Vertigo, Or A Contemplation of Things That Come To An End by Alejandra Pizarnik

Vertigo, Or A Contemplation of Things That Come To An End

This Lilac unleaves.

It falls from itself

and hides its ancient shadow.

I will die of such things.

 

(Translated by Yvette Siegert)

Key Episodes from an Earthly Life by C. D. Wright

Key Episodes from an Earthly Life 

 

As surely as there are crumbs on the lips

of the blind          I came for a reason

 

I remember when the fields were no taller 

than a pencil          do you remember that

 

I told him          I’ve got socks older than her 

but he would not listen

 

You will starve out girl          they told her 

but she did not listen

 

As surely as there is rice in the cuffs 

of the priest          sex is a factor          not a fact

 

Everything I do is leaning          toward 

what we came for          is that perfectly clear

 

I like your shoes your uncut hair 

I like your use of space too

 

I wanted to knock her lights out 

the air cut in and did us some good

 

One thing about my television set it has 

a knob on it enabling me to switch channels

 

Now it is your turn          to shake or

provoke          or heal me          I won’t say it again

 

Do you like your beets well-cooked and chilled 

even if they make your gums itch

 

Those dark arkansas roads          that is the sound 

I am after          the choiring of crickets

 

Around this time of year          especially evening 

I love everything          I sold enough eggs

 

To buy a new dress          I watched him drink the juice 

of our beets          And render the light liquid

 

I came to talk you into physical splendor 

I do not wish to speak to your machine

Heat by Denis Johnson

Heat

Here in the electric dusk your naked lover

tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.

It's beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,

Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,

streaming with hatred in the heat

as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin

to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,

and such a last light—full of spheres and zones.

August,

              you're just an erotic hallucination,

just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,

are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night,

this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,

the bogus moon of tenderness and magic

you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?

 

 

For My Own Protection by Essex Hemphill

For My Own Protection

 

I want to start 

an organization

to save my life.

If whales, snails,

dogs, cats

Chrysler and Nixon

can be saved,

the lives of Black men 

are priceless

and can be saved.

We should be able

to save each other.

I don’t want to wait 

for the Heritage Foundation

to release a study

stating Black men 

are almost extinct.

I don’t want to be

the living dead

pacified with drugs

and sex.

 

If a human chain

can be formed

around missile sites,

then surely Black men

can form human chains

around Anacostia, Harlem,

South Africa, Wall Street, 

Hollywood, each other.

 

If we have to take tomorrow 

with our blood are we ready?

Do our s curls,

dreadlocks, and Phillies

make us any more ready

than a bush or a conkaline?

I’m not concerned

about the attire of a soldier.

All I want to know

for my own protection

is are we capable

of whatever

whenever?

Think of Others by Mahmoud Darwish

Think of Others  

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others 

(do not forget the pigeon's food).  

As you conduct your wars, think of others 

(do not forget those who seek peace).  

As you pay your water bill, think of others 

(those who are nursed by clouds).  

As you return home, to your home, think of others 

(do not forget the people of the camps).  

As you sleep and count the stars, think of others 

(those who have nowhere to sleep).  

As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others 

(those who have lost the right to speak).  

As you think of others far away, think of yourself 

(say: "If only I were a candle in the dark"). 

(Translated by Mohammed Shaheen)

Most Days I Want to Live by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Most Days I Want to Live 

Not all days. But most days

I do. Most days the garden’s

almost enough: little pink flowers

on the sage, even though

the man said we couldn’t eat

it. Not this kind. And I said,

Then, gosh. What’s the point?

The flowers themselves,

I suppose. The rain came

and then the hail came and my love

brought them in. Even tipped

over they look optimistic.

I know it’s too late to envy

the flowers. That century’s

over and done. And hope?

That’s a jinx. But I did set them

right. I patted them a little.

And prayed for myself, which

is embarrassing to admit

in this day and age. But I did it.

Because no one was looking

or listening anyway.

My Grandfather Was a Terrorist by Mosab Abu Toha

My Grandfather Was a Terrorist

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He tended to his field,

watered the roses in the courtyard,

smoked cigarettes with grandmother

on the yellow beach, lying there

like a prayer rug.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He picked oranges and lemons,

went fishing with brothers until noon,

sang a comforting song en route

to the farrier’s with his piebald horse.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He made a cup of tea with milk,

sat on his verdant land, as soft as silk.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He departed his house, leaving it for the coming guests,

left some water on the table, his best,

lest the guests die of thirst after their conquest.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He walked to the closest safe town,

empty as the sullen sky,

vacant as a deserted tent,

dark as a starless night.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

My grandfather was a man,

a breadwinner for ten,

whose luxury was to have a tent,

with a blue UN flag set on the rusting pole,

on the beach next to a cemetery.