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DARK WOODS AND
OTHER POEMS BY RICHARD SELTZER
She said she feared dark woods
like those
nearby
yet knew not
why;
for dark or
light,
the substance
is the same,
the beasts
are tame;
there's
naught to fear but fancy.
And yet the
fear held tight
that only
light was right,
that even
night needed a moon.
She said the tales
that she had
heard,
when but a
babe,
of monsters
lurking
in the dark,
had left a
mark
upon her mind
too deep
for reason's
rubbing
to erase.
So we let
fancy have it's will,
skirted the
wood,
stayed on the
hill;
for it was
May
and many a
day
would pass
before the fall.
Now when I
dream
that scene
returns;
and as I
yearn to enter there,
her words I
hear
of dark and
light
and share her
fear
of moonless
nights
and shapeless
beasts
that feast on
minds
till bodies
flee
from
nightmare woods
and leave me
here
alone, alone
in fear.
(Written May 16-20, 1965 at Brentwood School, Essex, England. Long forgotten, then found Jan. 25, 2018 in Milford, CT.)
(Answer to a prompt to write a poem on silence)
In the beginning,
was the unspoken word,
the All-Tacit One
answering Adam
in unsound bytes,
truly blank verse.
Maybe some day he'll get Eden.
(written Sept. 1, 2019, Milford, CT)
Footsteps
on the newly fallen snow
in the
graveyard
lead nowhere.
Perhaps he changed his mind.
(written 2/14/2019 in Milford, CT)
The river breaks to channels,
the channels to jets of racing water
broken by rock after black rock
to droplets flying in formation
past the edge of the earth
suspended
their plummeting
jostling, joining, streaming,
and breaking again to droplets in the wind
sideways, rising, swirling
meeting other droplets
rising from the pounding depth
and drops of falling rain formed from the rising mist.
There is no shadow in this valley of death
where all is mist
and nothing is remembered,
where everything that falls must rise
and fall again
as mist
on the camera lens.
(written January 25,1998, at Victoria Falls, on the Zambezi River in Zimbabwe)
Who owns the Internet? -- No one.
Who controls the Internet? -- No one.
Where is the Internet? -- Everywhere.
Can you understand all and penetrate all with the click of a mouse?
To produce things and to make them well,
but not to sell them,
rather to give them away freely to all,
and by giving to become known and valued;
To act, but not to rely on one's own ability,
to build on the works and lessons of others,
and to let others do likewise --
this is called the Way of the Web.
The best is like water.
Water benefits all things and does not compete with them.
Water dissolves barriers.
Water reaches out and covers the earth.
This is called the Way of the Web.
(written 1995, intended as epigraph for the book The Way of the Web)
(On the occasion of the closing of Thee Coffee House, San Angelo, Texas, and the assemblage of its nostalgic friends, many of whom hadn't been around for months. November 28, 1970.)
Finnegan died,
as people do every once in a while,
so they held a funeral, an Irish funeral,
and relatives and old friends who hadn't seen him for months or years all gathered,
and it being winter, they held the picnic inside by candlelight;
and everybody had such a good time
that Grandpa promised to die next year so they could have another good time just like it,
and Grandma volunteered for the next year,
then all the aunts and uncles and cousins and third cousins and friends,
till they had two centuries all booked up,
and some pessimist in the crowd complained that he probably wouldn't live long enough for them to celebrate his funeral,
and one of the aunts complained that hers was scheduled after one of the cousins, and she wasn't going to play second fiddle to any mere cousin;
so Finnegan got up out of his coffin and told them to stop their squabbling --
they'd just open up a coffeehouse,
and every week they'd close it again,
and if people died, well, they could do it when they felt like it, in no particular order;
but everybody could get together anyway, once or twice a week,
and celebrate the funeral of the coffeehouse.
(published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2, p. 137)
I caught a glimpse of eternity
and it winked back at me
(1963)
***
A bucket needs water
A
beggar a quarter
The
world needs order,
But
we just keep walking along, along
A
voice needs a song
We
should all get along
But
we just keep walking along, along
(1968)
it rains
it snows;
it comes
it goes.
what is "it"?
"it" grows on you
"it" happens
"it" matters
(2012)
Black Church spires
married in sunset silhouette --
Muscovite
power
of darkness --
(and no film in the camera).
[written Feb. 7, 1971 in Allston, MA; published in Colorado North Review 32/1&2, p. 138]
Beneath the pound of the rain
and the rush of the tides,
a gentle peace abides,
a weary ease.
A thrush chirps softly,
calmly through the thunder;
a worm crawls from under
the burden of earth.
It's a reverential hush:
liquid peace pours from heaven,
as God snores
in weary ease.
(written March 19, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, summer 1965; also in the Calhoun Literary magazine, May 1966; also in Colorado North Review 32/1&2; also in "Letters from the Soul" published by Poetry.com in the fall of 2002).
Weep, but weep
gently.
Torrents such as this
Do but gut the ground
and wreck the young growth.
(written march 18, 1965, Brentwood School, Essex
In May the bombs blossom.
The sweet aroma of gas fills the air.
The sing-song
Mekong
May song
me
doe
ray
me lie
me down to sleep,
and pray the Lord
(what else can one
two
three
four,
right face
the press of the crowd, shouting, mad
men giving orders
on the borders of insanity,
a neutral nation
at least officially,
but everyone knows
thyself
is an archaic term
in jail
waiting for trial,
by hook or by crook,
we'll pull this impotent giant
to a hard
line on
and on and on and
onward, Christian
humility
in defense of freedom is no
situation
comedy
featuring
Nixon, Mitchell, Agnew,
and a fourth horseman of the Apocalypse
to be announced,
so stay tuned
to looney tunes,
on most of our network stations,
brought to you by,
bye
happiness
is a warm gun,
in the age of hilarious,
who cannot wash away our sins
with a flood
of tear
gas,
for there was a limited supply
of war,
one day
in May
the bombs blossom.
(written May 5, 1970 in New Haven, CT)
(written May 1971, Boston and Saratoga)
may
next spring
not be
silent
majority
of housewives use Dove
so gentle to the hands
of this callous
calley
assed
the president for mercy
and the president said, "Oh, pardon me,"
and kept his peace,
for peace is a precious thing
and shouldn't be given away lightly,
it's just common sense
input
in-
sens-
itivity
experiment
in mob psychology,
incense
to burn
baby
burn
mother
but side-burns shall not extend below the middle of the ear
and thine eyes shall see the gory
newsreel
and unreal
reeling
in this atomic age
of unfishinable
streams
of consciousness
expanding
war
or less
the same,
moralless,
insane
Six days shalt thou labor,
till the long thin week becomes a broad
and work is forgotten.
For all our Saturdays have lighted fools their way to drunken beds,
that our accidents may be fruitful and fill the earth.
So we multiply allusions and illusions
and therein clothe our works and days,
for the joy of unbuttoning,
unzipping, and pulling off
to see
what we always knew was there.
[written Jan. 29-30, 1966, New Haven, CT; published in the Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966]
Ensemble
il errait dans
la rue
du brouillard
dedans, dehors
rien que les mains dans les poches
rien que le coeur
dans la tęte
il ne cherchait
rien partout
elle errait dans la
rue
toute seule, perdue
du brouillard
dedans, dehors
rien que les mains dans les poches
rien que le coeur
dans la tęte
elle ne cherchait rien partout
ils se sont rencontrés
ils flânent dans
les rues ensemble
clarté dedans dehors
rien que le monde dans les poches
rien que l'autre
dans la tęte
ils cherchent demain ensemble
(written Christmas 1964 in Brussels and Feb. 5, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, Essex, summer 1965 and The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966)
Translation of the above
Together
He wandered through the streets,
alone and lost.
fog inside and out,
nothing but his hands in his pockets,
nothing but his heart in his head.
He looked for nothing everywhere.
She wandered through the streets,
alone and lost,
fog inside and out,
nothing but her hands in her pockets,
nothing but her heart in her head.
She looked for nothing everywhere.
They met.
Now they stroll through the streets together,
clarity inside and out,
nothing but the world in their pockets,
nothing but one another in their heads.
They look for tomorrow together.
I heard a gong
and again a gong,
resounding long --
the sound of a hammer on a loose-held shield of bronze
They say the way he spoke
moved those who knew not
what he said.
He with the hammer,
me with the shield,
the short and bloodless battle left a long loud gong,
clear and strong.
The bronze still
quivers in my grasp.
(written Washington, DC, Silver Spring, MD, and on the train to Pennsylvania, March 29-31, 1966; published in Yale Literary Magazine, Jan. 1967)
Teach me a new language.
When I lean close to whisper
I don't want to use other people's words,
the whole world staring over my shoulder --
cop's flashlight in the window
of my words.
Teach me words that only we understand
alone, together,
looking
through one-way mirrors
at their world.
(written March 9, 1968, New Haven, CT. revised Jan. 25, 2018, Milford, CT)
tree leaves
its accustomed home near the ground
stretches forth
leaves
to the sun
(written Jan. 28,1971 in Brookline and Cambridge, MA)
reddish stone
or only so at sunset
on snowy sand
with gull tracks
and other markings
undecipherable
with the rosetta
stone
or only so at sunset
[written Feb. 7, 1971 in Allston, MA]
she looked so sweet
the way she crossed her feet
on the soft seat in the corner.
the flair of the curl in her hair,
of the pair of curls of the pair of girls
on the soft seat in the corner
was oh so right for such a night
so hard to resist, to desist
when they beg to be kissed,
with the flair of their hair
and the cross of their feet
on the soft seat in the corner
(written midnight July 9, 1965 in the Irish Sea between Fishguard and Cork)
black track
blue sky
the gun raised high
it's all a question of...
to soar with the shot
to the end
of the wind
to the bend
of the track
with the sun
at your back
at your side
in your eyes
with your spikes
in the ground
in the grit
in the sound
of the guy
at your back
at your side
and the dust
in your eye
in the stretch
and the fire
in your throat
at the line
as you jog
to a stop
to rest
in the cool, cool grass
it was all a question of...
(written spring 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, summer 1965; also published in The Calhoun Literary Magazine, May 1966)
J'y suis arrive
tout a faitétranger,
je venais de Calais,
le vent m'y poussait.
Poussičre, fumée,
pierres, acier,
pavés,, chantiers,
pleine de gens, d'industrie,
peu de vent, de vie;
de beauté
il n'y avait pas,
sauf toi.
Mais tu es apparue
sur murs, sur rues,
musées, fumée,
chantiers, acier,
je n'y vois que toi.
Quelle belle ville
qu'est Lille.
(written April 1965 in Lille; published in Greenwood, Brentwood School, Essex, summer 1965)
Translation
of
the above
I arrived there
completely a stranger.
I came from Calais.
The wind pushed me there.
Dust, smoke,
stone, steel,
pavement, construction sites.
Full for people and industry,
with little wind or life.
There was nothing beautiful
but you.
But you appeared
on walls and streets,
museum, smoke,
construction sites, steel.
I don’t see anything there but you.
What a beautiful city
is Lille.
C'est le moi que je vois en toi qui m'attire.
C'est
le toi que tu
vois en
moi quit t'attire
Au début quand on s'aime,
On se voit soi-męme
Et se soi devient
Peu
ŕ peu le męme.
(written March 30, 1965, Brentwood School, Essex)
Translation of the above
You
It’s
the me that I see in you that attracts me.
It’s
the you that you see in me that attracts you.
In
the beginning, when you are falling in love
you
see yourselves,
and
the self that you each see little by little
becomes the same.
I come from the land of Frost and Sandburg
The land of mountains and cities:
The land that shaped the people
And the people that reshaped the land:
A living organism,
A giant striding toward tomorrow.
I come from the new generation;
I dwell in tomorrow:
When tubes and paper shape minds
And minds reshape tubes and paper:
A maze-trapped mouse
Wondering where he started, where he's going.
(written Feb. 1, 1965 in Brentwood, Essex, England; published in Cyclotron, summer 1965)
In a hither, thither dither; rushing, shoving, pushing,
Dancing with the mob to the tune of horns, engines, brakes
I chanced upon Avernus in a department store.
The path indeed was easy on a downward escalator
An assembly-line inferno built to suit the population.
There in the emptiness of light-saturated air
Manufactured breezes smothered in sweaty mobs,
Mammon turned housewives into demons with magic slashes of price.
From this helter-skelter swelter the exit too was easy.
Glad to leave, yet swelled with pride, from Inferno I returned.
Here illumed from every angle, piles of bones, complex stuffed,
Lack the reassuring shadows of by-gone days.
It was just a lower circle.
In a hither thither dither; rushing, shoving, pushing,
Dancing with the mob to the tune of horns, engines, brakes,
Silently we praise and thank creators of confusion, divinities of diversion,
All sweet saviors from thought.
(written spring 1964 in Plymouth, NH; published in Flame, 1965)
on the sofa, squatting yoga-like
with protruding eyes
small empty island in seas of white
a Ben Gunn, marooned within himself
he hypnotized
or rather spoke with such contagious intensity
that all stared fixedly till the room swam
and he seemed to have a halo
for he had seen God,
or so he said,
and the way he said...
he was a Hebrew prophet
with foaming mouth and wild unworldly eyes
proclaiming the doom of Babylon and Nineveh
the curse of Israel
and a fate worse than death for the unbeliever.
he was a modern American prophet
endorsing the five-dollar God-cube,
the divine peep show
instant Zen,
the all-purpose household...
his eyes could see the essence of the soul
and speak with spirit
or so he said
and he had wandered through the city streets
staring wildly at strangers' eyes
seeing here a glimmer
there an impenetrable darkness,
stopping once to converse with a new-born infant.
he had the power...
but he couldn't see the soul without his glasses.
(written 1965, New Haven, CT)
a
free translation by Richard Seltzer
Helen, no,
not Hell, but Heaven
-ly chill you refresh my heart,
your virtue rouses my strength,
and your eye leads me whither it will.
What
happiness to suffer love pain
for that Hellenic name; sweet the sorrow,
blessed the torture, that comes
for eyes, no not eyes, but star,
yes, heavenly body of Helen.
Name that
toppled Troy, cause of my distress,
my prudent Penny and my Helen too,
who with loving care enfolds my heart.
Name that
raises me to the heights of heaven,
who'd ever thought that I'd uncover
a Penelope in that same classic lover?
(for an assignment in a translation class at U. Mass, 1971)
(inspired
by
the poem "Surrender in Petersburg" by Garret Sweitzer)
"What's your favorite country?"
(Did she mean music?)
Strolling down the streets of Crime and Punishment,
her gaze arrested me.
I only had a three-month visa.
But give me credit --
love need not end.
There's always MasterCard.
(at a poetry workshop in Norwalk, CT, August 2019)
I'd
rather save time
than
spend it.
But no
matter where I put it,
when I
look for it again,
it's gone.
(tweet, May 2020)
Your
turn,
my
turn,
turn,
turn,
turn.
turn
in,
turn
out,
in
turn
intern
internal
external
eternal
iternal
iturnity.
I
turn forever.
(tweet, May 2020)
Now that I don't
have a wife,
I take my soul for
walks to the beach,
where I read and
write
while he chases
minnows and gulls
like the
three-year-old who
once was me.
(Milford, CT October 2020)
Poetry without
metaphor.
What is
is
a vision shared,
caught me by
surprise
while rocking on a
porch
in New Hampshire.
Everyone lives in a
different one.
so I can see yours,
and you mine.
lending each other
a life
at
harvest time.
(Milford, CT, 2020)
God
imagined one fleeting moment —
a butterfly fluttering above a pond at sunset.
And He created the universe —
all the past and all the future,
every galaxy, every puppy, every poem, every typo, every
kiss, every snowflake, every teardrop
to make that moment happen.
Any moment, in all its detail, would require the miracle of
all of creation.
The creation of any being would require all of creation.
Perhaps there was no beginning and will
be no end, and every moment we witness the miraculous
creation of everything and everyone.
The Creation of Language
A path
through the woods
or
through the snow
is a
creation,
a
construction project,
involving
many people
who
never meet,
and
most of whom never realize
that
they are building a path,
like
the creation of language.
(Feb.
2, 2022. Dobbs Ferry, NY)
You didn’t
write your life.
There was no
plan, no outline.
You
improvised from day to day.
Now,
looking back,
you
realize
it
was a story,
and
you wish
you
could rewrite it.
But
for it to work,
you’d
need a better character.
(Feb. 2, 2022. Dobbs Ferry, NY)
Dela
has a friend who cannot hear.
They
talk with their hands.
They
hear with their eyes.
Dela
has a friend who cannot see.
She
reads with her fingers from books with dots that mean letters
and words.
If
you know and I know,
anything
can mean yes or no —
a
nod or shake of the head,
a
wink of the eye,
a
wave of a flag.
If
you know and I know,
we
can talk lots of ways —
one
if by land and two if by sea,
flashes
of light,
tap,
tap, tap,
dot
dash dot dash dot.
There
are signs that everybody knows —
thumbs
up for good
thumbs
down for bad
fingers
make an “O” for “Okay”;
the
sign for “safe” and the sign of “out.”
Red
means stop
and
green means go
if
you know and I know.
Kisses
and hugs are signs of love.
Xs and Os
are signs of kisses and hugs.
Signs
can be signs of signs.
Dela
and her dog George talk with signs —
She
waves her arm this way and that.
He
sits, he barks, he rolls over.
George
nudges her leg and looks up at her
and
Dela knows he wants to go out.
She
taught him and he taught her
and
they both agree.
Baby
brother cries and laughs
and
Mommy knows
baby’s
hungry, baby’s wet, baby’s happy.
Baby
teaches Mommy signs.
Mommy’s
good at learning baby’s signs.
Mommy
hugs, Mommy sings.
Baby
knows she’s safe, knows she’s loved.
Baby
knows lots and lots
long before baby knows words.
"Billy went to his grandma's farm
and
learned lots of stuff.
Can
I go to a farm, too, Mommy?"
"What
did Billy learn?"
"He
learned how to ride a cow
and
milk a horse,
how
to sew fields
and
sheer chickens,
and
pluck sheep,
how
to billy a goat
and
bill a duck
and
pay attention,
how
to oink pigs
and
gander geese,
how
to pony up
and
feather down,
how
to draw water
and
draw people,
how
to butter cups
and
shuck wheat,
how
to corn toes,
how
to spin wheels and thread and stories,
how
to slow pokes
and
poke cattle,
how
to lay bread
and
knead eggs,
how
to darn a thing
and
sock it to you,
how
to scare a crow
and
spare a quarter,
how
to climb a fish
and
scale a mountain
and
skin a knee,
how
to knock on wood
and
wish on wells,
how
to ding a ling
and
sing a long,
how
to ditch a shovel
and
crack a joke.
Billy
knows everything,
and I want to know everything too."
Until he became a father
Telemachus’
life was a journey to fatherland.
Then he
realized that finding his father
was
finding
himself.
You
never cross the same stream twice — Heraclitus
because the stream
changes
because you change
because, in crossing, you change the stream
What host arrived as a guest
and
killed a host of suitors
before he was guessed?
if up were down
and here were there
and now were then
and left were right
and right were wrong,
what would you do in If-aca?
If Trojans were
condoms
and Calypso were a dance
and suitors were tailors
and Penny were a coin,
what would you do in If-aca?
God was having trouble communicating with humans.
Even the best of them didn’t understand him.
So He signed up for a course in English as a Second Language.
Next He plans to try Russian, French, German, Japanese …
It would be so much easier if people learned His language.
To
talk across centuries
all
you need is
an old book
with
annotations.
This
edition of Homer’s Odyssey
had notes by
three readers,
distinguished
by
the ink, the boldness of the strokes, and the handwriting.
Reader
Two responded to One,
and
Three to One and Two,
doubling
or tripling the underlining,
adding
a question mark,
commenting
on comments,
offering
new thoughts
or
taking issue,
sometimes
words spilling over
to
the next page and the next.
The
new owner of this book stared in awe,
Then
turned the pages with carefully.
The print
conveyed the Greek text of The
Odyssey
as it was
known in the days of Champollion.
Overlaid
were the quill markings of Reader One
the
fountain pen of Reader Two,
and
the blue ballpoint pen of Three.
From
their erudition and precision, they were all scholars.
They
corrected typos in the printed text
and
instances where the first in a series of editors
misconstrued
the handwriting he was working from,
or
scribes may have miscopied manuscripts.
Sometimes they
suspected the first written version,
strayed from
the intent of the bards,
who we call
Homer,
who reshaped
earlier tellings
and still
older legends —
layer upon
layer of narrative,
transgenerational
dialogue,
giving
rise to this printed text
and the
handwritten reactions of three readers.
This
book was a miracle of time travel,
spanning
two thousand,
maybe
three thousand years,
and
requiring only ink to make it so.
In
the handwriting of the commentators,
holograph
on top of holograph,
it
conveyed not just their words and emphasis,
but
also their styles
and
sometimes their emotion
at
a moment of puzzlement
or
in the joy of discovery,
finding
unexpected meaning and consequence.
These
readers were not just scholars.
They were
teachers as well,
reviewing
this text repeatedly
over
the course their careers.
And
Two and Three,
instead of
marking the pages of newly printed editions,
chose to write
beside
those who came
before them,
who
died before they were born,
whose
views they sometimes revered
and
sometimes differed with,
who
were sometimes wordy
and
sometimes left little space for further comment.
Reader
Two wrote carefully, respecting the writings of One
and
not wanting to spoil them.
Reader
Three, with little room to work in,
was
more concise,
no
doubt in awe of this book as artifact, not just text,
made with
quality paper,
before
the invention of pulp
that
in a single generation could crumble to dust.
Having
found this gem in a secondhand shop in Cambridge,
the
new owner thought he should donate it to a rare book library
that
would recognize its worth and preserve it in its present state
for
generations to come.
No.
He
couldn’t.
He
mustn’t.
Rather he
should become Reader Four,
adding
his strokes,
distinct
and yet in harmony
with
those who came before.
He
chose a pen with green ink,
and
when the ink ran out,
he
used new ones with the same shade of green.
After
a lifetime of teaching Homer,
in
his will,
he
left the book to a student
who,
in turn, was teaching Homer.
He
recommended his successor use purple ink.
Red would
be too bold and self-assertive,
implying
previous notes wee flawed
and that this was
the ultimate pedantic correction.
There
was no absolute truth,
rather
a dialogue.
He
willed that it go on for another generation,
knowing that
it could not last forever,
because books
too are mortal,
as are planets
and galaxies.
The Second Tortoise
Tortoise Two didn't win a race.
An eagle picked him up, flew high,
then dropped him to shatter his shell and make him an easy meal.
But instead of a rock, he hit the bald head of an old man.
The head cracked, but the shell did not.
Aeschylus, the tragic playwright, died in comic absurdity.
But the tortoise landed on his feet.
He had seen the world from on high,
and a great man had died that he might live.
After twenty-five hundred years,
he still walks proudly,
standing on the world,
even if he can’t understand it,
and doing so at his own pace.
Be
well.
Be
long.
Be
lieve.
Be
gin
Be
witch
Be
come
Human
being.
(July 17, 2022)
He bought a yellow rose,
not for anyone in
particular.
He was alone,
and didn’t want to be
alone.
So he bought a yellow rose;
and walking down Main
Street,
every woman over forty who
he passed
smiled at him.
Some waved.
Some greeted him as if they
knew him.
One walked up to him and
hugged him and said,
“Thank you. You shouldn’t
have.”
They walked arm-in-arm to
her house.
She put it in a vase and
cooked supper for the two of them.
They’ve been married now
for ten years.
(Milford, CT, Oct. 17, 2023
How Many I's Am I?
Your faraway look intrigues me more than the meeting of our eyes.
Where is the place you go to when your eyes drift
and you don’t see me while looking at me?
Am I there, too?
Do you, did you see me there, though I have no memory of it?
Is there a switch that shunts us from one world to another?
Or can we be in both places or more than two at once?
How many eyes do you see with?
How many I’s am I?
Say it.
Say it better.
Then say less to prompt more.
Let readers
connect dots,
see stills as motion.
Let your text be like a lover’s glance.
Let your words wake worlds
as painters do with brush strokes.
Pause.
Don’t brush so hard.
Light strokes make haze stacks.
At close of day,
let there be twilight.
Wind-swept and trunk-tied,
voiceless, but signing,
branches sway.
How can I reply?
An eagle, perched on a mountaintop,
doesn’t need a push.
The wind it faces lifts it.
Endgame
Survival is secondary.
Birds eat so they can soar.
We came without directions,
not knowing which way truth lies
or how it does so.
Should we pray facing east or north-northwest?
If there is an Author,
how clever She is,
telling us nothing,
making us
solve riddles on our own,
engaging us in the stories of our lives.
seven poems, Dobbs Ferry, November 2023
Fall Song
Chanson d’Automne by Paul Verlaine, translated by Richard
Seltzer
Tear drops that sound
like the plucked strings of autumn’s violin
trill my heart
with single-toned weariness.
When the clock strikes,
breathless and pale,
I remember
days of old
and weep.
And I go forth
on an evil wind
that carries me
this way and that
like a dead
leaf.
Steps
Translation of Les Pas by Paul
Valéry
Your
steps, born of my silence,
blessedly
and
slowly,
quietly
and
calmly
approach
the
bed where I await.
Pure
being,
divine spirit,
how
sweet
are your reluctant steps.
Muse!
All
your gifts
come
to
me on your naked feet.
If
by extending your lips,
you
prepare
to sate
my
starving
mind
with
the
nourishment of your kiss,
Don't
rush,
sweetness
of
being and not being,
for
I have lived to wait for you
and my heart has been nothing but
your steps.