Two Poems at a Time -22-

As far as I’m concerned, the first poem below is as much an ode to Mother Earth as anything can be. But, just for fun, and for your reading pleasure, please find the second, in honor of Earth Day!

 

 

Doesn’t this poem make you want to marry a surrealist? (Nevermind the fact that Breton married 3 times…)

                                                                                                                                                             

                                                                  -Lucia

Freedom of Love
by Andre Breton
(Included in 99 Poems in Translation, edited by Harold Pinter)
(Translated from the French by Edouard Roditi)

My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child’s writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow’s nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby’s crucible
With breasts of the rose’s spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans’ backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

 

**********************************************************************

 

There is very little left to say about the state of our planet… That its moods know their twins inside our own veins is a truth. That the earth’s sorrows are our own is an irrefutable truth. That we are nothing, that our existence is rendered obsolete without a kind sun and an environment in harmony– well, read this poem

It is also a truth that no action for the greater good is taken by an individual unless it’s one understood in personal terms. To me, personally, nature functions as a kind of weaver of memories. As someone who has forgotten so much, a rainy day, a dewy morning, a scorching afternoon all serve to stop me. Make me remember. Without weather I would have no memories.

                                                                                                   

                                                                           -Aida

 

Rain, by Claribel Alegria (translated by Margaret S. Peden)

As the falling rain
trickles among the stones
memories come bubbling out.
It’s as if the rain
had pierced my temples.
Streaming
streaming chaotically
come memories:
the reedy voice
of the servant
telling me tales
of ghosts.
They sat beside me
the ghosts
and the bed creaked
that purple-dark afternoon
when I learned you were leaving forever,
a gleaming pebble
from constant rubbing
becomes a comet.
Rain is falling
falling
and memories keep flooding by
they show me a senseless
world
a voracious
world–abyss
ambush
whirlwind
spur
but I keep loving it
because I do
because of my five senses
because of my amazement
because every morning,
because forever, I have loved it
without knowing why.

 

 

1 Comment

Filed under Poetry Month 2010

One response to “Two Poems at a Time -22-

  1. mgr

    Ain’t it just like the night to play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet? Breton is like a 100-car pile up on a highway to outer space. Well chosen.

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