The Invitation

I have opened the doors
near the garden.
Why don't you come into
the unfolding
of Japanese fans?
The peacocks are strolling
among the lobelia
for no one but you
in this place where
the impossible
is shaking
its bright turquoise feathers.
I have turned
off the radio,
washed purple and green grapes
for the pedestal table,
filled frosted goblets
with fresh well water.
Afterwards the bed,
its turned down silk.
What you have left behind
will forget you
soon enough.

-- Patricia Fargnoli

Marriage as Creative Process

Let's marry again this time as metaphor:
I'll be the idea of love and you can be
                the curtains, breathing.
Allow me this: every day is a proposal,
an acceptance.
          Marriage is a reckless aperture,
the sudden floods and fades of light.
       No, you can be the idea of love
and I will be
       the curtains, breathing.
A moment can halt us, turn us round.
We can lose our bearings in the dim kitchen
worn from our own bare feet.
       There is no idea of love,
only the curtains breathing.
But we're smart
                to be so doggedly messy,
leaving our hearts everywhere.
I reach for an apple and it begins
          to click, to beat.

Julianna Baggott

22.

You know Suffenus. He's the kind of man
who always says the right thing, some remark
that's funny and intelligent. He's polished.
Did you know he writes poetry? Does he ever -
ten thousand lines at least, and all of it
set down with care and gorgeously produced:
expensive rolls, red ribbons, parchment wrappers,
meticulously ruled, the edges pumiced.
And when you read his work, this same Suffenus,
so charming and so polished, comes across
as one who has discovered his true calling:
milking goats, or maybe digging ditches.
He's utterly transformed. I just don't get it.
This same man who, to say the very least,
is witty and refined, becomes a clod
the instant he attempts to write a poem.
Yet writing poetry's his greatest passion;
he's lost in raptures of self-adoration.
It's the same with everyone, I guess.
You could say each of us is a Suffenus,
self-deceived in one way or another;
we never see the pack that's on our own back.

-- Catullus
(translated from the Latin by Diane Arnson Svarlien)

The summer will fly, my love.

*

En gang om dagen er ensomheten så stor,
At man ikke kan stille noget op med den.

Og én er lykken.

Indimellom må man se at få ordnet sine ting.

-- Søren Ulrik Thomsen (f. 1956)
From: Hjemfalden, Vindrose 1991.

*

Huh? You don't speak Danish?

"Once a day, solitude is so vast
That nothing can resist it.

And once a day, happiness is.

In-between, you must get the chores done."

(an oldie from Aisha.)

*

Herbsttag

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.


Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.


Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke