INDEX—My Poems about Language & Literature

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I silenced her with lullabies at first,
then platitudes of protocol. To wit:
"Children should be seen, not heard." "To burst
out laughing, or in tears, is to admit
a want of self-control." "Decorum, child!"
"At table, silence." "Girl, you have no choice,
so hold your tongue." "Don't interrupt!" "When riled,
count ten." "A lady oughtn't raise her voice."
My grandchild brought a basket and a scandal:
she spoke, and the unspeakable occurred.
She'd still have been devoured by him—the vandal!—
but how I wish she'd turned without a word!
Worse, later—when she screamed—the help that came
condemned us both to live...when death ends shame!

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     (Inspired by George Orwell's definition of "a good bad poem")
I used to be a slave to Lust.
     I labored day and night,
persuading wary chicks to trust
     that I was Mr. Right.
For Lust I sweated, preened, and fussed,
     but now I’ve seen the light
That deadly sin deserves disgust.
     I’m Sloth’s new acolyte.
Lust would make me scheme and flirt
     for hour after hour;
make plans for dinner, drinks, dessert,
     a trinket or a flower.
For Sloth, I needn’t change my shirt.
     I needn’t shave or shower.
I’m ninety-nine percent inert.
     O Sloth, I’m in your power!
Oh, sure, there is an element
     of Lust within those scenes
on which my interest is bent
     in films and magazines.
But porn provides what I once went
     to lengths to earn. It means
my efforts are irrelevant,
     if Sloth’s my queen of queens.
Since no one shares my (unmade) bed,
     what peaceful rest I’ve known!
No angry lovers wish me dead
     in person or by phone.
With Lust, I hated Time’s slow tread;
    with Sloth, how time has flown!
“He gets there fastest,” Kipling said,
    “who voyages alone.”

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What, no Sapphic stanzas? The foxy Sappho
didn’t always use them herself—no one-trick
hedgehog, she—but where are the famous stanzas
     named in her honor?
Aaron P.’s translation does not attempt them.
No, instead he reaches for something bolder:
namely, Sappho’s other renowned inventions—
     pēctis and plectrum.
         pēctis: an ancient stringed musical instrument.
	plectrum: a thin piece of tortoiseshell to pluck a musical instrument’s strings.
Music is the essence of Sappho’s magic,
argues Aaron P., but her quantitative
(length-based) meter changes when English gives it
     stress-based percussion.
Witness this review, with its weakened line-ends.
English must demote to a long-short combo
what, in Sappho’s Greek, would be mainly long-long,
     bold and emphatic:
          - u -  x    - u u -    u - -
          - u -  x    - u u -    u - -
          - u -  x    - u u -    u - -
                          - u u -    u
Aaron further grieves that, while ancient cultures
instantly inferred from the Sapphic stanza
this is something songlike, our own thinks this is
     prosy and awkward.
Still, free-verse translations are not the answer:
shunning formal elements Sappho valued,
these “betray her poems by their very nature.”
     (Thus he condemns them.)
What to do, then? Aaron invokes the song-forms
English-speakers know from their own tradition.
This is something songlike, indeed. Prepare for
     aural enchantment:

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Iambs, standing in for the Sapphic template,
dance through three tetrameter lines, one half-line.
Rhyme preserves the emphasis Sappho gave her
     lyrical line-ends:

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On the whole, I find his approach successful,
though his frequent metrical substitutions
paired with off-rhymes (stomach/come back, and even
     dalliance/battalions)
sometimes raise my eyebrows. The choice of diction
feels contemporary, with few exceptions.
(Who, this day and age, says bedizened? Must we
     dance with the Webster’s?)

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Wonder how these excerpts have fared with others?
Here’s the way Anne Carson presents them (’02,
Knopf) in If Not, Winter, although I’ll skip the
     Greek she puts facing:

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Anne’s concern for simply transmitting extant
text is why her lines have opposing Greek, and
why so many pages contain such random
     fragments as these three:

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Aaron’s goal, instead, is to give the reader
pleasure. String too small to be saved is absent.
Further, he’s reorganized songs by topic,
     not just by number.
Notes (which are detailed, and at times, amusing)
face each fragment, rather than lurk as endnotes.
Though without the numbers, it’s hard to find old
     favorite pieces,
Aaron P.’s achievement in this translation
stands. The graceful music of Sappho’s pēctis,
plucked by rhyme as if by a skillful plectrum,
     drowns my objections.
Stung with Love, the subtitle Aaron gives his
new translation, comes from the thrilling piece that
German scholars found in ’04. Another
     reason to buy this.

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NON EST HIC, a marble angel cries
in three-inch letters. Headline news, indeed:
HE IS NOT HERE. I know this, but I need
the stillness solid, polished stone supplies.
NON EST HIC, another stone proclaims.
For me, he wasn’t ever “here”. We met
only in words, and now the Internet
preserves those words as stone preserves these names.
We never shared a meal. I can’t pretend
I liked his politics. His tone annoyed
me frequently. But on the other hand,
the love that made this brilliant man my friend
will still be verdant when the Web is void
and all this stone has weathered into sand.

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This sonnet would annoy you, I suppose.
(“I suppose is filler…this bit’s maud-
lin gimmickry…”) You’d never spare the rod
from this one, since you never did with those
I workshopped. How you must have held your nose,
critiquing my religious stuff! “Oh. God,”
you’d type, then tell me where my meter was flawed
(“Like here?”) and skewer my unconvincing close.
Yet you were kind…suspending disbelief
to teach your Christian neighbor to pursue
the Powerful, the Perfect, and the True.
Remembering that kindness makes my grief
much less, you so-called atheist, for how
could what you loved so long deny you now?

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     ca. 1976
They say my mother's grandmother remembers
apocalyptic San Francisco scenes,
when all that wasn’t rubble turned to embers,
and all that wasn’t ash was smithereens.
Oh, how I long to hear of her adventures.
(Imagine, fighting fire with dynamite!)
Too bad she only talks about her dentures,
and how her siblings didn’t treat her right.

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Dear Bluebeard—Yes, this means I found your cache
of body parts. You promised me, you swore,
and still you’re hoarding pornographic trash!
I’m gone. No need to hide it anymore.
Dear Dr. Frankenstein—I can’t compete
with patchworked fantasy. My flesh is real,
and therefore flawed. You only want its heat—
to animate your scavenged, fused ideal.
Dear Don Quijote—Damn it, don’t pretend
I’m Dulcinea! Love me as I am,
not as you wish I were! I can’t ascend
that pedestal...nor tolerate this sham.
Dear John—This isn’t working. You know why.
Go buy yourself a blow-up doll. Goodbye.

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My sister speaks with apple-scented breath
to us, her siblings formed with feet of clay.
To us, parental wrath seems worse than death.
"Not living's worse than death," she likes to say.
Like Eve, she knows accomplices dilute
the brimstone she would otherwise deserve;
so Tammy divvies up forbidden fruit
and trusts that virtue's graded on a curve.
My sister could incriminate a saint,
then calmly take her portion of the blame.
My strategy, like Adam's, is complaint—
"The woman YOU put here with me..."—not shame.
"If not for her...if not for her..." I whine,
still doomed as any sonnets fourteenth line.

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Pity poor Penelope
          husband      facing     hostile     sea
Pity Helen even more
          facing     hostile     husband     shore
Pity poor Penelope
          weaving     4     unweaving     3
Pity Helen even more
          looming     husband     keeping     score
Pity poor Penelope
         given     grief     by     revelry
Pity Helen even more
         guests     aggrieved     nepenthe     pour
Pity poor Penelope
          testing     husband     bedroom     tree
Pity Helen even more
          husband     testing     bedroom     door
Pity poor Penelope
          metaphor     fidelity
Pity Helen even more
          trophy     object     metaphor

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Tyger Tyger, bright with flame:
sorry I misspelt thy name!
Pray forgive my other bungles:
saying “forests,” meaning “jungles”;
deeming light reflected from
thine eyes’ tapetum lucidum
actual combustion; and
flubbing, through too-slight command
of cardiology, the part
about “the sinews of thy heart.”
Thoughts of chains and anvil-bangers
made me drop some fearful clangers.
How my cheeks are burning bright!
Dare I hope I’ve set things right
by means of this regretful ditty,
Tiger Tiger? Kitty Kitty?

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The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep
          beneath this heaving, mould’ring turf, says Gray:
for them no more their busy housewives keep
          their hearths and homes, for here is where they stay.
For them, these men whom Fame and Fortune failed
          to lionise — the guiltless Cromwells, mute
inglorious Miltons, heroes who prevailed
          against their tyrant fields, without repute
beyond their quaint community — we spare
          some sympathy. We contemplate their graves.
We offer up this elegy. We care.
          But what about those housewives, eh? Those slaves
who paced from laundry tubs to birthing beds
          and back, whom Fame chose also to condemn
to unsung deeds and never-laurelled heads?
          Not even Gray can spare a thought for them.

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Women only write about themselves.
     When they compose,
a therapeutic ooze engulfs and salves
     a woman’s woes.
That self-absorbed confession self-absolves,
     while readers doze.
Women only write about themselves.
     Enough of those.
When men say “I”, their “I” is universal.
     Their strong hearts bleed
for all the tribe. Applaud their verses’ muscle!
     Attend! Give heed!
The female “I” is narcissistic. Facile.
     A feeble reed.
When men say “I”, their “I” is universal.
     It’s all we need.

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I’d probably be fluent in it now,
two decades since your first impatient No.
You laughed, “What for? You had me at Hello!”
when I aspired to go beyond nĭ hăo.
I studied anyway, prepared to wow
you with wŏ ái ní. “What?” Wŏ ái ní. “Ohhhhhh!
I love you, too.” I’d seen your grimace, though.
I xiè xie-ed thanks. That’s all you would allow.
You begged me not to bother anymore.
I lacked your perfect pitch. I’d started late.
Your parents’ dialect was Shanghainese,
not Mandarin. A waste of time. “What for?”
you asked, bewildered. “We communicate.”
But when we don’t, I harbor thoughts like these.

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Brandished from a tree-branch, the cadaver was decaying
as if it were a gruesome fruit still dangling from its stalk:
a testament to judgment whose absurdity would shock;
a pendulum intruding on the roadway with its swaying.
The nudity’s indecency, the stuck-out tongue displaying,
and hair that formed a jester’s coxcomb, lock by upright lock,
gave him a buffoonish look; and where my horse should walk,
a group of ragged children mocked, derisive laughter braying.
And the melancholy carcass, with its head inclined to yaw—
abominable, bloated, on a gibbet leafy-green—
spread odors on the breeze (which was a wind, in fact, and raw)
as it rocked with swings like censer-passes, solemn and serene.
And the sun went on ascending through a blue without a flaw,
and the landscape was idyllic, a Tibullus-lyric scene.

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En la rama el expuesto cadáver se pudría,
como un horrible fruto colgante junto al tallo,
rindiendo testimonio de inverosímil fallo
y con ritmo de péndola oscilando en la vía.
La desnudez impúdica, la lengua que salía
y alto mechón en forma de una cresta de gallo,
dábanle aspecto bufo; y al pie de mi caballo
un grupo de arrapiezos holgábase y reía.
Y el fúnebre despojo, con la cabeza gacha,
escandaloso y tumido en el verde patíbulo
desparramaba hedores en brisa como racha,
mecido con solemnes compases de Turíbulo.
Y el sol iba en ascenso por un azul sin tacha,
y el campo era figura de una canción de Tíbulo.

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     A certain downer, Jesuit
     no more—still dull to read, though—dares,
     for two days running now, to crit
     my conduct, verse, and love affairs.
     In Christian fashion, I’ll be gracious:
when pedants crit my verse, they’re welcome to.
But love affairs critiqued by Team Ignatius
     will never get a fair review.

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     Certain cafard, jadis jésuite,
     Plat écrivain, depuis deux jours
     Ose gloser sur ma conduite,
     Sur mes vers, et sur mes amours.
     En bon chrétien je lui fais grace:
Chaque pédant peut critiquer mes vers ;
Mais sur l'amour jamais un fils d'Ignace
     Ne glosera que de travers.

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I’ve always longed for fame.
That’s why, I must confess,
it rankles, this acclaim.
I’ve always-longed-for fame…
in someone else’s name!
This isn’t the success
I’ve always longed for. (Fame!)
That’s why I must confess.

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Nobody heard him, the dud man,
But still he lay dinning:
I was much farther ahead than you thought
And not raving but winning.
Poor chap, he always loved snarking
And now he’s banned
It must have been too covfefe for him his platform gave way,
They panned.
Oh, no no no, it was too covfefe always
(Still the dud one lay dinning)
I was much too far ahead all my life
And not raving but winning.

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I’m sick of songs of victimhood—
stuff that I don’t want to write.
My work will preach that life is good!
I’m sick of songs of victimhood.
My muse, though, hasn’t understood,
and only sends depressing shite
I’m sick of—songs of victimhood.
Stuff that. I don’t want to write.

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Will treks you bless
be hiccup-free,
or choke? I’d guess,
from past debris,
their destiny.
(Asphyxia’s.)
But don’t mind me,
Odysseus.
You traveled, yes,
from A to B,
but hurry-less
and haltingly.
I’m Odyssey-
susp-yssey-ous.
But few agree,
Odysseus.
It’s S.O.S.,
not V.I.P.,
that should impress
in your C.V.
Yet your I.D.
can tizzy us
with travel glee,
Odysseus:
“What shipwreck spree?
Awe-dizzy us,
Ship Rex (i.e.,
Odysseus)!”

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“Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,”
wrote Keats of gilt-edged books of poetry.
I estimate my armchair odyssey
outlasted his by one-point-seven-fold
before our first stamped passports. To behold
famed peaks of foreign verse transported me,
like him, but rarely geographically.
We’d known of Elsewhere just what we’d been told.
We both loved French and Latin: Keats had had
no time in France; I’d spent five days, last year.
Keats went to Rome, but not, alas, back home.
Mom tempts me now with Venice! Athens! Rome!
A two-week cruise, half-price! That’s not half bad!
But you’re in Hell when you’re with her, says Fear.

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Melancholia, you gentle
Nymph, I pledge my life to you.
Whoever scorns your joys, judgmental,
knows no pleasures that are true.
I asked the gods for hills and fountains.
Who will hear? Just I, at last,
content to live with lesser mountains,
lesser springs, than my request.

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Malinconia, Ninfa gentile,
la vita mia consacro a te;
i tuoi piaceri chi tiene a vile,
ai piacer veri nato non è.
Fonti e colline chiesi agli Dei;
m’udiro alfine, pago io vivrò,
né mai quel fonte co’ desir miei,
né mai quel monte trapasserò.

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Mom’s a French repeating form:
go-to phrases are her norm.
When something’s yanked her verbal chain,
follow patterns. Think refrain.
Calls begin I’m so upset!
When you ask, if all you get
is You know why!, engage your brain.
Follow patterns. Think refrain.
Scan your skull for what you did—
the felony that flipped her lid.
Baffled? Since she won’t explain,
follow patterns. Think refrain.
You always pull this crap, she’ll scold.
When evidence that’s decades old
blasts you like a hurricane,
follow patterns. Think refrain.
Yes, she galls, but not from spleen.
Though she’s petty, Mom’s not mean.
Aspies (when emotions strain)
follow patterns. Think. Refrain
from lashing out. You’re Aspie, too—
trust in rules to see you through.
When she drives you half insane,
follow patterns. Think. Refrain.
Say as little as you can.
I was wrong’s a decent plan.
(Though lying goes against your grain,
follow patterns: think refrain.)

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That frank discussion’s overdue.
The touchy-feely stuff you’ve fled
remains back-burnered. Wimp! Instead
of telling how she’s hurting you,
you’ve kept the peace, and kept your dread
of stirring the emotion-stew
that frank discussions overdo—
the touchy-feely stuff you’ve fled.
You’ve lacked the heart, so use your head.
It’s time you had that rendezvous.
Stop stalling, coward. See it through.
Just do it, so it can be said,
“That frank discussion’s over.” Do
the touchy-feely stuff you’ve fled.

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     To get along
with Mom’s a cinch:
Don’t say she’s wrong.
     To get a long,
tight bond, your strong,
tight gag must pinch.
     To get along
with Mom’s a cinch.

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Two jerks decide our crowded airport shuttle
is just the time and place to pick a fight.
Those forced to overhear remain polite,
pretending not to understand unsubtle
fusillades of blame and blunt rebuttal
because they’re in a foreign tongue. (Yeah, right:
like peevishness and pettiness and spite
need captions.) Captive, lacking room to scuttle
away from this unleashed barbarity,
the civilized—too well-behaved to sigh—
trade sidelong looks of solidarity.
I’d seek their kinship, claiming parity,
but lack the heart—the nerve—the gall—to try.
Mom’s one of those two jerks. And so am I.

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     a bored and haughty wife,     now sidelined and abeyed,
     half-pivoting within      a flood-tide of brocade,
     smiles at the black-skinned boy     who bears her dress’s train.
          —final tercet of the French sonnet “The Dogaressa”
                 by José-Maria de Heredia (1842–1905)
Veneto, black-skinned boys, and trains:
	displaced by devastation,
young Africans with pluck and brains
	revive that combination.
They search these railcars for remains
	of others’ dislocation,
like gleaners seeking fallen grains—
	a task of desperation.
Before each stop, the train brakes grind.
	We pause. We recommence.
A boy appears, as if assigned.
	His scrutiny’s intense.
He scans for objects left behind
	through lack of care or sense.
(I guess. I’ve yet to see one find
	a bit of recompense.)
We stop. We go. The scene repeats,
	on every train we’ve taken.
The boy surveys the floors and seats
	for anything forsaken,
and—empty-handed still—retreats,
	his eagerness unshaken.
I’ve seen his clones on city streets.
	What trades do they partake in?
Some hold out cups to beg, although
	we blind, deaf crowds move on.
(They tug our heart- and purse-strings, so
	we play automaton.)
Some boys this age get pimped, I know.
	Some pilfer things to pawn.
The train brakes shriek. We stop. We go.
	Our boy’s come back. He’s gone.
He’s trapped in this recurrent dream.
	I feel I’m trapped here, too.
The other passengers don’t seem
	to see him passing through,
except a few who show extreme
	contempt (as I construe
their narrowed eyes’ attentive gleam).
	That, too, is déjà vu.
“A zodiac of sorts,” I muse:
	The Wailing One. The Doors.
The Kid who seeks what others lose.
	The Gaggle that ignores.
The Watchdog ready to accuse
	young scapegoats it abhors.
And I, the Poet, prone to use
	portentous metaphors.
Again, these constellations wheel.
	Again, I contemplate
commuters’ faces, which reveal
	obliviousness or hate.
Another horrifying squeal.
	Another hurried wait.
Another search. How must he feel,
	this boy, about his fate?
Though circumstances brought him here,
	not slavers, is he free?
He scrambles just to live, it’s clear,
	although he ought to be
in school. He’ll be no engineer.
	No teacher. No M.D.
Survival is his life’s career,
	decides society.
I think what lives my children lead.
	I think of things I’ve read.
The long-dead voices that I heed.
	The headlines in my head.
The decadence. The waste. The greed.
	The desperate. The dead.
What choice was smooth-faced Ganymede
	presented with instead?
He rode to immortality,
	but did he have a say?
Consent’s a triviality
	to gods, some might inveigh,
and rape’s a technicality
	(defined the ancient way),
and pederasts’ carnality
	had stricter rules of play.
I know. But circumstances tore
	that kid from loved ones’ care
to Mount Olympus, where he bore
	the things that slave-boys bear.
And bears them still, forevermore.
	No beard, no death, can spare
young Ganymede, exploited for
	eternity up there.
No, no, he’s fortunate, insist
	some authors. He’s adored.
Complimented. Cuddled. Kissed.
	Ambrosia’s his reward
for having topped the favorites list
	of such a lofty lord.
The death we mortals face, he missed.
	That shouldn’t be ignored.
A palace slave is nonetheless
	a slave, and can’t decline
a burden, though it might oppress:
	a massive cup of wine;
the heavy train of someone’s dress
	who thinks herself divine;
the weight of knowing each caress
	means mainly “This is mine.”
The dogaressa eyes her toy.
	Her property. Her pet.
Some see in him what might destroy
	stability—a threat.
But I behold a human boy
	ensnared in power’s net.
What games his owner might enjoy
	will fuck him up, I bet.
But maybe I misjudge her smile.
	I view it through the prism
of factors I must reconcile,
	like French conservatism,
a splash of Afrophobic bile,
	and anti-feminism.
Perhaps she’s not a pedophile.
	(Forgive my skepticism.)
Perhaps she smiles because she’s kind
	(though labeled “bored” and “haughty”).
Perhaps the lady’s too refined
	to have a thought that’s naughty.
The dots connected in my mind
	to Ganymede are dotty,
perhaps. To me, though, they’re combined.
	These points are not staccati:
Aquarius, the catamite
	within the Zodiac;
a twisted queen who claims the right
	to toy with pawns; this black—
and therefore foreign—youngster’s plight,
	forever circling back
in search of luck. These trains unite
	on thought’s recursive track.
He’s African. He’s Syrian.
	He’s Phrygian. He’s Rom.
He’s Asian. He’s Nigerian.
	He’s white, but can’t go home.
His bedroom is empyrean:
	its roof is heaven’s dome.
His cup’s part full, in theory. In
	it? Coins. It’s styrofoam.
He’s Ganymede, collectively,
	yet every clone’s unique.
They all seem doomed to tragedy,
	but don’t mistake mystique
and myth for how things have to be.
	Inertia’s prospect’s bleak,
but railroad cars and history
	change course with friction’s shriek.
He’s made it to the Occident.
	(Let’s pause now to salute
ourselves, and our enlightenment.)
	His homeland tried to shoot
and starve him. He should be content
	he didn’t drown en route.
He’s lucky! Don’t misrepresent
	the fact he’s destitute.
Some myths should really be revised.
	Some fictions should appall.
When those who claim they’re civilized
	spew racist vitriol,
and orphaned kids are demonized
	by oligarchs, we all
should spot the pattern, unsurprised.
	The writing’s on the wall.
The doorway yawns. I stiffly rise
	on travel-swollen feet.
At noon, I crossed the Bridge of Sighs;
	my daytrip’s now complete.
The train goes on, with one surprise—
	a monetary treat
for hopeful, homeless, hungry eyes—
	between one wall and seat.

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You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
To lay it bare’s unbearable. You’ve tried.
You’d like to leave it buried, but you can’t.
Too few have cared to hear a woman rant
since Homer (“Sing, O Muse, of anger”) died.
You have to tell the truth; but tell it slant,
since, frankly, even Keats would have to grant
this truth’s no beauty. This, you’ve had to hide.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t,
so Dickinson’s advice is relevant.
She’ll be your Virgil, your inferno-guide.
You have to “Tell [...] the truth, but tell it slant— ”
“Tell ALL the truth.” But don’t get adamant,
“Or every man be blind—,” she qualified.
You’d like to leave it bare. (Read: But you can’t.)
Loud girls get label-gagged: once, Termagant,
Virago, Shrew; now, Bitch. Take that in stride.
(You have, to tell the truth.) But tell it—slant
or no—you must. Omit the bitter. Scant
the pathos. Cut the caustic. Snip the snide.
(You’d like to leave it, buried.) But you can’t
accuse the rich of rape, or lawyers chant,
“No, he’s the victim! She’s a slut who lied.”
You have to tell the truth, but tell it slant.
You’d like to leave it buried. But you can’t.

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Love notes for me, in verse? Get out of here!
Whenever love gets versified, it’s forced.
The boy-god’s king-claims shouldn’t be endorsed
in old Apollo’s scepter’s rightful sphere.
Good prose is how I’ve sought your favor, dear;
I won’t accept your favor badly versed.
Love’s infinite, not measured. You’ve coerced
it all within a meter? That’s severe!
Your note begs coplas, pretty Isabel,
so I—your ultra-gallant, genial beau—
dashed off some bits of tone-deaf doggerel.
But take these words of wisdom, too, and know
a poem doesn't speak of love as well
as just an artless, plain “I love you so.”

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¿Cartitas a mí en verso? ¡Vade retro!
Es forzado el amor en verso escrito
y no estaría bien que el dios chiquito
del viejo Apolo pretendiera el cetro.
Si en buena prosa tu cariño impetro,
no en malos versos tu cariño admito:
no se mide el amor, que es infinito,
y tu lo adaptas sin piedad al metro.
Coplas tu carta quiere, hermosa Lice,
y yo, en genial galantería extrema,
breves y monótonas te las hice.
Pero sábelo bien y ten por lema
que, en cuestiones de amor, mucho más dice
un “te quiero” mal puesto, que un poema.

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Cicada that I love, our era thinks you low.
Your song’s essentially the same as ever, though.
It’s not less pure and noble than it used to be.
Since something’s changed—your voice, or else humanity—
it’s man; to that, I must resign this heart of mine.
          +9 lines — remainder of translation redacted, due to publication agreement.
          I have a limited number of PDF offprints to share, if you’d like to request one.

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Hush: it’s the cicada—the erudite
professor who taught Virgil poetry,
and gave Greek vineyards, too, their harmony
like deathless, ostinato-singing light.
          +10 lines — remainder of translation redacted, due to publication agreement.
          I have a limited number of PDF offprints to share, if you’d like to request one.

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Silencio; es la cigarra, la doctora,
la que enseñó a Virgilio la poesía
y dio a las viñas griegas su armonía
cual bordón inmortal de luz cantora.
Aun pasa con su lira triunfadora
ardiendo en entusiasmo y energía;
encerrado en sus élitros va el día,
escuchad su canción abrasadora.
Ser en la roja siesta enardecido,
es un ascua del sol hecha alarido
que a su propio calor fundirse quiere.
Quema al cantar su real naturaleza,
canta por el amor a la belleza,
canta a las almas, y cantando muere.

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For years, he's been at sea. Today, again—
her busy hands just finishing a row—
Mom turns to make a comment, and he's gone,
unraveling the lengths to which she's gone
to keep the vow that, time and time again,
she's sworn: to keep this house his home. Her "Oh!"
cues sirens' song. She waits alone as row
by row expands the search net's polygon.
The blue tide brings him back to her again.
Again, his urge to row away's not gone.

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Apollo is the one
who placed this curse on me.
We all know how much fun
Apollo is! The one
with sickness-arrows? Sun-
stroke? Visions? Poetry?
Apollo is the one
who placed this curse on me.
I’m doomed to live in hope,
then watch it drown. In spite
of each draft’s horror-scope,
I’m doomed to live in hope.
(Not faith. What helps me cope
is doubt I’ve got things right.)
I’m doomed to live in hope,
then watch it drown in spite.
No one wants to hear
this stuff, I’ve got to say.
Not even I, I fear.
No. One wants to hear
of beauty, love, good cheer—
what chases blues away!
No one wants to hear
this stuff I’ve got to say.
I need an audience
to share my verses’ weight.
The burden’s too immense.
I need an audience
for this experience
that none appreciate.
I need an audience
to share my verses. (Wait!)

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     I thought it was
some techno-racket, loud and long.
     I thought it was
the power lines that made that buzz.
A tree’s crescendo proved me wrong.
“No way! Is that cicada song?”
     I thought. (It was!)
     I laughed, surprised
to meet celebrities, unplanned.
     I laughed, surprised
to learn the din I’d so despised
for half a day had been the grand
poetic mascots, heard firsthand.
     I laughed. (Surprised?)
     I’d never heard
those bards before. That’s my excuse.
     I’d never heard
their song. I’d only been assured
it’s stirring. (The description’s loose;
just what it stirs—contempt, abuse—
     I’d never heard.)
     Forgive, O dear
first poets, my uncultured yawn.
     Forgive, O dear
cicadas. We are kin, it’s clear:
when I’ve been droning on and on,
folks wish I, too, were off and gone.
     Forgive. (Oh, dear.)

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While waiting for an English-speaking priest
to come and comprehend what Mom confessed,
I passed the time by trying to digest
a stone. The man it honored was deceased,
but buried elsewhere — praised, not rest-in-peaced.
     [+9 more lines, + 2 more sonnets]

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While, bobbing on the plain,   the blond wheat’s ripened ears
bow, burdened, underneath   the giant, sleeping sky,
and seem to make it known   how close the hour appears
when waves of gold, turned grains,   will fully liquefy...
          +10 lines—remainder redacted until one month post-publication.

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Quand les blonds épis mûrs ondoyant dans la plaine
S’inclinent accablés sous le grand ciel dormant
Et semblent annoncer qu’elle n’est plus lointaine
L’heure où ruisselleront les flots d’or du froment,
Comme des condamnés, offrant leur tête pleine
De l’espoir des hivers, un seul enchantement
Les berce dans l’oubli de la moisson prochaine.
Le blé qui va mourir écoute vaguement
La cigale entonnant ses notes frémissantes.
Voici les moissonneurs! Leurs faucilles grinçantes
Abattant les épis découronnent l’été
Et fidèle au destin des blés, triste, muette,
La cigale s’endort, comme meurt un poète,
Lasse d’avoir vécu, fière d’avoir chanté!