I Dare You by Dorianne Laux

I Dare You

 

It’s autumn, and we’re getting rid

of books, getting ready to retire,

to move some place smaller, more

manageable. We’re living in reverse,

age-proofing the new house, nothing

on the floors to trip over, no hindrances

to the slowed mechanisms of our bodies,

a small table for two. Our world is

shrinking, our closets mostly empty,

gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes,

the bells and whistles. Now, when

someone comes to visit and admires

our complete works of Shakespeare,

the hawk feather in the open dictionary,

the iron angel on a shelf, we say

take them. This is the most important

time of all, the age of divestment,

knowing what we leave behind is

like the fragrance of blossoming trees

that grows stronger after

you’ve passed them, breathing

them in for a moment before

breathing them out. An ordinary

Tuesday when one of you says

I dare you, and the other one

just laughs.

 

It’s autumn, and we’re getting rid

of books, getting ready to retire,

to move some place smaller, more

manageable. We’re living in reverse,

age-proofing the new house, nothing

on the floors to trip over, no hindrances

to the slowed mechanisms of our bodies,

a small table for two. Our world is

shrinking, our closets mostly empty,

gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes,

the bells and whistles. Now, when

someone comes to visit and admires

our complete works of Shakespeare,

the hawk feather in the open dictionary,

the iron angel on a shelf, we say

take them. This is the most important

time of all, the age of divestment,

knowing what we leave behind is

like the fragrance of blossoming trees

that grows stronger after

you’ve passed them, breathing

them in for a moment before

breathing them out. An ordinary

Tuesday when one of you says

I dare you, and the other one

just laughs.

You Want Me Pale by Alfonsina Storni

You Want Me Pale

 

You want me pale,

Made of sea foam,

A mother of pearl.

Made of white lily,

Untouched among the others.

Made of thinning perfume.

Petals sealed.

 

Not touched by moonbeams,

Not called 'sister' by the daisies.

You want me like snow,

You want me white,

You want me pale.

 

You have had all

The cups in your hands,

Flowing fruit and honey,

Staining your lips dark.

You have been in the banquet

Laced with grapevines,

Relinquishing your meat,

Reveling in Bacchus.

You have been in the gardens,

Black with deception,

Wearing red and

Running into ruin.

 

You have kept your

Skeleton intact, and by

Miracles I do not know,

Still expect me to be white

(God forgive you for it),

Still expect me to be spotless

(God forgive you for it),

Still expect me to be pale.

 

So flee into the woods,

Run into the mountains;

Clean your mouth;

Live in a cottage;

Touch the damp earth

With your hands;

Nourish your body with

The bitter root;

Drink, like Moses,

From the rocks;

Sleep upon the frost;

Rejuvenate your flesh

With saltpetre and water;

Speak with the birds,

Rise with the sun.

And when your body

Has returned to you,

When it's become entangled

In the bedroom of your soul,

Only then, good man,

Can you expect me to be pale,

Expect me to be snow,

Expect me to be untouched.

 

(Translated from the Spanish by Sarah Fletcher)

We Wait by Adam Zagajewski

We Wait

One afternoon

Alfred Cortot plays Chopin

but only on a record

So what

There is eternity

There is delicacy

and dark powers

that drowse

We all wait

what comes next

There is eternity

but it ends soon

Sounds are lightning strokes

they can’t be stopped

We can be stopped

just like that

stop

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)

My Aunts by Adam Zagajewski

My Aunts

 

Always caught up in what they called 

the practical side of life 

(theory was for Plato), 

up to their elbows in furniture, in bedding, 

in cupboards and kitchen gardens,

they never neglected the lavender sachets 

that turned a linen closet to a meadow. 

 

The practical side of life, 

like the Moon’s unlighted face, 

didn’t lack for mysteries; 

when Christmastime drew near, 

life became pure praxis 

and resided temporarily in hallways, 

took refuge in suitcases and satchels. 

 

And when somebody died--it happened 

even in our family, alas—

my aunts, preoccupied

with death’s practical side, 

forgot at last about the lavender,

whose frantic scent bloomed selflessly 

beneath a heavy snow of sheets.

Don’t just do something, sit there.

And so I have, so I have,

                    the seasons curling around me like smoke,

Gone to the end of the earth and back without sound.

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)