The small man
Builds cages for everyone
He
Knows.
While the sage,
Who has to duck his head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.
– Hafiz
Postscript:
This is a poem whose imagery survives translation, transcends language. I came across this via Chris Guillebeau at the Art of Non-Conformity.
More about Hafiz here.
Tagged: Hafiz, imagery, philosophy, translation
If you believe in the magic of language,
then Elvis really Lives
and Princess Diana foretold I end as car spin.
If you believe the letters themselves
contain a power within them,
then you understand
what makes outside tedious,
how desperation becomes a rope ends it.
The circular logic that allows senator to become treason,
and treason to become atoners.
That eleven plus two is twelve plus one,
and an admirer is also married.
That if you could just rearrange things the right way
you’d find your true life,
the right path, the answer to your questions:
you’d understand how the Titanic
turns into that ice tin,
and debit card becomes bad credit.
How listen is the same as silent,
and not one letter separates stained from sainted.
– Peter Pereira
from What’s Written on the Body
Postscript:
A clever poem because of the word-play, but also poignant in parts. I stumbled across this at The Poetry Foundation, a great poetry resource. You can hear the poet read it out here and read more about the poet here.
Tagged: language, Peter Pereira, word play
Catch, my Uncle Jack said
and oh I caught this huge apple
red as Mrs Kelly’s bum.
It’s red as Mrs Kelly’s bum, I said
and Daddy roared
and swung me on his stomach with a heave.
Then I hid the apple in my room
till it shrunk like a face
growing eyes and teeth ribs.
Then Daddy took me to the zoo
he knew the man there
they put a snake around my neck
and it crawled down the front of my dress
I felt its flicking tongue
dripping onto me like a shower.
Daddy laughed and said Smart Snake
and Mrs Kelly with us scowled.
In the pond where they kept the goldfish
Philip and I broke the ice with spades
and tried to spear the fishes;
we killed one and Philip ate it,
then he kissed me
with the raw saltless fish in his mouth.
My sister Mary’s got bad teeth
and said I was lucky, hen she said
I had big teeth, but Philip said I was pretty.
He had big hands that smelled.
I would speak of Tom’, soft laughing,
who danced in the mornings round the sundial
teaching me the steps of France, turning
with the rhythm of the sun on the warped branches,
who’d hold my breast and watch it move like a snail
leaving his quick urgent love in my palm.
And I kept his love in my palm till it blistered.
When they axed his shoulders and neck
the blood moved like a branch into the crowd.
And he staggered with his hanging shoulder
cursing their thrilled cry, wheeling,
waltzing in the French style to his knees
holding his head with the ground,
blood settling on his clothes like a blush;
this way
when they aimed the thud into his back.
And I find cool entertainment now
with white young Essex, and my nimble rhymes.
– Michael Ondaatje
Postscript:
There is something enjoyable about the jolt you get from a shift in perspective; in this instance, when you realise which Elizabeth the poem title refers to. Today is the anniversary of her death in 1603.
If you enjoyed this and Browning’s Duchess, I would recommend “Snow, Glass, Apples”, a short story by Neil Gaiman.
Tagged: alternate versions, Elizabeth, history, Michael Ondaatje, unsettling