NINE and Steven Klein

IMPOSSIBLE POEM

Helmut Newton

IMPOSSIBLE POEM

Let my touch know you for the last time
because I want to learn your face by heart,
because I want to start a poem with:
“In Segovia, on a night of towers, my soul could not,
was unable . . .”

Let me, yes, let me.
Let me at least tire your footprints
for this face-scented pillow
because I want to make a bird out of your skin
to awaken my dead heart.

I loved you head on, completely
and watched myself at length in your hands
seeking to grant forgiveness to my ancient thirst for a shore.

This way for this rose-faced sadness
as if the color carried my barefoot pain.
Sometimes there comes to me a silence of bells
always, always whistling under your skin…

You approached my life like a lone vegetable
stretching your eyes up to the tree’s fullness.
My life was simple, humble,
tender clay to the touch.

Now I am but a blind spring
fleeing the shadow in your gaze.
It’s true that everything was useless and painful;
a pity that you didn’t love me:
it’s been the greatest what a pity in the world.

But come, come near and die a little in my words.
Despite everything you’re my love, my you, my never.

And I can no longer cope with this fateless hollow
weighing inside me like God on the grass.
For neither can I cope with this taste of you in my lips.

Yes: in Segovia the sap died suddenly.
And I could not,
was unable.

© 1953, Eduardo Cote Lamus
From: Salvación del recuerdo
Publisher: José Janés, Barcelona, 1953

© Translation: 2010, Laura Chalar

just words

SR/Gonzo®

A Dream Lies Dead

Ilse Bing

A Dream Lies Dead

A dream lies dead here. May you softly go
Before this place, and turn away your eyes,
Nor seek to know the look of that which dies
Importuning Life for life. Walk not in woe,
But, for a little, let your step be slow.
And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise
With words of hope and Spring and tenderer skies.
A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know:

Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree-
Though white of bloom as it had been before
And proudly waitful of fecundity-
One little loveliness can be no more;
And so must Beauty bow her imperfect head
Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!

Dorothy Parker

Deed

Anna Shishkina

XLI. DEED

A deed knocks first at thought,
And then it knocks at will.
That is the manufacturing spot,
And will at home and well.

It then goes out an act,
Or is entombed so still
That only to the ear of God
Its doom is audible.

Emily Dickinson

Hannigan and Rice

The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.
Theseus from A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Act V, Scene 1) by William Shakespeare

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