Silences

for Elizabeth

1
Poetry is a weapon, and should be used,
though not in the crudity of violence.
It is a prayer before an unknown altar,
a spell to bless the silence.

2
There is a music beyond all this,
beyond all forms of grievance,
where anger lays its muzzle down
into the lap of silence.

3
Or some butterfly script,
fathomed only by the other,
as supple fingers draw
a silent message from the tangible.

John Montague

Night Blooming Jasmine/Il Gelsomino Notturno

And in the hour when blooms unfurl,
thoughts of my loved ones come to me.
              The moths of evening swirl
              around the snowball tree.

Nothing by now shouts or sings;
one house only whispers then hushes.
              Nestlings sleep beneath wings,
              like eyes beneath their lashes.

From open calyces there flows
a ripe strawberry scent, in waves.
              A lamp in the house glows.
              Grasses are born on graves.

A late bee sighs, back from its tours
and no cell vacant anymore.
              The Hen and her cheeping stars
              cross their threshing floor.

All through the night the flowers flare,
exhaling scent into the wind.
              The lamp now climbs the stair,
              shines from above, is dimmed…

It’s dawn: the petals, slightly worn,
close up again—each bud to brood,
              in its soft, secret urn,
              on some yet-nameless good.

Giovanni Pascoli

Translated by Geoffrey Brock

Il Gelsomino Notturno

 

E s'aprono i fiori notturni,
nell'ora che penso a' miei cari.
              Sono apparse in mezzo ai viburni
              le farfalle crepuscolari.

Da un pezzo si tacquero i gridi:
là sola una casa bisbiglia.
              Sotto l'ali dormono i nidi,
              come gli occhi sotto le ciglia.

Dai calici aperti si esala
l'odore di fragole rosse.
              Splende un lume là nella sala.
              Nasce l’erba sopra le fosse.

Un'ape tardiva sussurra
trovando già prese le celle.
              La Chioccetta per l'aia azzurra
              va col suo pigolio di stelle.

Per tutta la notte s'esala
l'odore che passa col vento.
              Passa il lume su per la scala;
              brilla al primo piano: s'è spento…

È l'alba: si chiudono i petali
un poco gualciti; si cova,
              dentro l'urna molle e segreta,
              non so che felicità nuova.

 

Pear Tree

Silver dust  

lifted from the earth,  

higher than my arms reach,  

you have mounted.  

O silver,

higher than my arms reach  

you front us with great mass;  

  

no flower ever opened  

so staunch a white leaf,  

no flower ever parted silver

from such rare silver;  

  

O white pear,  

your flower-tufts,  

thick on the branch,  

bring summer and ripe fruits

in their purple hearts.

H.D.

Song

My heart, my dove, my snail, my sail, my   

    milktooth, shadow, sparrow, fingernail,   

         flower-cat and blossom-hedge, mandrake

root now put to bed, moonshell, sea-swell,   

    manatee, emerald shining back at me,   

         nutmeg, quince, tea leaf and bone, zither,

cymbal, xylophone; paper, scissors, then

    there’s stone—Who doesn’t come through the door   

         to get home?

Cynthia Zarin

The Republic of Poetry

                   For Chile

In the republic of poetry,

a train full of poets

rolls south in the rain

as plum trees rock

and horses kick the air,

and village bands

parade down the aisle

with trumpets, with bowler hats,

followed by the president

of the republic,

shaking every hand.

In the republic of poetry,

monks print verses about the night

on boxes of monastery chocolate,

kitchens  in restaurants

use odes for recipes

from eel to artichoke,

and poets eat for free.

In the republic of poetry,

poets read to the baboons

at the zoo, and all the primates,

poets and baboons alike, scream for joy.

In the republic of poetry,

poets rent a helicopter

to bombard the national palace

with poems on bookmarks,

and everyone in the courtyard

rushes to grab a poem

fluttering from the sky,

blinded by weeping.

In the republic of poetry,

the guard at the airport

will not allow you to leave the country

until you declaim a poem for her

and she says Ah! Beautiful.

Martin Espada 

from The Republic of Poetry