The name of redeemer from mirrors

Forough Farrokhzad

Forugh Farrokhzād (Persian: فروغ فرخزاد) (January,1935-February 13,1967 was an Iranian poet and film director. Forugh Farrokhzad is arguably Iran's most significant female poet of the twentieth century. She was a brilliant modernist poet and an iconoclast.

Forugh (also spelled as Forough) was born in Tehran to career military officer Colonel Mohammad Bagher Farrokhzad and his wife Touran Vaziri-Tabar in 1935. She was the third of seven children (Amir, Massoud, Mehrdad, Fereydon, Pouran, Gloria) and attended school until the ninth grade, then learning painting and sewing at a girl's school for the manual arts. At age sixteen or seventeen she was married to Parviz Shapour , an acclaimed satirist. Forugh continued her education with classes in painting and sewing and moved with her husband to Ahvaz. A year later, she had her only child, a son named Kāmyār (subject of A Poem for You).

Within two years, in 1954, Forough and her husband divorced. Parviz won custody of the child. She moved back to Tehran to write poetry and published her first volume, entitled The Captive, in 1955.

Forough, as a female divorcée writing controversial poetry with a strong feminine voice, became the focus of much negative attention and open disapproval. In 1958 she spent nine months in Europe and met film-maker/writer Ebrahim Golstan, who inspired her to express herself and live independently. She published two more volumes, The Wall and The Rebellion before going to
Tabriz to make a film about Iranians affected by leprosy.

This 1962 film was called This House is Black and won awards world-wide. During 12 days of shooting, she became attached to Hossein Mansouri, the child of two lepers, whom she adopted and had live in her mother's house.

In 1963 she published the volume Another Birth and by now her poetry was mature and sophisticated, also being a profound change from previous modern Iranian poetic conventions.
On February 13, 1967, at 4:30 pm, Forough died in a car accident at age thirty-two. In order to avoid hitting a school bus, she swerved her Jeep, which hit a stone wall; she died before reaching the hospital. Her poem 'Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season' was published posthumously and is considered the best-structured modern poem in poetry.

A brief literary biography of Forough, Michael Hillmann's A lonely woman: Forough Farrokhzad and her poetry, was published in 1987. Also about her is a chapter in Farzaneh Milani's work Veils and words: the emerging voices of Iranian women writers (1992). She is the sister of the singer, poet and political activist Fereydoon Farrokhzad (1936 — 1992; assassinated in Bonn, Germany. Translations into English include those by Sholeh Wolpe, The Sad Little Fairy Maryam Dilmagahani , Sin: Selected poems of Forough Farrokhzad. Nasser Saffarian has directed three documentaries on her; The Mirror of the Soul (2000), The Green Cold (2003), and Summit of the Wave (2004).


Some of her poems

Another Birth
My entire soul is a murky verse
Reiterating you within itself
Carrying you to the dawn of eternal burstings and blossomings
In this verse, I sighed you, AH!
In this verse,
I grafted you to trees, water and fire
Perhaps life is
A long street along which a woman
With a basket passes every day
Perhaps life
Is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
Perhaps life is a child returning home from school
Perhaps life is the lighting of a cigarette
Between the lethargic intervals of two lovemakings
Or the puzzled passage of a passerby
Tipping his hat
Saying good morning to another passerby with a vacant smile

Perhaps life is that blocked moment
When my look destroys itself in the pupils of your eyes
And in this there is a sense
Which I will mingle with the perception of the moon
And the reception of darkness
In a room the size of one solitude
My heart
The size of one love
Looks at the simple pretexts of its own happiness,

At the pretty withering of flowers in the flower pots
At the sapling you planted in our flowerbed
At the songs of the canaries
Who sing the size of one window.

Ah
This is my lot
This is my lot
My lot
Is a sky, which the dropping of a curtain seizes from me
My lot is going down an abandoned stairway
And joining with something in decay and nostalgia
My lot is a cheerless walk in the garden of memories
And dying in the sorrow of a voice that tells me:
"I love
Your hands"

I will plant my hands in the flowerbed
I will sprout, I know, I know, I know
And the sparrows will lay eggs
In the hollows of my inky fingers
I will hang a pair of earrings of red twin cherries
Round my ears
I will put dahlia petals on my nails
There is an alley
Where the boys who were once in love with me,
With those disheveled hairs, thin necks and gaunt legs
Still think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
Who was one night blown away by the wind
There is an alley which my heart
Has stolen from places of my childhood
The journey of a volume along the line of time
And impregnating the barren line of time with a volume
A volume conscious of an image
Returning from the feast of a mirror

This is the way
Someone dies
And someone remains
No fisherman will catch pearls
From a little stream flowing into a ditch

I
Know a sad little mermaid
Dwelling in the ocean
Softly, gently blowing
Her heart into a wooden flute
A sad little mermaid
Who dies with a kiss at night
And is born again with another kiss at dawn

Window

A window to see,

A window to hear,

A round window like an unending well:

It should reach to the core of the earth.

And should release into that kind, blue, even air.

A window that loads lonely little hands

by the nocturnal scent of the generous stars.

A window that invites the sun

to the glacial exile of blooms.

A window is enough for me.

I am coming from the land of puppets

And from the shade of painted trees

in the printed gardens of the fiction books.

And from the arid season of thrills of romance,

From deserted lanes of innocence,

From the years of pastel faced letters.


I am coming from behind bench of a tired class.

And from that confusing time

whilst I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board

and terrified birds fled from the cracking branches of the trees.


I arrive from beneath roots of the carnivorous trees,

And my mind is still filled by the fearful calls

of dried butterflies,

under heavy volume of blank, aged books.

When my trust was hung from the frail justice line of the town,

And in the roads, they were cutting the head of my torch,

When they had blind folded innocent eyes of my love,

When fresh blood erupted from all veins of my shaking dreams,

And when my life was nothing but the regular song of the grandfather clock,

I realized that I had to love,

I had to love madly.

A window is enough for me.

A window to the instance of insight, sight and peace,

Now that little walnut tree is so grown, grown, so grown,

that it can narrate the tale of wall

to its young leaves.



Ask the name of redeemer from mirrors:

You see,

This trembling ground underneath your feet

is lonelier than you.


The verdict of ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes,

And those infected clouds and incessant blasts perhaps,

flow from those sacred words.



My friend!

Don’t forget,

When you land on the moon,

engrave the date of the carnage of the blooms

on its sad, pale, wrinkled face.


Dreams always fall from their naive heights and die,

And on the soil, where old beliefs silently rest,

a little plant, with four tiny leaves, constantly grows.

I smell this plant.


A woman was buried in the chaste coffin of her hope.

Is she my young days?

A gentle god was taking nightly walks,

in the fresh air of the roofs.

Will I climb again, climb again

the curious steepness of the stairs

to greet him?


I feel that the time had left.

I feel that my share of instant is planted in the past.

I feel that this stand is just a virtual room between my hairs

and the hands of this sad, strange guest.


Talk to me,

I donate you all that kindness of streaming life

I expect you nothing but the reflection of its truth.

Talk to me,

You see,

In the shelter of my window,

I am attached to the sun.


Regret
Note : It is from her first published book.

Thou left me, Ô still naïve me,

I don’t believe this spite of thee.

I had faith in thy love like a prayer

Now I can not trust any other lover.


Thou left and gone with thee, my hope and bliss

Why would I yearn yet rapture of thy kiss?

Sure, I still long for thy love, by patience

In this bitter darkness, callous silence.

Remember that mad woman who rest

One long night, on thy shielding chest?

Engulfed by love, her trembling lips heaved a sigh

Desire laughed in her glistening eye.

“She was thirsty, dampened by thy burning lip,

She recited then her plea, her sheer worship.

Coiled around thy waist like twines of vines,

Ô those shimmering arms, in the moon light lines.”

“All tales of love, whispered to her

In her lone soul, they will linger,

But what remained from that wondrous night?

The strings of vines, dried; the moon light, died.”


Alas, thou left with haste and disregard!

I adored thee, how could thou depart?

Hey Judas! Return, I will hold thee tight

I want to lodge thee in my blazing heart!


The Gift

I am talking about the extremes of darkness

and from the edge of night.

I am talking about the thickness of absolute shade.


My darling!

If you are coming to my place

Bring me a torch

and put up for me

a little window

I will then watch

the noisy crowd of the happy lane.


Friday


My silent Friday,

My deserted Friday,

My Friday: sad, like old abandoned lanes.


My Friday:

The cold day of ailing, idle thoughts,

Moist day of long, evil bore,

loaded with grief,

grief for my faith, for my hope,

Oh, my Friday, this renouncing day…


Oh, this empty room,

Oh, this gloomy house…


These isolating walls from attacks of youth,

These collapsing roofs on my slight daydream of light,

In this place of lone, reflection and doubt,

In this space of shade, text, image and sign.


My life, like a mysterious river,

streamed into those silent, deserted days,

so calmly with a lot of pride.


My life, like a mysterious river,

Streamed into those empty, gloomy rooms,

so calmly with a lot of pride.


The Wave


To me you are a wave

never here, never there,

you are nowhere!

hurling, dragging, diffuse like a plague,

You're on the go for somewhere vague.


To me you are a revolting tide in an eternal glide:

Persistent, impatient, though restless and confused

silent in your heart, fretful in your acts.

The sea of regret is your native land.


Yes, you are a revolting tide!

So always on the ride,

in an eternal glide...


One night

I will wear a mask

made of the thirst of remote shores

And I’ll capture you in my absorbing sands,

eternally away from your naval native lands

Singing the Zion of her ancestors.

Rose Ausländer

Rose Ausländer, a German-speaking Jewish poet from Czernowitz/Bukovina who spent much of her life in exile in the United States and Germany, wrote that her true home was the word itself. Her poem Mutterland (Motherland) distinguishes between national identity and individual identity which is informed by language: “My fatherland is dead/they have buried it/in fire./I live/in my motherland/word” (Mein Vaterland ist tot/sie haben es begraben/im Feuer/Ich lebe/in meinem Mutterland/Wort).

Ausländer is known for her crystalline poems describing the natural wonders of the world, such as stars, butterflies and flowers, as well as her experiences in the Czernowitz ghetto during World War II and the Shoah, her life in exile, her travels through Europe, and her relationship to family and friends.

While her early poems are tightly structured and rhymed, her later poetry is influenced by the modern rhythms of free verse which she encountered while reading modern poetry during her exile in the United States and in her meetings with Paul Celan (Paul Antschel 1920–1970). She also translated Yiddish poems by Itzik Manger (1901–1969) into German and German poems by Else Lasker-Schüler and Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855) into English.

From 1948 to 1956, while in exile in New York, she wrote approximately thirty poems in English. Ausländer dedicated many of her poems to those who had inspired her personal philosophy and writing, such as the writers Heinrich Heine, Annette von Droste-Hülshoff, Rainer Maria Rilke, Georg Trakl and Marie Luise Kaschnitz, as well as the philosopher Constantin Brunner (1862–1937).

Ausländer’s lifetime correspondence with Brunner began when she sent him one of her early poems, Niagara Falls I. Upon receiving it Brunner replied that he had been standing in spirit with Ausländer before Niagara Falls (Ed. Braun, p. 5). Brunner’s death moved Ausländer to write the poem “Constantin Brunner In Memoriam,” which laments the loss of her long-time mentor yet ends on a hopeful note: “He is not dead, and his words float/in the space of the soul above our life” (“Er ist nicht tot, und seine Worte schweben/im Raum des Geistes über unserem Leben;” Ed. Braun, p. 191).

Rosalie Beatrice Scherzer was born May 11, 1901 in Czernowitz/Bukovina (Chernovtsy), at that time part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, into an assimilated German-speaking Jewish family. She had one brother, Maximilian (1906–1993), who lived in Czernowitz until 1945 and then in Satu Mare until 1963, when he emigrated with his wife and two children to New York. Her father Sigmund Scherzer (1872–1920) was a salesman who in his youth had been educated to become a rabbi at the court of the Rabbi of Sadgora. Ausländer’s mother Etie Rifke (Binder) Scherzer (1884–1947), originally from Berlin, maintained a close relationship with her daughter, a bond described in Ausländer’s poetry.

From childhood on, Ausländer wrote about Jewish traditions in poems such as Sadagorer Chassid, Sabbat II, Ur, and an untitled poem in which she relates her own experiences of forced exile to the history of the Jewish people: “I/Moses-daughter/wander through the desert/A song/I hear/sand and stones weep/starvation” (Ich/Mosestochter/wandel durch die Wüste//Ein Lied/Ich hör/Sand und Steine weinen/Hungersnot) (Vogel and Gans, p. 44).

Ausländer also captured the landscape and culture of Czernowitz and the Bukovina in her poems Dorf in der Bukowina (Village in the Bukovina), Heimatstadt Czernowitz (Hometown Czernowitz), and Czernowitz vor dem Zweiten Weltkrieg (Czernowitz before the Second World War), a poem that recalls her idyllic childhood and the multiple cultures and languages coexisting in this geographic area: “Vier Sprachen/verständigen sich/Viele Dichter blühten dort auf/deutsche jiddische Verse/verwöhnten die Luft//Bis Bomben fielen/atmete glücklich die Stadt” (Four languages/communicate/Many poets blossomed there/German Yiddish verses/graced the air/Until bombs fell/the city breathed happily” (Vogel and Gans, p. 33).

From 1907 to 1919 Ausländer attended the Volksschule and the Lyzeum Czernowitz. Due to the war she lived and attended school in Vienna from 1916 to 1918. After receiving her high school diploma in Czernowitz in 1919 she went on to study literature and philosophy at the city’s university. In 1920 her father’s death prompted her to emigrate the following year to Minneapolis/St. Paul and Winona in the US together with Ignaz Ausländer, later her husband.

For the next two years Rose Ausländer was assistant editor of the magazine Westlicher Herold and editor of the calendar anthology American Herold (until 1927). Her first poems were also published during this time. In 1923 she moved to New York, where she worked as a bank employee, and on October 19 married Ignaz Ausländer, who managed an automobile garage in New York. In 1926 Ausländer received her American citizenship and became co-founder of the Constantin-Brunner-Circle in New York.

At the end of 1926 Ausländer traveled to Czernowitz and separated from her husband, whom she divorced on May 8, 1930. In 1927 she spent one month visiting Constantin Brunner in Berlin after which she returned to Czernowitz in 1928 to take care of her ailing mother. At the end of 1928 she returned to New York with Helios Hecht, a graphologist, journalist and magazine editor, with whom she lived until 1935.

During the first months of 1931 she returned to Czernowitz, where she published poems in newspapers, magazines and anthologies, while working as a journalist, translator and English instructor. In 1934 she lost her American citizenship because she had been out of the country for more than three years. After 1935, when she separated from Hecht, she lived mainly in Bucharest, working at a chemical factory. In 1939, when her first book Der Regenbogen (The Rainbow) was published in Czernowitz with the support of her mentor Alfred Margul-Sperber, a company secretary at the Bowery Savings Bank, she traveled to Paris and New York.

From 1941 to spring of 1944 German troops occupied Czernowitz and Ausländer was forced to live in the Jewish ghetto of the city. Her collection of poems, Ghettomotive (Ghetto Motifs), describes her experience of horror during the Shoah. After the ghetto was dissolved, she was no longer able to leave the city and was forced to labor and hide in cellars to escape deportation and death.

Of this experience she writes in the poem Mit giftblauem Feuer (With Poison-Blue Fire): “Wir stiegen in den Keller, er roch nach Gruft./Treue Ratten tanzten mit unsern Nerven” (“We descended into the cellar, it smelled like a tomb./Loyal rats danced with our nerves”). Ausländer expressed her need to write as a means of survival during this traumatic time: “And while we waited for death, some of us lived in dream-words, our traumatized home in the homelessness. Writing was life. Survival” (Vogel and Gans, p. 84).

Of the sixty thousand Jews who had lived in Czernowitz, only five thousand survived the Shoah (Braun, ed. Vol. 1, 1985, p. 10). Erwachen (Awake) describes the Shoah: “I observe/the building/of a gigantic gallows/for me/and/my people” (Ich beobachte/den Bau/gigantischer Galgen/für mich/und/mein Volk). In a later poem, Phönix (Phoenix), she portrays the Jewish people as having risen from the ashes of the Shoah: “Phönix/mein Volk/das verbrannte/auferstanden […]” (Phoenix/my people/the burned/arisen/[…]).

When the Russians occupied the Bukovina in the spring of 1944 the Jews were liberated, enabling Ausländer to work in Czernowitz’s town library. In August 1946 she traveled to Bucharest from where she emigrated to New York the following month in the hope of also obtaining a visa for her mother, her brother and his family. The news of her mother’s death in 1947 in Satu Mare, Romania caused Ausländer to have a physical and psychological breakdown, after which she was ill for a year (Braun, ed. Vol. 1, 1985, p. 12).

She wrote numerous poems about her devotion to her mother, even after her death, as documented in the poem Die Mutter (The Mother): “Oh that the dead rise in us/ and always absolutely live in us./How did she enter, the mother, layer upon layer?/I am her shadow and she my light” (O daß die Toten sich in uns erheben/und immer unbedingter in uns leben./Wie trat sie ein, die Mutter, Schicht um Schicht?/Ich bin ihr Schatten und sie mein Licht) (Ed. Braun, p. 299).

Ausländer later also translated Else Lasker-Schüler’s poem My Mother, which captured Ausländer’s feelings of loss at her own mother’s death. The first stanza of Lasker-Schüler’s poem translated by Ausländer reads: “Was she the great angel/who walked at my side? Or is my mother buried/under the sky of smoke?” The concluding stanza describes a mother-daughter symbiosis that Ausländer herself had experienced: “I shall always be alone now/as the great angel/who walked at my side” (Ed. Braun, p. 347).

From 1953 to 1961 Ausländer worked as a foreign correspondent at the transport company Freedman and Slater in New York. During that time, from May to November 1957, she also traveled in France, Italy, Greece, Spain, Norway, Switzerland, Austria and the Netherlands. During her trip through Europe she met Paul Celan on three separate occasions, after which her own metaphors and images became more multi-dimensional and abstract (Vogel and Gans, 118). In May 1963 she traveled to Vienna, where she met her brother and his family, who had come to a refugee camp from Romania.

Describing her month in Jerusalem in 1964, Ausländer wrote the poem Jerusalem in German, translating and modifying the same poem into an English version which begins: “I have never been in Jerusalem./When I hang my blue-white scarf/toward east,/Jerusalem swings to me/with Temple and Solomon’s Song” (Vogel and Gans, 173).

Ausländer returned to New York to plan her move to Vienna but then decided against Austria before finally settling in Düsseldorf, Germany in 1965. It was during this year that Blinder Sommer (Blind Summer), her first book publication since 1939, appeared. The bulk of her work, however, was published after 1965. In 1968 and 1969 Ausländer spent her last year in the United States. In 1972 she moved to the Nelly-Sachs-Haus of the Jewish Community of Düsseldorf.

From 1978 until her death ten years later Ausländer was confined to bed due to arthritis. During this period she was rediscovered by Dr. Helmut Braun, who was searching for authors to be published by his newly-founded publishing house, Helmut Braun Verlag, Cologne. During Ausländer’s bed-rest Braun wrote down all the poems that were in the author’s memory and made sure to promote and publish her works.

In June, 1986 Ausländer dictated her last poem to Helmut Braun: “Give up/the dream/lives/my life/to the end” (Gib auf/der Traum/lebt/mein Leben/zu Ende). That same month she revised 120 poems that she had written between 1965 and 1978 (Vogel and Gans, p. 211). Ausländer died in Düsseldorf on January 3, 1988 and was buried at the Jewish Cemetery in the city’s Nordfriedhof (North Cemetery). During her life Ausländer was awarded the Droste-Prize of Meersburg (1967), the Ida-Dehmel-Prize, the Andreas-Gryphius Prize, the Roswitha-Medallion of Bad Gandersheim (1980) and the Literature Prize of the Bavarian Academy of Art (1984).

Ausländer owned only two suitcases throughout her life, traveling with them from country to country. At her death they remained with her brother Max in New York until his death, after which they became part of Ausländer’s posthumous collection, now housed at the Heinrich Heine Institut in Düsseldorf and managed by Dr. Helmut Braun. Since 1998 the privately-owned Kronenhaus in Manderscheid has a literature center dedicated to Rose Ausländer which offers books by and about Ausländer.

In a poem, Verregnete Abreise (Rainy Departure), her suitcases are symbolic of her life in exile: “I hear the heart of the/locomotive beating in each/suitcase” (“Ich höre das Herz der/Lokomotive in jedem/Gepäckstück pochen,” Vogel and Gans, p. 176). For Ausländer, whose life was touched by sorrow and loss, the Shoah and exile, words became her steadfast companion, her homeland, her home.

Ausländer “wrote life out of words”: “When I/fled from childhood/my happiness/suffocated/in foreign lands/When I/in the ghetto/stiffened/froze/my heart/in the cellar hiding place/I, the survivor/of horror/write out of words/life” (Als ich/aus der/Kindheit floh/erstickte/mein Glück/in der Fremde/Als ich/im Ghetto/erstarrte/erfror/mein Herz/im Kellerversteck//Ich Überlebende/des Grauens/schreibe aus Worten/Leben) (Vogel und Gans, p. 206).

Asking herself in the poem Trauer II (Mourning II) “How/to endure/the unending sorrow?” (Wie/die undendliche Trauer/ertragen?), Ausländer replies to herself and the world: “Search for/a tiny glowing spark/in the darkness” (Such/ein Fünkchen Glanz/in der Finsternis).

Despite her encounter with the horrors of the Shoah, Ausländer believed that the true beauty of the world was invincible and that the power of the word would relay this message of hope to humanity. In Mein Reich (My Kingdom), Ausländer described her realm: “My small room/is a giant kingdom/I don’t wish to rule/but to serve” (Mein kleines Zimmer/ist ein Riesenreich/Nicht herrschen will ich-/Dienen), and made evident her desire to serve humanity with her poetry.

SELECTED WORKS BY ROSE AUSLÄNDER (in German and English)

Blinder Sommer. Vienna: 1965; Wir wohnen in Babylon. Gedichte. Frankfurt a.M.: 1984–1992; Die Sonne fällt. Gedichte. Frankfurt a.M.: 1984–1992; Braun, Helmut, ed. Ausländer, Rose. Die Erde war ein atlasweißes Feld. Gedichte 1927–1956. Frankfurt a.M.: 1985; Melin, Charlotte, ed. and trans. German Poetry in Transition. 1945–1990. Bilingual Edition. Hanover: 1999.

Published Posthumously (German and English)

Works in sixteen volumes edited by Helmut Brown

Wir ziehen mit den dunklen Flüssen. Gedichte (Volume 1) 1993; Denn wo ist Heimat? (Volume 2) 1994; Ausländer, Rose. Ed. Helmut Braun. The Forbidden Tree. Englische Gedichte (Volume 3) 1995; Die Musik ist zerbrochen (Volume 4) 1993; Wir pflanzen Zedern. Gedichte (Volume 5) 1993; Wir wohnen in Babylon (Volume 6) 1992; Gelassen atmet der Tag (Volume 7) 1992; Sanduhrschritt (Volume 8) 1994; Treffpunkt der Winde. (Volume 9) 1991; Hinter allen Worten (Volume 10) 1992; Die Sonne fällt (Volume 11) 1992; Und nenne dich Glück (Volume 12) 1994; Brief aus Rosen (Volume 13) 1994; Schweigen auf deinen Lippen (Volume 14) 1994; Die Nacht hat zahllos Augen (Volume 15) 1995; Schattenwald (Volume 16) 1995.

Works in eight volumes with index edited by Helmut Braun

Die Erde war ein atlasweißes Feld. (Volume 1) 1985; Die Sichel mäht die/Zeit zu Heu. (Volume 2) 1985; Hügel/aus Ather/unwiderruflich. (Volume 3) 1984; Im Aschenregen/die Spur deines Namens. (Volume 4) 1984; Ich höre das Herz/des Oleanders. (Volume 5) 1984; Wieder ein Tag aus Glut und Wind. (Volume 6) 1986; Und preise die kühlende/Liebe der Luft (Volume 7) 1988; Jeder Tropfen/ein Tag. (Volume 8) 1990; Ausländer, Rose. Andere Zeichen. Gedichte. Nachwort von Marie Luise Kaschnitz. 1975; Ausländer, Rose. Im Atemhaus wohnen. Gedichte. Mit einem Porträt von Jürgen Serke. 1981; Ausländer, Rose. Der Mohn ist noch nicht rot. Gedichte. Ed. Harald Vogel. 1994; Ausländer, Rose. Immer zurück nach Pruth. Ein Leben in Gedichten. Ed. Helmut Braun. 1989; Ausländer, Rose. Regenwörter. Ed. Helmut Braun. 1995; Ausländer, Rose. Alles kann Motiv sein. In Helmut Braun, ed. Ich fliege auf der Luftschaukel Europa-Amerika-Europa. Rose Ausländer in Czernowitz und New York. 1994; Ausländer, Rose. Selected Poems. Translated from the German by Ewald Osers. London: 1977; Ausländer, Rose. Shadows in the Mirror. Translation by Freed Weininger. Tel Aviv: 1981; Ausländer, Rose. Jeder Tropfen ein Tag: Gedichte aus dem Nachlass. 1990; Ausländer, Rose. Johanna Blömeke, ed. Gedichte nach dem Holocaust. 1995.

Some of her poems

MY NIGHTINGALE



My mother was a doe in another time.

Her honey-brown eyes

and her loveliness

survive from that moment.

Here she was---

half an angel and half humankind---

the center was mother.

When I asked her once what she would have wanted to be

she made this answer to me: a nightingale.

Now she is a nightingale.

Every night, night after night, I hear her

in the garden of my sleepless dream.

She is singing the Zion of her ancestors.

She is singing the long-ago Austria.

She is singing the hills and beech-woods

of Bukowina.

My nightingale

sings lullabies to me

night after night

in the garden of my sleepless dream.

Chinatown

Narrow lanes

crosswise and crossway

mustard-scented

vertical lined names

about buddhas and gewgaw

In the basement

the twilight smells like

chinese lanterns and limes

over bridges of paper

music of the rodlets

on porcelain

where red lobster lies between

stems and sap

Peacocks open blue fans

on silky sleeves

Little Woman in a Kimono

conjures tea-spirits

in the can

6000 years

slit in black eyes

hiding the heritage

around the silent quarter

see the chinese wall

sky-high drawn by

tgin paintbrushes and

confucious´lessons



Resounding silence

Some rescued themselves

Out of the night

hands are crawling

crimson-red with blood

of the slayed

It was a resounding show

a sight of fire

firemusic

Then death was silent

he was silent

It was a resounding silence

between the branches

stars were smiling

The rescued

wait at the harbour

miscarried ships are resting

They are like cradles

without mother and child


Selling

In spring

I sell

violets from lost gardens

In summer paper-roses

Asters from words

in autumn

In winter

ice-flowers from the window

of my dead mother

So I live

into the day

into the night

At night

I praise

moon and stars

until sun rises

and sells me

to the day

A Poet with a Charisma and a pop-star status

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Born Yevgeni Aleksandrovich Gangnus (later he took his mother's last name, Yevtushenko) in the Irkutsk region of Siberia in a small town called Zima Junction on 18 July, 1933 to a peasant family of mixed Russian, Ukrainian and Tatar heritage.. "His great-grandfather, Joseph Yevtushenko, a suspected subversive, was exiled to Siberia after the 1881 assassination of Czar Alexander II. But he died on the way. Both of Mr. Yevtushenko's grandfathers were arrested under Stalin's purges as "enemies of the people" in 1937."

His maternal grandfather, named Ermolai Naumovich Evtushenko, had been a Red Army officer during the Russian Revolution and the Civil War. Yevtushenko's father, named Aleksandr Rudolfovich Gangnus, was a geologist, as was his mother, named Zinaida Ermolaevna Evtushenko, who later became a singer. The boy accompanied his father on geological expeditions to Kazakhstan in 1948, and to Altai, Siberia, in 1950. Young Yevtushenko wrote his first verses and humorous songs "chastushki" while living in Zima, Siberia. "His parents were divorced when [he] was 7 and he was raised by his mother."

"By age 10 he had cranked out his first poem. Six years later a sports journal was the first periodical to publish his poetry. At 19, he published his first book of poems, The Prospects of the Future."

After the Second World War, Yevtushenko moved to Moscow. From 1951-1954 he studied at the Gorky Institute of Literature in Moscow, from which he dropped out. He published his first poem in 1949 and his first book three years later. In 1952 he joined the Union of Soviet Writers after publication of his first collection of poetry. His early poem So mnoyu chto-to proiskhodit (Something is happening to me) became a very popular song, performed by actor-songwriter Aleksandr Dolsky

In 1955 Yevtushenko wrote a poem about the Soviet borders being an obstacle in his life. His first important publication was the poem Stantsiya Zima (Zima Junction 1956). In 1957, he was expelled from the Literary Institute for "individualism". He was banned from traveling, but gained wide popularity with the Russian public. His early work also drew praise from the likes of Boris Pasternak, Carl Samdberg and Robert Frost..

During the Khrushchev Thaw

Yevtushenko was one of the authors politically active during the Khruschev Thaw (Khrushchev declared a cultural "Thaw" that allowed some freedom of expression). In1961 he wrote what would become perhaps his most famous poem,Babi Yar, in which he denounced the Soviet distortion of historical fact regarding the Nazii massacre of theJewish population of Kiev in September 1941, as well as the antisemitism still widespread in the Soviet Union. The usual Soviet policy in relation to the Holocaust in Russia was to describe it as atrocities against Soviet citizens, and to avoid mentioning that it was a genocide specifically of the Jews.

Therefore, Yevtushenko's work Babi Yar was quite controversial and politically incorrect, "for it spoke not only of the Nazi atrocities, but the Soviet government's own persecution of Jewish people." Following a centuries-old Russian tradition, Yevtushenko became a public poet. The poem achieved widespread circulation in the underground samizdat press, and later was set to music, together with four other Yevtushenko poems, by Dmitri Shostakovich in his Thirteenth Symphony, subtitled Babi Yar. Publication of the poem in the state-controlled Soviet press was delayed until 1984.

Reportedly, the poem "was published abroad and appeared in clandestine fashion in the Soviet Union." Alternatively, some note that the poem was published in a major newspaper" Liteaturnaya Gazeta" and achieved widespread circulation in numerous copies. Of Yevtushenko’s work, Shostakovich has said, “Morality is a sister of conscience. And perhaps God is with Yevtushenko when he speaks of conscience. Every morning, in place of prayers, I reread or repeat by memory two poems by Yevtushenko: ‘Career’ or ‘Boots.’”

In 1961 , Yevtushenko also published Nasledniki Stalina (The Heirs of Stalin), in which he stated that although Stalin was dead, Stalinism and its legacy still dominated the country; in the poem he also directly addressed the Soviet government, imploring them to make sure that Stalin would "never rise again". Published originally in Pravda , the poem was not republished until a quarter of a century later, in the times of the comparatively liberal party leaderMikhail Gorbachev.

Yevtushenko became one of the best known poets of the 1950s and 1960s in the Soviet Union. He was part of the 1960s generation, which included such writers as Vasili Akyonov, Andrei Voznesensk, Bella Akhmadulina, Robert Rozhdestvensky, and many others. During the time, Anna Akhmatova, a number of whose family members suffered under the communist rule, criticised Yevtushenko's aesthetic ideals and his poetics.

The late Russian poet Victor Krivulin quotes her saying that "Yevtushenko doesn't rise about an average newspaper satirist's level. Yevtushenko and Andrei Voznesensky's works just don't do it for me, therefore neither of them exists for me as a poet." Alternatively, Yevtushenko was much respected by others at the time both for his poetry and his political stance toward the Soviet government. "Dissident Pavel Litvinov had said that '[Yevtushenko] expressed what my generation felt. Then we left him behind.'"

In 1963 until 1965, for example, Yevtushenko, already an internationally recognised literateur, was banned from travelling outside the Soviet Union. Generally, however, Yevtushenko was still the most extensively travelled Soviet poet, possessing an amazing capability to balance between moderate criticism of Soviet regime, which gained him popularity in the West, and, as noted by some, a strong Marxist-Leninist ideological stance, which allegedly proved his loyalty to Soviet authorities.

At that time the KGB Chairman Vladimir Semichastny and the next KGB Chairman Yuri Andropov reported to the Communist Politburo on the "Anti-Soviet activity of poet Yevtushenko." Nevertheless, some Soviet dissidents in the 1960s nicknamed Yevtushenko "Zhenya Gapon," comparing him to Father George Gapon, a Russian priest who at the time of the Revolution of 1905 was both a leader of rebellious workers and a secret police agent .

Yevtushenko Controversy

In 1965, Yevtushenko joined Anna Akhmatova, Kornei Chukovsky, Jean-Paul Sartre and others and co-signed the letter of protest against the unfair trial of Joseph Brodsky (a fellow poet influenced by Anna Akhmatova) as a result of the court case against him initiated by the Soviet authorities. He subsequently co-signed a letter against the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968. Nevertheless, "when, in 1987, Yevtushenko was made an honorary member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, Brodsky himself led a flurry of protest, accusing Yevtushenko of duplicity and claiming that Yevtushenko's criticism of the Soviet Union was launched only in the directions approved by the Party and that he criticised what was acceptable to the Kremlin, when it was acceptable to the Kremlin, while soaking up adulation and honours as a fearless voice of dissent."

Further, of note is "Yevtushenko's protest of the trial of Andrei Sinyavsky and Yuli Daniel, , an event now credited with inaugurating the modern dissident movement and readying the national pulse for perestroika. Both writers had toiled under pseudonyms and stood accused, in 1966, of "anti-Soviet activity" for the views espoused by their fictional characters. But Yevtushenko's actual position was that the writers were guilty, only punished too severely."
"Yevtushenko was not among the authors of the "Letter of the 63" who protested [their convictions]."

Moreover, "when Yevtushenko was nominated for the poetry chair at Oxford in 1968, Amis, Bernard Levin, and the Russian-Hungarian historian Tibor Szamuely led the campaign against him, arguing that he had made life difficult for his fellow Soviet writers."

Films

He was filmed as himself during the 1950s as a performing poet-actor. Yevtushenko contributed lyrics to several Soviet films and contributed to the script of Soy Cuba (1964), a Soviet propaganda film. His acting career began with the leading role in Vzlyot (1979) by director Savva Kulish , where he played the leading role as Russian rocket scientist Tsiolkovsky . Yevtyshenko also made two films as a writer/director. His film 'Detsky Sad' ('Kindergarten', 1983) and his last film, 'Pokhorony Stalina' ('Stalin's Funerals', 1990) deal with life in the Soviet Union.

Post-Soviet period

In 1989 Yevtushenko was elected as a representative in the Soviet Parliament (Congress of Peoples Deputies), where he was a member of the pro-democratic group supporting Mikhail Gorbachev and "represent[ed] the little-known Ukrainian city of Kharkov." In 1991, he supported Boris Yeltsin , as the latter's defended the parliament of the Russian Federation during the hardline coup that sought to oust Gorbachev and reverse "perestroika"., Later, however, when Yeltsin sent tanks into restive Chechnya , Yevtushenko reportedly "denounced his old ally and refused to accept an award from him."

In the post-Soviet era Yevtushenko actively discussed environmental issues, confronted Russian Nationalist writers from the alternative Union of the Writers of Russia, and campaigned for the preservation of the memory of victims of Stalin's Gulag . In 1995 he published his huge anthology of contemporary Russian poetry entitled Verses of the Century. Reviewing this anthology, Russian poet Alexey Purin referred to it as "a huge book, a huge flop. Really, a collection of names rather than a collection of good poetry." Purin (himself a traditionalist) that Yevtushenko included only mainstream poetry written according to "good old canons" and totally ignored nearly all of the avant-garde authors, notably Gennady Aigi, Vladimir Earle and Rea Nikonova. More recently, Yevtushenko has been criticised for refusing to speak out against Russian President Vladimir Putin's liberties during his presidency. Yevtushenko responded by saying that "Putin, like Russia, is struggling to find his way in a time when ideals have been shattered and expedience reigns."

Yevtushenko in the West

Yevtushenko, who now (October, 2007) divides his time between Russia and the United States, teaches Russian and European poetry and the history of world cinema at the University of Tulsa in Oklahoma and at Queens College of the City University of New York . In the West he is best known for his criticism of the Soviet bureaucracy and appeals for getting rid of the legacy of Stalin. He is now working on a three-volume collection of Russian poetry from the 11th-20th century, and plans a novel based on his time in Havana during the Cuban Missile Crisis (he was, reportedly, good friends with Che , Salvador Allende and Pablo Neruda .

In October 2007 he was an artist-in-residence with the School of Arts and Humanities at the University of Maryland , College Park, and recited his poem Babi Yar before a performance of Dmitri Shostakovich's Symphony No.13, which sets five of his poems, by the University of Maryland Symphony Orchestra and the men of the UM Choirs, with David Brundage as the bass soloist. A similar performance with Yevtushenko present took place at the University of Houston's Moore's School of Music in 1997. In addition to the Babi Yar symphony, Shostakovich's Execution of Stephan Razin (another text setting by Yevtushenko) was also performed.

Personal life

Yevtushenko is allegedly known for his many liaisons.Yevtushenko has been married four times: in 1954 he married Bella Akhmadulina , who published her first collection of lyrics in 1962. After divorce he married Galina Semenova. Yevtushenko's third wife was Jan Butler (married in 1978) (an English translator of his poetry with whom he visited Ireland several times), and fourth Maria Novika (married in 1986) He has five children, all boys.His current wife teaches Russian at Thomas Edison Preparatory Academy in the United States, near the University of Tulsa where Yevtushenko himself spends half the year, lecturing on poetry and European cinema.

Honors

In 1961, Yevtushenko was featured on the cover of Time magazine. In 1993, Yevtushenko received a medal as 'Defender of Free Russia,' which was given to those who took part in resisting the hard-line Communist coup in August 1991. In July 2000 the Russian Academy of Sciences named a star in his honor. In 2001, his childhood home in Zima Junction, Siberia, was restored and opened as a permanent museum of poetry. Yevtushenko received in 1991 the American Liberties Medallion, the highest honor conferred by the American Jewish Committee.

Criticism

"Yevtushenko's politics have always been a complicated mixture of bravery, populism, and vulgar accommodation with dictatorship." Reportedly, "'The writers who had briefly flourished [under Khrushchev's thaw] went two different ways,' the great Sovietologist and literary critic Robert Conquest put it in a 1974 profile. 'Solzhenitsyn and his like into silenced opposition; Yevtushenko and his like, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes in the hope of still influencing matters a little, into well-rewarded collaboration.'" Some argue that before the appearance of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Andrei Sakharov and the dissident movement in Russia, Yevtushenko, through his poetry, was the first voice to speak out against Stalinism(although Boris Pasternak is often considered "to have helped give birth to the dissident movement with the publication of his 'Doctor Zhivago'").^[1"Sovietologist Stephen Cohen of Princeton University contends that Yevtushenko was among those Soviets who didn't become dissidents but in their own way tried to improve conditions and prepare the way for reform, [saying that] 'They exhibited a kind of civic courage that many Americans didn't recognize.'"

Brodsky repeatedly criticised Yevtushenko for what he perceived as his "conformism", especially after the latter was made member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.Commenting on this controversy in A Night in the Nabokov Hotel, an anthology of Russian poetry in English translation Anatoly Kudryavitsky wrote the following: "A few Russian poets enjoyed the virtual pop-star status, unthinkable if transposed to other parts of Europe. In reality, they were far from any sort of protest against Soviet totalitarianism and therefore could not be regarded as anything else but naughty children of the regime."

Furthermore, some criticized Yevtushenko regarding Pasternak's widow, given that "when Pasternak's widow, Olga Ivinskaya, was imprisoned on trumped-up charges of illegally dealing in foreign currency, Yevtushenko publicly maligned her [and added] that 'Doctor Zhivago' was not worth publishing in the Soviet Union."

Moreover, "the poet Irina Ratushinskaya , upon her release from prison and arrival in the West, dismissed Yevtushenko as an official poet and Vasily Aksionov , the novelist who now lives in Washington, has also refused contact [with Yevtushenko]."

Responding to the criticism, Yevtushenko reportedly said"Who could sanction me to write Babi Yar, or my protests against the (1968 Soviet) invasion of Czechoslovakia? Only I criticised Khrushchev to his face; not even Solzhenitsyn did that. It is only the envy of people who couldn't stand against the propaganda machine, and they invented things about my generation, the artists of the '60s. Our generation was breaking the Iron Curtain. It was a generation crippled by history, and most of our dreams were doomed to be unfulfilled - but the fight for freedom was not in vain."

Yevtushenko further notes that "in several cases [he] personally rose to the defense of these writers, interceding privately for Ratushinskaya's release from a prison, defending Mr. Aksionov and others who were expelled from the Writers Union."

Critics differ on the statutue of Yevtushenko in the literature world, with "most Western intellectuals and many Russian scholars extol[ing] him as the greatest writer of his generation, the voice of Soviet life." They "acknowledge that his speaking tours have won him converts among audiences impressed with his dramatic readings and charismatic personality. Tina Tupikina Glaessner (1967) refers to him as “one of the greatest poets of the modern age.” She states that “Bratsk Station” offers the greatest insight into Soviet life of any other work in modern Russian literature. Two decades later, in his 1988 article, Michael Pursglove echoes her sentiments referring to Stantisiya Zima as “one of the landmarks of Soviet literature."

Others, however, notably Russian critics like "Patricia Pollock Brodsky (1992) takes issue with the interpretation that Yevtushenko has been persecuted by the Russian government." "And most scathing, Tomas Venclova asserts, in his 1991 essay, that few in the Russian literary community “consider his work worthy of serious study." Furthermore, when in 1972, Yevtushekno criticized U.S.'s government, " Allen Tale called him a 'ham actor, not a poet,' and others not unsympathetic to criticisms of Washington found his frequent condemnations of American 'imperialism,' and comparatively footling criticisms of the Russian police state, thoroughly repulsive."

Some of his poems
Waiting

My love will come
will fling open her arms and fold me in them,
will understand my fears, observe my changes.
In from the pouring dark, from the pitch night
without stopping to bang the taxi door
she’ll run upstairs through the decaying porch
burning with love and love’s happiness,
she’ll run dripping upstairs, she won’t knock,
will take my head in her hands,
and when she drops her overcoat on a chair,
it will slide to the floor in a blue heap.

Don't Disappear

Don't disappear. . . . By disappearing from me,
you will disappear from yourself,
betraying your own self forever,
and that will be the basest dishonesty.

Don't disappear. . . . To disappear is so easy.
It's impossible to resurrect one another.
Death drags down too deep.
Death even for a moment is too long.

Don't disappear. . . . Forget the third shadow.
In love there are only two. There are no thirds.
We both will be pure on Judgment Day,
when the trumpets call us to account.

Don't disappear. . . . We have redeemed sin.
We both are free of the law, we are sinless.
We are worthy together of the forgiveness of those
whom we have unintentionally wounded.

Don't disappear. . . . One can disappear in an instant,
but how could we meet later in the centuries ahead?
Is your double possible in the world,
and my double? Only barely in our children.

Don't disappear. . . . Give me your palm.
I am written on it--this I believe.
What makes one's last love terrible
is that it is not love, but fear of loss.


Wounds
To D.G.
I have been wounded so often and so painfully,
dragging my way home at the merest crawl,
impaled not only by malicious tongues--
one can be wounded even by a petal.

And I myself have wounded--quite unwittingly--
with casual tenderness while passing by,
and later someone felt the pain,
it was like walking barefoot over the ice.

So why do I step upon the ruins
of those most near and dear to me,
I, who can be so simply and so sharply wounded
and can wound others with such deadly ease?

"Once people..."
Once people
get under
my skin,
they never find the exit.
They romp around,
fill my insides with their song and dance,
make lots of noise, using my dumbness as their cover-up.
I’m full to bursting
with wise men
and fools--
they’ve utterly exhausted me!
So much so that my skin’s
quite worn through
by their heels, rubbing from inside!
Give me a chance to breathe!
It’s all impossible!
I’m stuffed to the gills
with those who’ve brought me so much joy
as well as those who’ve given most offence.
What has come over me?
What can I do with this great throng
stuck in my own small heart--
police are needed to keep order there!
I’ve gone a little cracked,
for there, in that secluded shade,
I’ve dropped none of the women
and none of them’s dropped me!
It’s awkward to revive dead friendships
however much you tire yourself with trying.
The only friends I’ve lost
were on the outside,
but of those inside I’ve lost nobody.
All the people in my life I’ve quarreled with,
or made friends with,
or only shaken hands with,
have merged in a new life under the old one’s skin--
a secret conflagration without flame.
The repossession of the unpossessable
is like a waterfall that rushes upward.
Those who have died
have been born again in me,
those who have not been born as yet
cry out.
My population is too large,
beyond the strength of just one man--
but then, a person would be incomplete
if he contained no others.

An excess of political rhetoric

Federico

Garcia Lorca

Born in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada, Spain, June 5,1898; died near Granada, August 19,1936, García Lorca is Spain's most deeply appreciated and highly revered poet and dramatist. His murder by the Nationalists at the start of the Spanish civil war brought sudden international fame, accompanied by an excess of political rhetoric which led a later generation to question his merits; after the inevitable slump, his reputation has recovered (largely with a shift in interest to the less obvious works).

He must now be bracketed with MACHADO as one of the two greatest poets Spain has produced this century, and he is certainly Spain's greatest dramatist since the Golden Age.

As a poet, his early reputation rested on the Romancero gitano (Madrid, 1928; tr. R. Humphries, The Gypsy Ballads of García Lorca, Bloomington, 1953), the poems of Poema del Cante Jondo (Madrid, 1931), and Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Mejias (Madrid, 1935; tr. A. L. Lloyd, in Lament for the Death of a Bullfighter, and Other Poems, London, 1937), all profoundly Andalusian, richly sombre in their mood and imagery, and disquieting in their projection of a part-primitive, part-private world of myth moved by dark and not precisely identifiable forces; but, beneath the flamenco trappings, there is a deeper - perhaps personal - anguish, as well as a superb rhythmical and linguistic sense (the Llanto is one of the four best elegies in the Spanish language).

Critical interest has since shifted to the tortured, ambiguous and deliberately dissonant surrealist poems of Poeta en Nueva York (Mexico City, 1940; tr. B. Belitt, Poet in New York, London, 1955), and to the arabesque casidas and gacelas of Divein de Tamarit (NY, 1940). An early major anthology in English is Poems (tr. S. Spender & J. L. Gili, London, 1939).

As a dramatist, early romantic pieces with social implications such as Mariana Pineda (Madrid, 1928; tr. J. GrahamLuidn & R. L. O'Connell in Collected Plays, London, 1976) and the comic invention of La zapatera prodigiosa (first performed 1930, amplified 1935, pub. Buenos Aires, 1938; The Shoemaker's Prodigious Wife in Collected Plays) established him in the public eye, while his fostering of popular theatre gave him a left-wing reputation which contributed to his death (although his homosexuality also made him a target).

His reputation as a playwright rests, however, mainly on the three 'folk tragedies', Bodas de sangre (Madrid, 1935; Blood Wedding), Yerma (Buenos Aires, 1937) and La casa de Bernarda Alba (Buenos Aires, 1940; The House of Bernarda Alba: all three tr. J. Graham-Lujan & R. L. O'Connell, in III Tragedies, NY, 1959, incorporated into Collected Plays), whose settings recall the Romancero gitano, as do the unspecified dark forces (associated with earth, blood, sex, water, fertility/infertility, death, and the moon) which appear to manipulate the characters in Bodas de sangre and Yerma. Both these plays are richly poetic, with an almost ritualized primitivism (Lorca was highly superstitious, and his dark forces were not mere dramatic ploys).

La casa de Bernarda Alba is starker: deliberately prosaic, more readily interpretable as social criticism (i.e. of the pressures of convention, the imprisoning effect of mourning customs, the frustration of female sexuality by the need to wait for an acceptable match), but it is so dominated by the title character - who tyrannizes her five daughters - that it emerges as the study of a unique individual rather than a typical woman.

Each tragedy has one outstanding female role, those of Yerma and Bernarda having been written for the great tragic actress Margarita Xirgu.

Lorca's technical experimentation (which has affinities with innovators as dissimilar as PIRANDELLO and BRECHT) was immensely versatile, and he had a superb sense for stage-effects to reinforce the web of his recurrent imagery.

Some of his poems

The Faithless Wife

So I took her to the river

believing she was a maiden,

but she already had a husband.

It was on St. James night

and almost as if I was obliged to.

The lanterns went out

and the crickets lighted up.

In the farthest street corners

I touched her sleeping breasts

and they opened to me suddenly

like spikes of hyacinth.

The starch of her petticoat

sounded in my ears

like a piece of silk

rent by ten knives.

Without silver light on their foliage

the trees had grown larger

and a horizon of dogs

barked very far from the river.

Past the blackberries,

the reeds and the hawthorne

underneath her cluster of hair

I made a hollow in the earth

I took off my tie,

she too off her dress.

I, my belt with the revolver,

She, her four bodices.

Nor nard nor mother-o�-pearl

have skin so fine,

nor does glass with silver

shine with such brilliance.

Her thighs slipped away from me

like startled fish,

half full of fire,

half full of cold.

That night I ran

on the best of roads

mounted on a nacre mare

without bridle stirrups.

As a man, I won�t repeat

the things she said to me.

The light of understanding

has made me more discreet.

Smeared with sand and kisses

I took her away from the river.

The swords of the lilies

battled with the air.

I behaved like what I am,

like a proper gypsy.

I gave her a large sewing basket,

of straw-colored satin,

but I did not fall in love

for although she had a husband

she told me she was a maiden

when I took her to the river.

The Gypsy and the Wind

Playing her parchment moon

Precosia comes

along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.

The starless silence, fleeing

from her rhythmic tambourine,

falls where the sea whips and sings,

his night filled with silvery swarms.

High atop the mountain peaks

the sentinels are weeping;

they guard the tall white towers

of the English consulate.

And gypsies of the water

for their pleasure erect

little castles of conch shells

and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon

Precosia comes.

The wind sees her and rises,

the wind that never slumbers.

Naked Saint Christopher swells,

watching the girl as he plays

with tongues of celestial bells

on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skirt

and have a look at you.

Open in my ancient fingers

the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine

and runs away in terror.

But the virile wind pursues her

with his breathing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,

while the olive trees turn pale.

The flutes of darkness sound,

and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!

Or the green wind will catch you!

Precosia, run, Precosia!

And look how fast he comes!

A satyr of low-born stars

with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear,

now makes her way to that house

beyond the tall green pines

where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,

three riflemen come running,

their black capes tightly drawn,

and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy

a glass of tepid milk

and a shot of Holland gin

which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,

of her strange adventure,

the wind furiously gnashes

against the slate roof tiles.

itty of First Desire

In the green morning

I wanted to be a heart.

A heart.

And in the ripe evening

I wanted to be a nightingale.

A nightingale.

(Soul,

turn orange-colored.

Soul,

turn the color of love.)

In the vivid morning

I wanted to be myself.

A heart.

And at the evening's end

I wanted to be my voice.

A nightingale.

Soul,

turn orange-colored.

Soul,

turn the color of love.

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel

of your statue-like eyes, or the accent

the solitary rose of your breath

places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore,

a branchless trunk, and what I most regret

is having no flower, pulp, or clay

for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure,

if you are my cross, my dampened pain,

if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,

and adorn the branches of your river

with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

The Guitar

The weeping of the guitar

begins.

The goblets of dawn

are smashed.

The weeping of the guitar

begins.

Useless

to silence it.

Impossible

to silence it.

It weeps monotonously

as water weeps

as the wind weeps

over snowfields.

Impossible

to silence it.

It weeps for distant

things.

Hot southern sands

yearning for white camellias.

Weeps arrow without target

evening without morning

and the first dead bird

on the branch.

Oh, guitar!

Heart mortally wounded

by five swords.

Arbolé, Arbolé . . .

Tree, tree

dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face

is out picking olives.

The wind, playboy of towers,

grabs her around the waist.

Four riders passed by

on Andalusian ponies,

with blue and green jackets

and big, dark capes.

"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."

The girl won't listen to them.

Three young bullfighters passed,

slender in the waist,

with jackets the color of oranges

and swords of ancient silver.

"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."

The girl won't listen to them.

When the afternoon had turned

dark brown, with scattered light,

a young man passed by, wearing

roses and myrtle of the moon.

"Come to Granada, muchacha."

And the girl won't listen to him.

The girl with the pretty face

keeps on picking olives

with the grey arm of the wind

wrapped around her waist.

Tree, tree

dry and green.

The Little Mute Boy

The little boy was looking for his voice.

(The king of the crickets had it.)

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;

I will make a ring of it

so that he may wear my silence

on his little finger

In a drop of water

the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away,

put on a cricket's clothes.)

Gacela of the Dark Death

I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,

I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries.

I want to sleep the sleep of that child

who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

I don't want them to tell me again how the corpse keeps all its blood,

how the decaying mouth goes on begging for water.

I'd rather not hear about the torture sessions the grass arranges for

nor about how the moon does all its work before dawn

with its snakelike nose.

I want to sleep for half a second,

a second, a minute, a century,

but I want everyone to know that I am still alive,

that I have a golden manger inside my lips,

that I am the little friend of the west wind,

that I am the elephantine shadow of my own tears.

When it's dawn just throw some sort of cloth over me

because I know dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me,

and pour a little hard water over my shoes

so that the scorpion claws of the dawn will slip off.

Because I want to sleep the sleep of the apples,

and learn a mournful song that will clean all earth away from me,

because I want to live with that shadowy child

who longed to cut his heart open far out at sea.

City That Does Not Sleep

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.

Nobody is asleep.

The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.

The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,

and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the

street corner

the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the

stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.

Nobody is asleep.

In a graveyard far off there is a corpse

who has moaned for three years

because of a dry countryside on his knee;

and that boy they buried this morning cried so much

it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!

We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth

or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead

dahlias.

But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;

flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths

in a thicket of new veins,

and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever

and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day

the horses will live in the saloons

and the enraged ants

will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the

eyes of cows.

Another day

we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead

and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats

we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.

Careful! Be careful! Be careful!

The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,

and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention

of the bridge,

or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,

we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes

are waiting,

where the bear's teeth are waiting,

where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,

and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.

Nobody is sleeping.

If someone does close his eyes,

a whip, boys, a whip!

Let there be a landscape of open eyes

and bitter wounds on fire.

No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.

I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.

But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the

night,

open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight

the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.