A. Gee Where words collide

Poems

Ditty On The End Of The World (Loose Translation from Czesław Miłosz)

On the day the world ends...
It is over.
Bees still bumble above cress and clover.
As the fisherman mends shiny net,
dolphins porpoise and splash, wild and merry,
sparrows pick at their favorite berry,
and the snake hasn't lost its scales yet.

On the day the world ends,
dark and zealous.
Women still carry sunny umbrellas.
Drunkards still fall asleep on the lawn.
Market peddlers still call: come here, fellas.
Pastel sails near the shore as if drawn.
And the fiddle will play until dawn,
and the stars still appear to go on.

Those awaiting both lightning and thunder
angels trumpeting, earth torn asunder --
will not get it --  there will be no trumpet,
and so they will ignore it and stamp it.
With the sun and the moon still in orbit,
bee still sipping cress juice to absorb it,
and with rosy cheeked babies still crying,
they'll refuse to believe it, denying.

Just an ancient old man, some say prophet --
he's too busy and thinks nothing of it,
long white beard, and his mustache quite curled.
He'll repeat, while he binds his tomatoes:
This is it (and he'll say it with pathos)
There'll be no other end of the world.
There'll be no other end of the world.

Author notes: This is a loose translation - while many of the internal rhymes match, the meter is invented https://www.tania-soleil.com/czeslaw-milosz-piosenka-o-koncu-swiata/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOT3PDi3FMs

Petrachrostic

Pleased as I am to meet you, I must say:
Entire volumes have been writ on less.
To venture otherwise, and so, to bless...
Rare is the hutzpah that will, come what may
Attempt the exercise in hopes to sway
Roar through objections, and in its largess
Create something worthwhile, and not digress
Hosannas sung, and harps resume their play

So many try and yet so few succeed
Of those, most surely gloat, and showing off
Negate any goodwill that's come about
No, that is not the way you should proceed
Exciting though it is, from peak to trough
Try some humility. And let me out.

The Greek Flute's Theta and Iota (Translation, Mandelshtam)

The Greek flute with its theta, iota
as if thirsting for gossip to quench --
Raw, un-sculpted it was, bore no quota,
and matured, restless, through every trench,

It cannot be abandoned, forsaken,
nor can grinding your teeth make it still.
Tongue is helpless, the words won't awaken,
lips no better, succumb to its will.

And the flutist is in constant motion,
seems to him that he is all alone,
that alone he created his ocean,
lilac clay molded into a stone.

With the din of his fame lusting whisper,
the remembrance of stomping lips,
he is rushing to be neater, crisper,
gathers sounds that he utters in clips.

When we follow, we cannot recapture
cannot turn lumps of clay into seas,
and when filled with the sea, gain but rupture,
and by my every measure, disease.

My own lips -- I can no longer favor --
murder seems to have taken a root,
and unwilling, for naught, but I labor,
tooting, pointlessly, on my own flute.

Author notes: Осип Мандельштам Флейты греческой тэта и йота — Словно ей не хватало молвы — Неизваянная, без отчёта, Зрела, маялась, шла через рвы. И её невозможно покинуть, Стиснув зубы, её не унять, И в слова языком не продвинуть, И губами её не размять. А флейтист не узнает покоя: Ему кажется, что он один, Что когда-то он море родное Из сиреневых вылепил глин... Звонким шопотом честолюбивым, Вспоминающих топотом губ Он торопится быть бережливым, Емлет звуки— опрятен и скуп. Вслед за ним мы его не повторим, Комья глины в ладонях моря, И когда я наполнился морем — Мором стала мне мера моя... И свои-то мне губы не любы — И убийство на том же корню — И невольно на убыль, на убыль Равноденствие флейты клоню.