
when Mr Spicer
LJsked me
to
write an introduction
to this volume.
y reaction to the
manscript he sent me (and
to
he
series
of
let ters that are now
a
part of
i t
was
and
is f undam e
ntally
unsympathetic. I t seems
to me
the
waste
of a considerable . talent on
so
m
e-
thing which is not worth doing. However, I have
been removed from al l contact with poetry for the
last
twenty years.
The
younger
generatio n of
poets may view with
pleasure
Mr.
Spicer
s
execu
-
t ion of
what seems
to
me a
diff icul t and
unreward-
ing
task
.
I t
must be
made
clear
at
th
e s tar t
that these
poems are not t ranslations. In even the most
l iberal
of
them Mr. Spicer seems to derive
pleas-
ure in insert ing or
subs
t i tut in g one or two words
which compl
etely change
the mood ·
and often
the
meaning of the poem as I had wr.tten
i t
. More
often he takes one of my poems
ind adjoins
to half
of i t
another
half
of
his own,
giving
rather
the
effect of an
unwilling
centaur . (Modes t y forbids
me
to speculate
which end of the
animal
is mine.)
Finally
there are almost
an
equal
number of poems
that
I did not write at al l (one
supposes
that
th
ey must be his
)
executed in
a somewhat
fanciful
imitation
of
my earl
y style . The reader
is given
no indication which of the poems
belong
to which
c
ategory
, and I have
further
complicated the
prob
-
l em
with
malice
aforethought
I must
admit)
by
se
nding Mr.
Spicer severa
l poems
written after
my
de
ath
which he
has also t ranslated
and included
here. Even
the
most
fai thful
student of my work
will be hard
put
to decide what is and what is not
Ga
rcia
Lorca as,
indeed,
he would i f he were to
look
into my present rest ing place . The analogy
is imp
ol i te ,
but I fear the impolit eness is de-
se
rv ed.
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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The le t te rs
are
another
problem. When
Mr
0
Spicer began
sending
them to
me
a few months
ago,
I recognized
immediately
the programatic let ter
-- the le t ter
one
poet writes to another
not
in
any
effort to communicate with him, but rather as
a young man whispers his
secrets
to a scarecrow,
knowing that
his
young lady is
in
the
distance
l istening. The young lady
in
th is case may
be
a
Muse,
but the scarecrow nevertheless quite
natu-
ral ly
resents
the
confidence. The
reader, who
is not
a
party
to
th is singular t ryst ,
may
be
amused by what he overhears .
The
dead
are
notoriously
hard
to
sa t isfy .
Mr.
Spicer 's mixture may
please
his
contemporary
audience
or
may, and this is more
probable, lead
him to
write
better poetry
of
his own. But I am
strongly
reminded as I
survey
th is
curious amal-
gam
of a cartoon
published
in
an
American maga-
zine
whil
e I was
visi t ing
your
country
in
New
York. The
cartoon
showed a
gravestone
on which
were inscribed the words: HERE LIES N OFFICER
ND A
GENTLEMAN.
The
caption below
i t read:
I wonder
how
they
happened to
be buried
in
the
same
grave?
Federico Garcia Lorca
Outside Granada, October
1957
JUAN R MON JIMENEZ
A Translation for
John
Ryan
In the white endlessness
now,
seaweed, and
sa l t
lie lost
his
imagination .
The color white. He walks
Upon
a
soundless
carpet
made
Of pigeon
feathers.
Wi.thout
eyes or
thumbs
lie
suffers
a dream not moving
But the
bones
quiver .
In the
white endlessness
I ow pure
and
big a wound
llis
imagination
lef t .
Snow,
seaweed,
and sa l t .
Now
In the white endlessness .
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BALLAD OF THE LI TTLE GIRL
WHO
I NVENTED
TH
E UNJV E RSE
A
Tr a
n s l a t io n f
or
Ge
or ge Stanl
ey
J as mine f l ower a nd a
bull
wi
th his
thro at sl a
shed.
In f i ni t e
si
dewa lk. Map . Room. Harp .
Sunris
e .
A l i
t t l
e gi r l pr et ends a
bull
made of j as mi ne
And
th e bull is a bl oody
twi l i
ght that be llows .
If
th
e sky
coul
d be a l
i t t l
e boy
Th e
ja smin es
cou1d t a ke
half
th e
night to
th
emselve
And
th
e bull
a b lu e bullrin g
of
hi s own
With h
is
he
ar t
a t
th
e
fo
ot
of
a s ma
l l
column .
But
th
e sky i s an el ephant
And
t he
ja s
min es
are
wa t
er
without b
loo
d
And th e l i t t l e girl i s a bouquet of ni ght f l ower s
Lo s t on a big dark
si
dewa
lk.
Be
tw
een
th
e j asmine and t he bu
l l
Or th e h
ooks
of t he s l eepi ng peop l e of mar b l e or
In th e jasmi ne , c l ouds and an e l ephant--
Th e skel et on of a l i t t l e g i r l t ur
ni n
g .
ll 11
I
Lorca ,
Th ese l e t te rs
ar
e
to be
as t emporary as
po e t r y is to be
permanent
. They will
0s tnbl is h the bulk, the
wastage
that my sour-
• t
oma hed contemporaries demand
to
help them
.w:il l ow and
digest
th e pure word.
We wi
s up our rhetor ic he re so that i t will
not
1pp ar i n our poems . Let i t be consumed
p11ro g
raph
by paragraph , day by day,
unti l
11 0 h i.ng of i t is l e f t in our poetry and
no th i ng of our poetry is l e f t in
i t
I t
is
pt i
se
ly because these let ters are unnes-
.i
1
l
Y
that
they
must
be
written.
ln my las t l e t t e r I spoke of the tradi-
tion. The fools that read these let ters
wi 11 think by this we mean what
t radit ion
•ms
to have meant lately
-- an histor ica l
pa chwork whether made up of Elizabethan
qu t a t i ons, guide books
of
the poet s hom e
t <
wn, or obscure hints
of
obscure bi
ts
of
11w gic published by Pantheon) which is used
l <
cover
up the
nakedness
of t ll e bare word.
l l nd i t ion means much more than
that .
I t
111
ans generations
of
different poe ts in
Ii
f ere
nt countri
es pati e
ntl
y telling th e
sn me s tory,
writing
the s ame poem,
gaining
ri
nc l
l
os in
g
som
e th i ng with
ea
ch transformation
-
but, of
cours
e , n
eve
r
reall
y
losing
a
ny-
thing . This ha s nothing to do
with
calmnes s ,
tempe
rm
ent, or any thing e l s e.
In ve ntio n is mer el y th e enem y of poetry .
See how weak prose i s . I invent a word
I i
kc
i nvention. Th ese parag
raph
s could be
tr a n s l a t ed, tran sformed by a chain of
f i f ty
11 t s i n f i f t y l a
ri
g
uages, and
th ey s t i l l
ul d be t emporar y, untrue ,
unable to
yield
th subs
tance
of a s ingle image .
Pros
e in -
v nts --
poetr
y d
is closes
.
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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A ma d man is ta lking to hi ms e l f in th e ·
room
next
to mine. He speaks in prose.
Presently shal l
go
to
a
bar
and
there
on e
or two poets will
speak
to me and to th em
and we
will
t r y to des troy
each
other or
a t t r c t
each
other or even l is ten
to each
other
and nothing will happen
because
we will
be
speaking in
pros e .
will
go
hom
e
dr unken and dissatisf ied and sleep -- and
my dreams will be prose . Even the
subcon-
s cious is not patient enough
for
poetry.
You
are
dead and
th
e
dead
are
very
patient .
Love
Jack
BALLAD
OF THE SEVEN PASSAGES
A Translation for Ebbe Borregaard
au
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DEBUSSY
A
Translation
for
the
University
My
shadow moves
s i len t ly
Upon the in the ditch .
Upon my shadow are the frogs
Blocked
off from
the
stars.
The shadow demands from
my
body
Unmoving images.
My
shadow skims
the water l ike
a huge
Violet-colored
mosquito.
A hundred crickets
t ry
to mine gold
From
the
l ight in
the
rushes
A
l ight
born
in
my heart
Upon the
ditch
reflected.
FROG
A Translation for Graham
Mackintosh
1 · l l
the
novels
I '
ve read
ind
is going to
a
climax
\11d
climax
means a splash in the
pool.
ll1H111g
Boong . Boong.
, d your nose can ' t hardly breathe.
• ber
w
b Lack
those
pinetrees
were that fir
liurncd .
1
hat
black forest . And the noise
( p nsh)
Ill
i
s ingle green needle .
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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BUSTER KEATON'S RIDE
A Translation for Melvin Bakkerud
ROOSTER: Cockledoodledoo
(Buster Keaton enters carrying four
children
in his · arms.)
BUSTER
KEATON
(takes out a wooden
dagger and
k i l l s
them) :
My
poor
children
ROOSTER:
Cockledoodledoo
BUSTER
KEATON
(counting the corpses on the
'
One, two, three,
four
. (Grabs a
and goes . )
(Among
the old rubber t i res
and cans
of
a Negro eats a straw hat.)
BUSTER
KEATON:
What a
beautiful
af ternoon
(A parrot
f lu t ters
around in the sexless
BUSTER
KEATON: I l ike
riding
a
bicycle.
THE OWL: Toowit toowoo
BUSTER KEATON: How beautiful ly these
birds
sing
THE
OWL
Hoo
BUSTER
KEATON:
t ' s love l y
(Pause
. Buster Keaton
ineffably crosses the
rushes and l i t t l e f ields of
ry e
. The
land-
scape shortens i t sel f beneath
the
wheels
of
his machine . The bicyle
has
a single dimen-
sion . t is able to enter books and to
ex-
pand i t se l f even into operas and coalmines .
The bicycle of Buster Keaton
does
not have a
riding seat of caramel
or sugar
pedals l ike
the
bicycles bad men ride . t is a bicycle
l ike a l l bicycles except for a
unique
drench-
ing
of innocence. Adam and Eve
run by,
t 1ightened
as
i f they were carrying a vase
t
I I
of
water
and, in
passing,
pet the
bi-
l Y I of
Buster
Keaton . )
'. ll
KEATON: Ah,
love, love
( l\11ster Keaton fal ls to the
ground.
The bi-
escapes him.
t
runs behind two
n
rmous gray
butterf
l
ies
. t skims madly
hulf an inch from the ground.)
ll
ll
'i'l'l:ll KEATON: I don ' t
wan
t to ta lk. Won ' t
111 body please say something?
VOICE: Fool
(I
le
continues walking. His eyes, in f in i te and
s
ad l ike
a newly
born
animal, dream of
l i l ies
und angels
and
silken belts . His
eyes
of a
mad child
. Which are most
faithful.
Which
LJre most
beautiful .
The
eyes
of an
ostrich.
llis human
eyes with
a secure
equipoise with
melancholy. Philadelphia
is
seen in the dis-
tance . The inhabitants of that city now
know
hat the old poem of a
machine
is able
to
encircle
the big roses of
the
greenhouse
but not at all to comprehend the poetic dif-
ference between a bowl of hot
tea and
a
bow
l
of cold
tea. Philadelphia
shines in the
distance
. )
(
An
American
girl
with eyes
of
celluloid
comes
through the
grass . )
: AMERICAN:
Hello.
(Buster Keaton
smiles
and looks at the shoes
of the gir l . Those shoes We do not have to
admire her sho_
s.
t would take a
crocodile
to
wear
them . )
llU
STER KEATON: I would have liked
l'll
E AMERICAN
(breathless):
Do you
carry
a sword
de cked with myrtle
leaves?
(
Bu
s te r Keaton
shrugs his
shoulders
and
l i f t s
his _ foot.)
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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THE AMERICAN: Do you have a ring with a
stone?
(Buster Keaton twists slowly and l i f t s an
in-
quiring
le
g . )
THE
AMERICAN: Well?
(Four
angels
with wings of a heavenly
gas
bal-
loon
piss among the flowers . The
ladies
of
the town play a piano as i f they were
riding
a bicycle. The waltz, a moon, and
sevent
ee n
Indian
canoes rock the precious heart
of
our
friend. As
the greatest surprise
of
a l l
autumn
has
invaded th e garden
l ik
e water ex -
p lodes a
geometrical
clump of sugar . )
BUSTER KEATON
(sighing):
I would hav e l
iked
to
have been a swan. But I
can' t
do what I would
have l iked. Because
--
What happened to
ha t? Wh ere is my collar of l i t t l e white
mohair neckti
e? What a disgrace
(A
young gir l
with
a wasp
waist
and a
high
collar comes
in
on a
bicycle.
She has the
head of a ni
ghtingale.)
YOUNG GIRL:
Whom
do I have the
honor
of
saluting
?
BUSTER
KEATON
(with a bow): Buster Keaton .
The young girl faints and fal ls off the bi-
cycle. Her legs on the ground t r emble
l ike
two
agoni
zed
cobras.
A gramophone
plays
a
thousand
versions of
the
same song --
"In
Philadelphia
they have
no ni
ghtingales ".
BUSTER
KEATON
(kneeling) : Darling Miss Eleanor ,
p
ardon
me
(lower)
Darling
(lower s t i l l
)
Darling (lowest) Darling.
(T
he
l i
g
ht
s
of Philadelphia
fl icker and go
out in
the faces
of
a
thousand policemen
. )
11/\LLAD
OF THE SHADOWY PIGEONS
A Translation for Joe Dunn
h1
•
I ranches of laurel
w 1wo shadowy pigeons .
111 them was the sun
lhl i lh r the moon .
I
I I • neighbours, I asked
them,
Wlt
111
nm
I
buried?
I
y
ai l said
the sun .
y raw, said
the
moon.
11 I I
who had been
walking
illi
the earth at my
waistline
1w two eagles { marble
11 I
11
naked
maiden
.
on was the other
111 th
e
maiden
was no
one.
I
I I I c
eagles,
I
asked
them,
\\Ii
I
am I
buried?
1
y
t a i l ,
said
the
sun.
I
y
craw,
sai d
the
moon.
1111 th e branches of l aurel
11w
two naked
pigeons.
111 1• one was the other
11d
th
e
both
of them no
one.
•
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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SUICIDE
A
Translation for Eric
Weir
At ten o c lo ck in th e
morning
The young man could not remember .
His heart
was
stuffed
with
dead
wings
nd linen flowers.
He
is
conscious that there is nothing
l
eft
In
his mouth but
one
word.
When
he removes
his
coat soft ashes
Fall from
his
arms .
Through th e window he
sees
a tower
He sees
a window and a tower.
His
watch has run
down in
i ts
case
He
observes
the
way i t was looking at him .
He sees
shadow
stretched
Upon a
whit
e si lk cushion .
nd
the
s t i f f geome t r ic youngs ter
Sh
at ters th
e
mirror with
an
ax
The
mirror submerges every thin
g
In
a grea t
spurt
of shadow .
11 \C '1US
A
Tr a
ns lation for
Don
Allen
1che d
gree
n murmur.
I i
g
ree wants
to
extend me i ts
branches.
I I
1 11 pa nther i t s shadow
I
11
·
my poet shadow .
n has words with the do
gs
.
i i mist aken and begins ov
er
.
t
rday
tomorrow
black
and
green
I
1p ar ound my
circle
of
laur
e
l
Wl 1 would you lo ok for
my
xc
hanged my
heart?
/\nd the figtree shout s at me and advanc
es
11
nib le an
d ext
ended
.
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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A
DIAMO
ND
A Translation
for Robert
Jones
A diamond
Is
th
e
re
At the heart of the moon or the branches or my
nakedness
And th ere is nothing
in
the
No
th
i ng
in
the
whole
mind.
Th e poem is a seagull resting on a pier
of
th e ocean.
A
do g
howls
a t the moon
A dog
howls a t
th e branches
A d
og
how l s at the
nakedness
A
dog howling
with
pure
mind .
I
ask for
th
e
poem
to be
as
pure
as
a
seagull
' s
be
l l
y.
The universe fal ls
apart
and disclos es a diamond
The words ca l l ed seagull ar e peacefully floati ng
out
where
the
waves
are
The dog is dead there with th e moon, with the
branches,
with my nakedn
ess
And th
ere
is
nothing
in
th e
un
iverse
Nothi ng in
the
who
l e mind.
1
: LITTLE HALFWIT
A
Translatio
n for Robin Blaser
1
1d, Afternoon
1 t
wa
sn t
there .
1 '
rnoon
w
as
ano
th er
thing
hl r il h d gone somep la
ce
.
I
d
the
l ight
s
hru
gged
i t s
sho
uld
ers
1
o
l i t t
l e gir l
I
1
rnoon
But
this
is
useless,
i s
untrue,
this
h
as
to
i t
I
a
moon
of
lead.
The other
WI
never
get
h
er e
.
t
fl d the
l ight that
everyone
sees
t•t y d at being a
sta tu e.)
t
•
other
one
was
t iny
11tl a t e pomegranates .
th i s one is big an d green and I m not able
I n grab her in my arms or dress
her.
1 n ' t she ever coming? What was she?
(fi nd the l ight as
i t
went
along
, as a joke
•\•par a t ed the l i t t l e halfwit from his own
sha
dow
. )
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
12/35
VERLAINE
A
Transl
a tion
for
Pat Wilson
A
song
Which I shall never sing
Ha s
fallen
asleep on my l ips.
A song
Wh ic h I shall never sing--
Above th e honeys uckle
Ther
e ' s a firefly
And
th
e
moon
s tings
With a
ra
y into the water--
At
that tim
e I l l
imagine
The song
Which I shal l n
ever
s
in
g .
A so ng full
of
l ip s
And
f ar
-o
ff
washes
A song full
of lo
s t
Hours
in
th e
sha
dow
A
so
ng of a star tha t s a l iv e
And endur i ng day .
lh 11· Lorca ,
Wh n I tran s
la te
one of
yo
ur poems and I
11 1111 a ross words I do
not understand,
I al-
w11 \
guess at
their
meanings . I
am
inevi tably
1 A rea l ly perfect poem (no one yet
ha
s
w
l n
one)
could be
perf
e
ctly
t ranslated by
11
pvr
son
who
did not know one word of the
l Huage i t was
writt
en in. A rea l l y per f ect
1111•
h
as
an inf initely smal voc
abular
y.
I t
is very
diff icul t . W want
to
t rans-
i t 1 he immediate object,
the imm
e
diat
e e
mo-
1 Ion
to the
poem - - a nd ye t
the
immediate
1
1I1
v:tys
has hundreds
of i t s
ciwn
words clinging
i t ,
short-lived
and tenacious as barnacles .
11
I i.t is wrong to scrape them off
and sub-
l I ute others. A poet
is
a
tim
e m
ec
hanic
1111t
a n embalmer. The words
around th
e imme-
oll s hrivel and
decay
l ike
flesh
around the
l1ody . No mummy-sheet of trad i
t ion
can be use d
s top the
process
. Obj e
cts,
words must be
I 1• I across
time
not pres e
rved a
$ ain s t i t .
ye l l "Shit" down a c l i f f at an
ocean
.
v
•n
in
my
l ifetime
the immediacy of that word
¥ I IJ fade. I t will be dea d as "Alas . But i f
I put the
real
c l i f f
and
the r ea l
ocean
into
t
' poem,
th
e word
"Shit"
wi l
1
r ide
along with
th •
m
travel
the
ti me -machine unti l c l i f f s and
ns di
sap
pe ar .
Mos t of my
f r i
ends lik e words
too
we l l .
y
se
t th em under the bl i
ndin
g l
ight
of th e
pt ·m and t r y to extract eve r y pos s
ib l
e conno-
l
1
io n from
each
of
th e
m
ever y t emporar y pun,
1 ry direct or indirect connectio n --
as
i f
i 1vord could become an object by mere addition
I r consequences . Others
pick
up words from
th s t r ee t s , from
th e
i r bar s , from their
11ffic es and display th em pr o
udl
y in th e i r
IHJ ms
as
i f they were shouting , See what I
ltnv
e co l l
ec
t ed from
th
e Am
er
ican langu
age
.
at
my
butt
er
f l i es
,
my
s t amps , my old
•,h
e s "
What
do
es
one do
with
a
l l
this
crap?
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
13/35
:
Words
ar
e wha t
st icks
to th e
real
W
th em t o pus h th e real t o dr ag th e re I .e use
th e poe m. They are wha t we ho
ld
on w: thrnto
e l se . They ar e as va luable in th e
m
se ves as rope with no th i ng to be t ied t o .
--
the pe r f ec t poem has an
i n
fi
ni t e l y smal l
voca
bu lary.
Lov
e ,
Jack
J
THE
B LL
AD OF
THE
DE D WOODCUTTER
A
Tr
ansl a
t ion fo
r
Lou is
Marbur y
\
•
a
us
e
th
e f i gt r ee was sapl ess
I t
has cracked at the root .
Oh, y
ou have
f a l len
down
on y
our
head
u have fa l l en on your
head.
\ ca us e the oaktree was root less
has cracked a t th e
br
anch .
Oh, you have fal len
down
on your head
u have fal len on
your
h
ea
d .
II Caus e I walked thr ough the bran ches
I
ha
ve scr
a tched out my heart .
(
h
you have
fal len
do
wn
on y
our
he
ad
You have fa l l en on your head .
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
14/35
TH
E B LLAD OF WEE PI NG
A Tr ansl at io n for Bob Conn
or
I have
closed
my wi ndow
Because
I do not want to hear the weep
in
g
But behind th e gray wa l l s
Nothing can be hear d but w
ee
ping.
A few dogs
mi
g
ht
b
ark
A few ange
ls mi
ght s in g
Th er e mi ght be room f or a
thou
sand
violin
s i n
t he palm
of
my hand.
But
the
weeping
i s
a
bi g
do g
The
we
epin
g
i s a
bi
g
ange l
Th
e
w
eeping
is
a
big
v
iolin
Th e
t ears put
a
mu
zzl e on
th e
a i r
nd
nothing
can
be heard but
w
ee
pin g .
LB
A
Transla
t i o n f or Russ
Fi
t
zgera ld
ff your hand had bee n meaningl ess
ot a s i ngle blade
of
gras s
Wuld sp r
in
g fr
om th
e ea
rth
s sur f
ac e
.
ilas y t o wr i t e , t o ki s s
--
No I sai d
re a
d your paper
Ue th er e
Li ke the earth
en sha
dow
cov ers th e wet gras s .
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
15/35
SONG OF
THE
POOR
A Translation
Ay que trabajo
me
cues ta
quererte como
te quiero
Because I love you
the
table
And
the
heart
and
th
e l a
mplight
Feel
sorry
for m e .
Who
buy from me
That small
be
l t
I have
And th at sadness of white thread
To w
ea
ve handke
rchi
efs?
Because
I l ove you the
ceiling
And the
h
ea r t
and the
air
Feel sorry for me.
Ay que t r a
bajo
me cuesta
querer te
como te
quiero
ODE
FOR WALT
WHITMAN
A
Translation for
Steve Jonas
Along
Eas
t
River
and the Bronx
Th e kids were singing, showing
off
thei r bodies
At the
wheel,
at
oi l
the rawhide, and the hammer.
N
Ln
e ty thousand miners were drawing
si lver out of
boulders
While c
hildre
n made
perspective drawings of s ta i r
-
ways .
llut no one went to sleep
No
one wanted to be a
r iver
No
one lo ved the big l
eave
s , no one
Th e blue tongue of th e coas t l in e .
Along East Ri ver
into
Que ens
Th e kids were
wrestling
with industry.
Th
e
Jews
sold
circumcision
' s
ro se
l o the faun of th e river .
l'he s ky flowed through the bridges and roof tops- -
r ds of
buffalo
the wind was pushing.
Bu t none
of
them would st ay .
No one
wanted
to
be
a cloud.
No
one
I
oked for th e
ferns
()r th e y
ello
w wheel of
th
e drum.
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
16/35
But i f th e moon com es out
Th e pull eys wi l l s l i d e ar ound to
disturb
th e sky
A
l imit of
n
ee dl
es
will
f ence
in your
memory
And
ther e will
be
coffins to carry
out your
un employe
d.
Ne
w Yor k of mud,
New Y
ork
of
wi r
e fen
ces
and d
ea
th
hat angel
do
you
ca
r r y hi dden
in your cheek
?
h
a t pe r f ect vo ic e will t e l l you
th
e
t ruth
about
whea
t
Or the
terr ibl
e s l
ee
p of yo ur we
t-dream
ed anemone s
Not for one moment beauti f ul old W l t Whitm an
Have I stopp ed see
in
g yo ur b
ea
rd full of
butt
e
r f l
i
Or your shoulders of cordur oy worn
Or your muscle s of a v i r
gi
n Ap
o ll
o
Or yo ur v
oi
ce lik e a co lumn of as hes
An
c i e
nt
and b
ea
ut
i f
ul as
th
e f
og.
You gave
a c
ry
l i ke a
bi
rd
With
his
pri ck pi erced th ro ugh by a nee dl e
En emy of sa t yrs
Enem
y of th e gr ape
And lov
er of bodi
es
under
ro
ugh c
loth.
Not for one
mo
ment t ig
ht-c
ocked bea ut y ,
Who in mo
unt
a in s of coa
l
adv er t i sements
ro ads
llad dreamed of be
in
g a r
iver
and of sl ee pi ng l ik e
one
With a par t icu lar comrade, one
who
co
uld
put in
your bosom
The young pain of an i gnorant l eopard .
Not fo r on e mome
nt
blood-Adam, mal e ,
a
n a
lon
e
in th
e
se a
beautiful
Old Walt Whitm an.
Beca
us
e on th e rooftop s
Bu
nched
to
ge
ther
i n
bars
Po ur
in
g o
ut
i n cl u s t ers from t oi l e t s
be
tw
een th e l egs
of
t ax i
-d
r iv ers
Or
spinnin
g upon
pl
a
tform
s of whi skey
The
coc
ksuck
er s
W
l t
Whitman,
we
r e c
ount
i ng on y
ou.
l ha t one a l
so
, a l so. And th ey •. h r ow th em
se
1
ves
dow n on
ur
burnin
g vi r gin bea rd
lllonds
of
t he
No
r th negr oes fr o m th e s eas hor e ,
Crowds of s hout s and
ges
tu
res
Like ca t s or snakes
l he
cocksuckers
, W
l t
\ /hi t
ma n
th e co
cks
uckers ,
Nuddy wi th t
ears
, m
ea
t for
th
e wh ip ,
I
oth or boo t of th e cowboys .
l hat
one
a l so , a l
so
. Pain t ed
f i
ngers
• prou t out a l ong t he beach
of yo
ur
drea
ms
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
17/35
And you giv a f r i end an appl e
h i c h t a s t es
faintly of
ga
s-fumes
And th
e sun sings a song for the bel l
ybuttons
Of t he l i t t
le
bo ys
who
play gam
es
below br i dg es.
But you we r en t looking for th e scratched eyes
Or th e bl ack swa
mp-countr
y wher e
childr
en ar e
sinkin
g
Or
th e
fr o
zen
spit
Or th e wounded ur
v s l ike
a
to
ad s paunch
Which c
ocks
uck
ers
wea r
in bars
and n ig ht - c l u
bs
the moon b
ea ts
th em al ong th e co rner s of
t err
or.
You wer e
lookin
g f
or
a naked man
wh
o
a r i ver
Bul l and dr eam a conn
ec t i
on bet wee n
t he seaw ee d,
Be f a th er f or yo ur agony,
your
d
ea
th s came
l ia
And
mo
an i n
th
e
f l
am
es
of your hidden equa
to r
.
Fo r it
is
ju s t th at a man not
In th e f
ores
t
of
bl
oo
d of th e
fo
l l owing mo
rn i
ng.
Th e sky
coas
t l in es
And some bodies mu st not r e
pea
t themsel
ves
a t
s unr ise .
Agony , agon y , dream , l eaven, and dr
eam
.
That is th e world , my friend , agony , agony .
The dead decompose th em
se
l ves under th e cl o ck
of
t he
ci t ies
.
Wr ent er s weep ing , with a mi l l
io
n gray
rats
.
The r i ch g
iv
e to th
eir
g i r l
fr ie
nds
Ti ny i l lum i nat ed dyi n
gs
And l
ife
i s not nobl e, or good, or sacr ed.
A
man
is
a
bl
e i f he
wi
sh
es
t o l
ea
d h
is
d
es
i r e
Thro ugh v in of cora l or the cel es t ia l naked.
;rom
orro
w
his
l
oves
wi l l be
ro c
k and
Ti
me
A bree ze
that com
es s l
eep in
g
th ro
ugh
th ei
r c l
us
t
ers
.
That is why I do not
cry
out , o ld W
l t
Whitma
n,
Aga ins t the
l i t t l
e boy who w
r i
t es
f
gi r
l
s name on his
pi l l
ow,
r t he ki d who put s on a dr ess
In t he
darkness
of a
cl
ose t
r
th
e lo nely
men
i n
bars
ho dr in k wi
th
sickness th e wa t ers of
prost i tu t io
n
Or
th
e men
wi
th
gr
ee
n eyel
ids
W
o lov
e men and scald th
eir
l ip s
in
s i l en
ce
,
u t agains t th e re s t of you, cocksucker s of ci t ie s ,
ll
ar d-up and dirty - brained,
Mot her s of mud, harpi es ,
dr
eamless ene
mi
es
Of
th
e Love
th
a t dis t
r ibut es
cr own s of g
ladne
ss .
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
18/35
Against
the res t of
you
always who
give
Drippings of sucked-off dea th wi th sour poison.
Against
the
rest
of yo
u always
Fai
r ies of
Nor
th America
Pajaros
of
Havana,
Joto
s of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cadiz
Apios of Sevil le
Cancos
of Madrid
Adelaidas of Portuga l
Cocksuckers
of al l
th e
world
assassins
of
Slaves of wome
n
l
apdogs
of thei r dr essi ng
Op
e
nin
g their
flys in parks with
a
fever
of fa ns
Or ambushed i n th e rigid l and
scapes
of poison .
Let
th ere be no mercy . Dea th
Trickl es from al l
of
your eyes
,
groups
I ts
e l f l ike
gray
flowers on
beaches
of mud.
Let th
ere be no mercy. Watch ou t for th em .
Let th e bewildered , th e pure ,
The
classical
the
appointed the
praying
Lock
the
of
th is
Bacchanalia.
And
yo
u ,
beautiful
Walt \ lhitman, sleep on t
he
ba
of tn e Hudson
With your beard toward the po l e and
yo
ur pa lm s o
Soft cla
y
or
snow, yo ur t ongue
is
invoking
C 1nrades to keep vigil
over
your
gazelle
without
body .
l
ee p
th e
re is
nothing
lef t
here.
A
dance
of
walls shakes
across the
prair ies
And America drowns
i t se l f
with machines and weeping.
I
t the hard
air
of
midnight
, away
al l th
e flowers and le t ters
from
the
ar c
h
in
which you sleep
And a l i t t l e black boy
announce to
the
white
men
of
g
ol
d
l h
c
arr iva
l
of the reign
of
the
ear of
wheat
.
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
19/35
AQUATIC PARK
A
Tr
ansl at ion for
Jack
Sp i cer
A gr
ee
n boat
Fi shing i n blu e wa ter
Th
e g
ull
s
c ir
cl e th e pier
Ca l l in
g th e i r hunger
A wind
r is
es from th e wes t
Li ke th e
pa
ss
in
g of de
s ir
e
Tw
o boys pl ay on th e bea ch
Laughin g
Thei r gang l in g l egs . cas t sha dow s
On
th
e we t s
and
The
n
Sprawl i ng
in
th e b
oa
t
A beauti f ul bl ac k f is h.
F EST
A Tr ansl at i on for Joe Dunn
Yo
u want me t o t e l l you
The
se cr
et of
sp
r i n g
time
And I r el at e to
that se cr
et
Like a hi gh-branching f i r t r ee
Wh
ose thou sand l i t t l e f inger s
Point a thou
sa
nd l i t t l e r oads .
wi l l t e l l you never my love ,
Because th e r i ve r run s s l owly
Bu t I sha l l put i nto my branching voice
J he as hy sky
of
your gaze .
Tur
n me ar o
und
brown
child
Be ca r ef
ul
of my needl
es
.
Turn me ar ound and a round i l ay ing
At th e we
l l
pump 6f l ove .
Th
e se cr et of spr in gt i me . How
wish I co
ul
d t e l l you
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
20/35
Dear
Lorca,
I would
l ike to mak
e poems
out of real
objects.
The lemon to
be
a lemon
that
the read -
er could cut
or
squee
ze
or
taste -- a
real
lemon
l ik
e a newspaper in a collage is a real newspaper
I would l ike the
moon
in
my
poems
to
be a real
moon, one which could be suddenly covered with a
cloud
th
at
has
nothing
to do
with the poem
--
a
moon
ut ter l
y independent of
images.
The imagi-
nation
pictures
are real . I would
l ike
to poin t
to the real, disclose i t to
make a
poem that
no sound in
i t
but the
pointing of a
finger.
e
have
both
tr ied
to be independent
of
i mages (you the s tar t and I only when I
gre
old
enough
to
t i r e of trying
to
make things con-
nect) , to
make things
visible
rather than to
ma
k
pictures
· of them phantasia non imaginari).
easy i t
is
in
erotic
musings or in the truer
imagination of a dream to invent a beautiful boy,
How dif f icu l t to take a boy
in
a blu e bathing
suit th a t I have watched as casuall y as a t ree
and
to
make him visible
in
a poem
as
a t ree
i s
visible, not
as an image
or
a p i
cture
but
as
some thing al ive
--
caught forever in the struc-
tur e of words . Live moons, l iv e
lemons, l ive
boys
in bathing su i ts .
The poem is a
collage
of
th e real.
But
thin
gs
d
ecay
,
reason argues
.
become
garbage
. The piece of l emon yo u she l lac
t o
th
e canvas begins to d
eve lop
a mol d, th e new s
paper
t
ells
of
incredibly
ancien
t
events
in
for-
gotte n
sla
ng,
th
e bo y becomes a
gr a
ndfather . Ye
but the garbage of th e real s t i l l reaches out
i nto th e current world making i t s
objects,
in
turn,
visibl e
--
l
emo
n
ca l l
s
to - l
emo
n,
newspape r
to
newspaper, boy
to
boy. s thing s decay they
bring th eir equivalents into bei ng.
Things
do not connect; they correspond.
rhat
is what makes
i t possible
for a poet to t ranslate
real
objects,
to bring them across languag e
as
easi
ly
as he can bring them across time.
That
t ree you saw
in
Spain is a t ree I could never have
seen in
California,
that lemon
has
a different
sme l l
and a different
tas t
e ,
BUT
the answer
is
this --
every place and every time
has
a real ob-
je c t to correspond with your real object -- th a t
lemon may become th is lemon, or i t may
even
be -
come this piece of seaweed, or this part icular
co
lor of
gray
in
th is
ocean. One does not need
to
imagine
that
lemon;
one
needs to discov
er
i t
.
Even
these le t ters
. They
correspond
with
s
omething
I don t know
what) that
you
have writ-
ten perhaps as
unapparently
as that
lemon
corre-
s p
onds to
this piece of seaweed)
and, in turn,
some
future poet will write som
e
thing
wh
ic
h
orresponds
to
th
em.
That
is
how we dead men
wri
te to
each
other.
Lov
e ,
J
ac
k
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
21/35
N RCI SS US
A Translation for Basil King
Poor Narcissus
Your dim
fragrance
nd th e dim h
ea
r t of the river
I want
to stay
at your edge
Flower of
love
Poor
Narcissus
Nipp l
es and sleeping f ish
Cross your whit
e
eyes
So ngbirds and
but te rf l
ies
Japanese mine
I so
t a l l
b
es
ide you
Flower of
lov
e
Poor
Narciss
us
How wide-awake the frogs are
They won t stay
out of
th e su r face
In
whi ch you r madness a nd
my
madn
ess
Mirrors
i t se l f
Poor
Narcissu
s
My sorrow
Se l f of my
sorrow.
HE DIED T SUNRISE
A
Tr
anslation for Allen Joyce
NL
ght of
four
moons
nd a single tre
e
WLth a s ing l e shadow
A
nd
a single bird .
look into
my body
for
Th e
tracks
of your l ips
A s
tream
kisses th e wind
i
thou
t
touch.
ca
rry t he
No
you
ga
ve me
Cl e
nch
ed i n my palm
Like some thing made
of
wax
n a
lmo
s t-white lemon.
ight
of
four
moons
nd a single t r ee
A th e poin t
of
a nee
dl
e
s my
lov
e spinning.
•
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
22/35
B LL D OF THE
TERRIBLE
PRESENCE
A Translation for Jo e Laseur
I want the river lost from
i ts
bed
I wa
nt
the wind lost from i ts va
l leys
I want the night
to
be
th
e
re without
eyes
nd my heart without the
go
lden
flow
er
So
that
the oxen
talk
with big l
eaves
nd
the
earthworm
is de
ad
of shadow
So
that
the teeth
of th e skull glisten
nd
the
yellows
give a comple te
colour to
silk .
I can
look a t
the agony
of
wounded ni g
ht
Struggling, twisted up against noontime
I
can
stand
all
th
e
sunsets
of
g
reen poison
nd
the
wornout rainbows
that
time suffers
But don t
mak
e
your
clean body
too
visibl e
Like
a black cactus
opened
out
among
rushes
Let me go in an anguish of s tar clusters
Lose me. But don t show me that cool flesh.
B LL D OF
SLEEPING SOMEWHERE ELSE
A
Tr a
nslat ion
for
Ebbe
Borregaard
The pine
needles fal l
Like an
ax
i n the fores t
Can you h
ear
them crumbl e
There where
we are
s l
eeping?
The windows
are
close
to
the
wall
Here i n the d
ark
ness the y remain open.
(When I saw you
in
th e morning
y arms
were
full
of paper.)
Five
hundr
ed miles away
The moon is a ha tc h et of s i lv er .
(
When
I saw
yo
u
in
th
e mo
rnin
g
My eyes were full of paper )
Here th e walls are firm
They
do
not
crumble
and r emai n
certain
.
(When I saw you
in
th e
mornin
g
y hea r t was
full of
paper.)
Five hundre d miles away
The sta rs
are
gl ass
that
is br
eaking
.
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The windows sag on the wall
I feel cold glass in th e blank e ts .
Child,
you
are too t a l l
for this
bed.
The
pine needles
fa l l
Like an ax in the forest.
Can you hear th em crumble
There where
we are sleeping?
f
Dear
Lorca,
When
you had
finished
a poem what did
i t
want you
to
do with i t? Was i t happy enough
merely to exist
or did
i t demand
imperiously
that
you share i t with somebody
l ike
the
beauty
of a
beautiful
person forces him to
search the
world for
someone that can declare
th a t
beauty?
And where did
your
poems find
eople?
Some poems
are easi ly
laid. They will
give themselves to anybody and anybody phys-
ical ly
capable
can
receive
them. They
may
be
beautiful
we have both writt en some
that
were
but
they
are meretricious
. From
th
e
moment of their
conception
they inform us in
a dulce t voice
that ,
thank
yo
u,
they
can
take
ar e of themse
lves.
I
swear that i f
one
of
hem
were hidden
ben ea th my car
pet,
i t would
s
hout
out and
seduce
somebody. The quiet
poems
are
what I
worry about
-- th e ones that
must
be seduced
. They
could
t r.
jvel
abo ut
wi
th
me for years and no one notice
hem . And yet, properly wed, they are mor e
b
ea
utifu l than their
whorish
cousins .
But I am speaking of the f i rs t n ig h t when
l eave my apartment almost breathless, search-
ing
for
someone
to
show
the
poem
to.
Often
now
there
is no one .
y
fellow poets
(those
showed my poetry to
ten years
ago are
as
l i t -
l e
interested in my
poetry
as
I am
in their
s .
V e both compare
the
poems shown
(unfavorably,
of course) with the poems we were
writing
t en
yea rs ago when we could le arn from
eac
h other .
V are
pol i t e but
i t
is as i f we were trading
naps
hots
of our
children
-- old
acquaintances
who disapprove of
eac
h other s wives . Or were
u more generous, Garcia Lorca?
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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There are
the young, of course. I
have
been reduced
to
them (or my poems have) la tely.
The advantage
in
them is that they haven't yet
decided
what
kind
of poetry they
are going
to
write
tomorrow
and
are
always looking
for some
device of yours to use. Yours, tha t s the
trouble . Yours and
not the
poem s. They
read
the poem once to catch the marks of
your
style
and then again,
i f
they
are
at al l pretty, to
see i f
there
is any
reference to
them
in
the
poem .
That
s a l l . know. I
used to
do i t
myself .
When you
are in love
there is no
real prob
-
lem . The
person
you love is
always
interested
because he knows that the poems are always
aboui
him. I f only because each poem
will
someday be said to
belong
to
the
Miss X or
Mr
Y
period
of the poet s
l i fe
. I may not be a
better
poet
when I am in
love,
but I am a
far
less
frustrated
one
.
y
poems
have
an audience .
Finally there are friends. There
have only
been
two of them
in
my
l i fe who could read
my
poems and
one
of
that
two really
prefers to
put them
in
so
he
can see
them better.
The other is far away.
All th is is to explain
why
I dedicate
each
of
our
poems
to
someone.
Love,
Jack
NARCISSUS
A
Translation for
Richard
Rummond
Child,
How you keep fal l ing into rivers .
At
the
bottom
there's a rose
And in the rose there's another river.
Look at
that
bird
. Look
That yellow bird .
y
eyes have fal len
down
Into
the
water.
y God,
How they
re slipping Youngster
-- And I m
in
the rose myself .
When
I was
los t in
water I
Understood but won't te l l you.
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BALLAD OF THE DE D BOY
A Translation for Graham Mackintosh ··
Every afternoon in Granada
Every
afternoon a boy dies
Every afternoon the river s i t s
i t s e l f
down
To ta lk things over with i t s neighbours.
All
the
dead wear
wings
of
moss.
The wind and the
bright
wind
Are two pheasants
who fly around towers
And the day is a boy with a wound in him.
There
wasn t a touch
of
lark in
the
sky
When I met you at the wine cavern
Or a fragment of cloud near the earth
When you drowned on
the
river .
A giant of water went slopping
over
the
mountains
And
the spun around with dogs and l i l ies .
Your
body
with the violet
shadow
of
my hands
Was
dead
there
on the
banks an
archangel co l d .
J
SONG
FOR
SEPTEMBER
A Translation for Don Allen
In
the
distant night the children are singing:
A l i t t l e r iver
And a colored fountain
THE
CHILDREN When
will our
hearts come
back
from
your
holiday?
I: When
my
words
no longer
need me.
THE CHILDREN You have
le f t
us here to sing
the
death
of your summer
A l i t t l e river
And a colored fountain
What September flowers do you hold
in
your
hand?
I: A bloody rose and a white l i ly
THE CHILDREN Dip them in
the
water of
an
old
I:
song
A l i t t l e river
And
a colored fountain
What are you tast ing in your
thirsty mouth?
The
flavor
of the bones of my big skul l .
THE CHILDREN Drink
the
kind water of an old
song
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A l i t t l e river
And a
colored
fountain
Wh
y have you gone so very
far
from th e death of
your
summer?
I:
I
am look
i ng
for
a
magic
a l clockworkman .
THE
CHILDREN:
And how
wi l l you
find
the highway
of
poets?
I:
The fo untain and a river an d an old song.
THE CHILDREN : You are
going
very far.
I:
I am go
in
g very far ,
farth
er than my
poe
ms,
farther th an the mount
ai
ns,
far ther
than
th
e
birds
. I
am go ing to ask Christ
to
give
me
back
my childhood,
r ipe
with
s unburn and feathers
and
a wooden sword.
THE CHILDREN : You h
ave
l
ef
t
us
here to s i ng
the death of yo
ur
s
umm er
. And you will never
return.
A
l i t t l
e river
And
a color ed fountain
And
yo u will n
ever return.
BUSTER
KEAT
ON RIDES AGAIN: A SEQUEL
A Tr a n s l at ion for Th e Big Cat Up
Ther
e
BUSTER
KEATON (e
nt e
r in
g a
long dark corridor)
:
This
must be Room
73
.
PIGE
ON:
Sir
, I am a
pigeon
.
BUS
TER KEATON (taking a dict ionary out of hi s
back
poc
ke t ) : I
don t
unders tand what anybody is ta lk-
ing a
bout.
No
one
r ides
by on a
bi cyc
l e. The
corridor
is
quite s i l ent . )
PIGE
ON: I
have to
go t o the
bathr
oom.
BUSTER KEATON:
In
a mi nut e.
Two chambermaids come by car r
ying
towels. They
give one to th e pigeon
and one
t o Buster Kea
ton
)
1s t CH M E
RMAID: Wh
y do you
suppos
e
hum
an beings
have l ips?
2nd CH M E RMAID : Not hing l ike tha t ent ere d my head .
BUSTER KEATON : No . Th ere were suppose d t o be thr
ee
cham ber m
aids.
He
t
akes
out
a ch
essboard
and be
gins
p l
ayi
ng
upon
i t
. )
PIGEON : I cou ld love yo u i f I were a dove .
BUS
TER
KE
TO
N bit ing
the
chess
board
) :
When
I was
a chi ld I was put
in j i l for
not giving
informa
-
t ion
t o th e pol ic e .
3 CHAMBERMAIDS : Yes .
BUSTER
KEATO
N: I am not a Ca
tholi
c .
PI G
EON: Don t
yo u bel i eve that
God di
ed?
BUSTER
KEATON
c
ryin
g) : N
o.
4 Spanish dancer s com e in . They are mostly
ma l e . )
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1
s t
SPANISH
DA NCE
R: I have a l i t t l e
my as s .
4 Cl AMBERMAIDS :
Oh
(Bus t er Keaton forgets his po l i t eness and
becomes a Ca tholic . He takes ma ss, says
ll
o l y Mary Mother of God, and dis tr ibu t
es
rosar ie s to al l the policemen in the room.
lie hang s by his
heels
from a crucifix . )
VIRGIN MARY
(coming
in abruptl
y) :
Bust
er Keaton
yo u have bumped The Ca
r .
BUSTER
KEATON
: No .
(A l co
hol
corhes in
wearing
the
disguise
of
a coc
kro ach.
I t is blu e . I t crawls si -
l en
t l
y up Bus t er
Keaton
s le g . )
BUSTER KEATON: No
.
(A
lc
o
hol and the
Virgin Mary
perform
a
dance . They both pretend to have been
lovers.
)
BUSTER KEATON: I will never see e i th er of you
in Rockland . I am
not
go i ng to Rockla nd.
(He takes th e chess boar d and i nv e
nt
s a new
a lphab
et
. )
VIRGIN
Ho
ly
of God
Pray
For
Us Si nn er s
Now
At The Hour Of Our Death.
ALCO IOL: Dada is as dada do es .
VIRGIN MARY
D
id
. (She
fa l ls
i nto
BUSTER
KEATON: I wonder
love
in th e un iv e rse .
(Suddenly, at th
e
las t
poss ib l e
tim
e be fore
th
e cu
r ta in fa l ls ,
somebody
kisses
th e
Virgin
M
ary,
and Bus t er Keaton, and eve ry -
body. )
ALCOHOL : I f I w
er e
n t ton e
-dea
f I would si
ng.
BUSTER KEATON (sadly): I announce a new world .
(Three l i t erary
cr i t ics
di
sg
uised as
cha
mber
-
maids bring down the
curtain. Buster
Kea ton, bleeding , br
eaks
through th e cur-
ta in. He s t ands in the
middl
e of th e stage
holding a fr es h pomegranate
in
hi s arms.)
BUSTER KEATON (even more
sadly)
: I announc e
the
death of Orpheus.
(Everyone comes
in
.
Polic
emen , wa i t resses ,
and
Irene
Tav e
ner
.
Th
ey
perform
a
compli
-
ca t ed
symbolic
dance. Alcohol nibbl es at
th
e legs of
every
dancer. )
BUSTER KEATO
N (
bl eeding
profusely) : I
love
yo
u.
I
lov
e
yo
u. (As a l
ast
effo r t
he throws
the
bl eeding pomegranat e from his heart. ) No
kidding, I
lo
ve
yo
u.
VIRGIN MARY (taking him into her arms) : You
hav e bumPed th e
ca r
.
(The
ga
udy b
lu
e cur t ain, s
i l
e
nt
and
al ive
l ik
e th e mouth
of
a seagul l , cover s every -
thin
g . )
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THE B LL D OF ESC PE
A
Translation
for Nat Harden
I h
ave
become lost many
time
s a
lo n
g
th
e
ocean
With my ears
f i l led
with newly cut flowers
W th my
tongue
full
of lovin g
and
agony
I hav e become lo s t many times a long th e ocean
Like
I lo s e myself
in th
e hear t s
of so me
boys.
There is no
night
in
which i v
in
a kiss
One does not feel th e smiles of th e fac e
less
people
And there is
no
one in touching some thing rec en t
born
Who can quite
forge
t the motionl
ess
sk ulls
of
horses.
Becaus th e roses a lw
ays
search i n th e forehea d
For a
hard
l
an
dscape of bone
nd
th
e hands
of
a
man
have
no ot
h
er
pu
rpose
Than
to
be
l ike
th e roots th a t
fields.
Like I l
ose
myse l f in the hea
r t
s of some boys
I hav e become
lo
s t many
times along
the
ocean
Along the
vas tn
ess of water I wand er s earching
n end to the v s that have t r ied t o
com pl
e te
VENUS
A
Translation
for
nn
Simon
The
dead
gir l
In
the
windin
g
shel l of th
e bed
Na ked of the l i t t l e wind
and
flowers
Surges
on
into
pere
nn i
a l l ig ht.
The
world
stayed be hind
Lily of cotton and shadow.
I t pe
eked t imidly out of th e mi r
ror
Looking on at that infini te passage .
The dea d
gir l
Was eaten from inside by love.
In th
e unyi e ldingn
ess of
seafoam
She l
ost
her hair .
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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FRIDAY THE 13TH
A Translation for
Will
Holther
At the
base of
the
throat
is a
l i t t l e machine
Which makes us
able
to say
anything.
Below
i t are carpets
Red, blue, and green-colored.
I say the flesh is not
grass
.
I t is
an empty
house
In
which
there
is
nothing
But
a
l i t t l e
machine
And
big,
dark
carpets.
SONG
O TWO WINDOWS
A Translation for James Broughton
Wind, window, moon
I open the window to the sky
Wind, window, moon
I
open
the
window to
the
earth)
Then
From
the
sky
The voices
of
two gir l s .
In the middle of my mirror
A girl is drowning
The voice of a singl e gir l .
She holds cold f ire
liKe
a g
lass
Each
thin
g
sh
e watches
Has become doubl e .
Cold f i r e
is
Cold
f i r e is .
•
In
th e middl e of my mirror
A gir l is drowning
The voic e of a
singl
e gir l
A
branch of ni
ght
Enters
through
my
window
A great
dark bran
ch
With brac e l e t s of water
Behind a blu e mirror
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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So
meone i s drowning
The wounded instants
Along the clock
--
pass .
I s t i ck my h
ead out of th
e window
a nd I see a chopper of wind ready to cut
i t off
. Upon that invisible guil lotine
h
ave
mounted
th
e h
eads without eyes of
al l
my desires,
and th e odor of l e
mon
f i l l s
al l
of
th
e
in
s t ant whil e th e wind
changes to a flow er of gas .
At th e pool there has
di
ed
A gi r l of wa t er
She has pushed th e earth aside
Like a r ipe apple
Down
from her head to
her
thighs
A f is h crosses her, ca
l l in
g
soft l
y
The wind vhi spers , Darlin g
But
is un
abl e to awaken
her
The pool ho ld s l oose l y
I t s rider
of
some th ing
And in the air i t s gray nipples
Vibra t e with f
rogs
.
God, 1ve hai l you . ·e will make payments
To Our Lady
of Water
For
th
e gir l i n tlrn pool
Dead below th e r ipples .
I will
soo
n
put
at her
side
Two sma
l l go ur d
s
Because th ey
can keep afloat ,
Yes , even in water.
De
ar
Lor
ca
,
Lon e
l in ess is
necessa
ry for
pu re
poetry.
h en someone intrudes into th e
poet
' s l i fe
(a nd any sudden
personal
contact , whether
in
the bed
or
in the i s an i ntru sio n) he
loses hi
s
balance
for a momen t
sl ips
i
nto
bei ng who he is , uses
hi
s poetry
as
one would
u
se
money
or sympathy
. The person who writes
th e poe
t r
y
emerges
, t
entative
ly , l ik e a her-
mit crab from a
conch shel
l . The
poet, for
that i nsta
nt,
ceases
to
be a dead
man
.
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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I
for
exampl e ,
could
n
ot
finish th e
las t
l e
t t er
I
wa
s
writing
you
abo
ut
so
unds . You
were
lik
e a friend in a dis tant ci t y to whom
I was suddenly unabl e to write
not
bec ause
th e
fabric
of my l i f e had changed but
be cause
I was suddenly t emporari l y , not
in
the
fabric
of my
l ife.
I· could
not
t e
l l
you
about i t
b
ec a
u
se
both i t and I were momentary.
Even th e objects change . The seagulls
th e greenness
of th
e
ocean
th e
f ish --
th
ey
·
b
ec o
me
thin
gs
to be t r
aded
for
a smi l e or
the
so
und
of
conversation
--
counters
rather
than
objects . Nothing
exce
pt the big l ie
of th e personal - - th e l i e in which
th
ese ob-
j ec t s do
not
be
l i
eve .
That instant I
sai d.
I t m
ay la
s t
for
a
minute
a ni ght
or
a month, but
this
I pr o -
mi se yo
u
Garcia
Lorca
th e
lo n
e
l in
ess re turns .
The
poe
t enc
ys
ts the
intruder.
The obj ec ts
come b
ack to th eir own places
si l e
nt
and
un-
s
milin
g . I
agai
n begi n
to write
yo u a l et t er
on th e so und of a poem . And th i s
imme
dia t e
thing , th i s personal adventur e , will not have
b
ee
n
t r
an
sferre
d
into th
e
poem l ike
the waves
and th
e
birds were will
a t
best
show i n
th e
lov
e ly pat tern of
cracks
i n some poem
where a
utob iograp
hy
sha
t t
ered but did not
quite des
t r
oy th e surfac e .
nd
the encysted
emot
ion
will
i t se l f
become a n
object
,
to
be
t r
a n
sferre
d at
las t
i
nt
o
poetry
l ike
th
e waves
and
th
e
birds.
And I will agai n become
your
specia l
com
-
rad e.
L
ove
Jack
THE MOO
N
ND
L
DY DE TH
A
Translation for Helen dam
The moon h
as
mar b l e t ee th
How
old and sa d
she
looks
There is a
dry
river
There is
a hi l l
without
grass
There
is
a d
ead
oak
t r
ee
Near
a dr y river .
Lady Dea
th
wrinkled
Goes looki ng fo r custom
At
the
h
ee
l s
of
a crowd
Of t enuous phantoms .
Nea r th e dea d oak t ree
Near
th
e
dry r iver
There
is
a
fa ir
wi
th
out t rumpets
nd t
ents
made of shadow.
She
sells
th em dry pain t
Made of wax and torture
Wicked and twisted
Like
a witch in
a story .
There
is a
dry
river
There is
a
hi l l
without
There
is
a d
ead
oak
t ree
1
ear
a
dry
river.
grass
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
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The
moon
Is
tossing
money
Down through
the black a ir
.
Near the dead oak t ree
Near the
dry
river
There is a fa i r
without
trumpets
And tents
made of shadow.
AFTERNOON
A
Translation for
Jo hn Barrow
The sky asks af ternoon
for
a word.
I t
is
1:36.
A bl ack cloud
Ha s
crossed
one of
th
e white clouds .
13 empty
boats
And
a
seagull
.
The
bay
asks afternoon
for
a word .
The wind is blowing
Southwes t at nine miles an hour
I
am
in l ove with an
ocean
Whose heart is th e
colour
of wet
sand
.
At 1: 37
13 empty boats
And a
seagull
.
Afternoon
asks the
ocean
Why does a man die?
I t is 1:37
13 empty boats
And a seagull.
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D
ear
Lorca ,
Th is is the last l e t ter . Th e connection
between
us
which had bee n fading away with
the summer, is
now f in
a
l l
y broken. I turn in
anger and
dis
sat i s f
action
t o the things of my
l
j fe
and you retur
n
a disembodied but con-
t agious to the printed pag e. I t is
over th i
s intimate communion with
the
gho st
of Garcia Lorca , and I
wond
er now
how
i t was
ever able to hap pe
n.
I t was a game, I sho
ut
to
myself. A game.
Th
ere
ar e
no
an
gels
, gh
osts
or
e
ven
sha dows .
I t
was a game made
out of
summer
and freedom
and a n
ee
d
for
a
p6etr
y that would
be
more
th
an th e expr
ession
of my hatreds and des i r es .
I t was a game l ike Yeats spooks
or
Blake s
sex l
ess serap
him.
Yet
i t
was there. The poe
ms are th
e re ,
th e memory not of a vis ion but a kind
of
cas ual
friendship
with an und
ramatic
ghos t
who
occasionally loo
ked through
my eyes
and
whispered
t o me, not
rea
l l
y more important
then t han my other
friends
but now achieving
a diff er ent l eve l
of rea l i ty
by bei ng
missing.
Today, alone by
myself
i t
is lik
e having lo s t
a pai r of eyes and a l over.
at i s
real
I suppo
se
,
will
e
ndur
e .
Poe s mechanical chessp l
ayer
was not
the
l ess
a mi r
acle for
having a man i n
side
i t and
whe
n
th e man
departed
the games
i t
had played were
no
less
b
ea
ut i fu l . The a nal ogy
is
false of
course but i t
holds both a
promise
and a
warnin g for
eac
h of us.
I t is
October now.
Summer is over
.
l
-
mo
s t eve r y
trace of
the
month
s that p:\oduced
th
ese
poems has
been obli tera
t ed . Onl
} . ex
-
planatio ns are
possib
l e only
Saying goodbye
to
a
ghost is
more f inal
than
say ing goodb
ye
to a
lover.
Even
th
e
dead return but a gho s
t
once
loved depart-
ing wil 1 nev er reappear.
Lov e
Jack
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
34/35
R D R
A Postscript for Marianne Moor e
No one exactly
knows
Exactly
how
clouds ,
look
in the sky
Or the shape
of the
mountain s below them
Or the direction in
which
fish
swim.
No one
exactly
knows .
The eye
is jealous of whatever
moves
nd th
e
heart
Is too far buried in the sand
To
t e
l l
.
Th ey
are
going
on a
journey
Those deep
blue creatures
Passing
us as
i they were sunshine
Look
Those f
ins
, tho
se
c lo
se
d
eyes
Admiring
ea c
h l as t drop of
th
e ocean .
I
crawled into
bed with sor row
that
n ight
Couldn t t
ouc
h
hi
s i ngers .
See th
e splash
Of th e water
Th e no
isy
movement of c
loud
Th e push
of
th e humpbacked
mountains
Dee p at the sa nd s edge
8/17/2019 After Lorca Jack Spicer
35/35