-
Stanzas from Ancient Authors (1980-86):
- Gaudeamus (1980)
- Baudelaire: Voyage to Cythera (26/12/85)
- Villon: Quatrain (3/1/86)
- Villon: from Ballade (20/3/86)
- Beowulf ll. 1-11 (22/8/86)
- I. - Gilt, rich in raiment ... (12/7/89)
- II. - It's quite a metaphor ... (13/7/89)
- III. - Freed from Right Reason ... (14/7/89)
- Rilke: Orpheus. Eurydike. Hermes (17/8-15/10/97)
- Ovid: Metamorphoses I: Chaos (19/9/97)
- Borges: Labyrinths I – Theseus (12-15/12/97)
- Borges: Labyrinths II – Minotaur (12-18/12/97)
- Borges: Labyrinths III – Ariadne (12/12/97-19/2/98)
- Apollinaire & Supervielle: Sonnet (22/3/98)
- Apollinaire: Je donne à mon espoir (10/3/99)
- Jorge Accamé: A Photograph of the Poet (4/2-13/2/2000)
- Karl Wolfskehl: Before Exodus – The Elders (17-21/2/04)
- Goethe: Foundry (8/4-20/9/09)
- Heine: Orpheish (20/4-13/8/09)
- San Juan de la Cruz: Dark Night Reading in Titirangi (1/8/11)
- Marie de France; The Nightingale (31/10/11-14/1/12)
- Apollinaire: Poèmes à Lou, XXII: Poème du 9 février 1915 (2012)
- Apollinaire: Hunting Horns (22/3/98-23/12/2017)
- Rilke: Christchurch, 15th March 2019 (19/3-14/4/19)
- Mandelstam: Insomnia. Homer. Reefed sails ... (24-27/12/22)
- Goethe: Amerika (14-15/5/24)
- Akhmatova: I came to visit the poet (26/2-10/5/97)
- [with Sasha Loukine] Osip Mandelstam: The Stalin Ode (25/5/34 / 23/1-12/3/01)
- Rilke: The Panther (23/2-2/3/26)
- Celan: Corona (17/8/2006-15/4/26)
- Montale: Sunflowers (3/98-7/7/01)
- Quasimodo: Old Winter (5/2010-26/4/26)
- Neruda: Love Sonnet XXVII (2/2001-8/5/2026)
- Morning Song (23-25/4/26)
- Quasimodo: Dawn Chorus (23-24/4/26)
- And the hardworking bees ... (25-27/7/26)
- Saba: Ulysses (28/7-12/8/26)
- Saba: The Goat (28/7-12/8/26)
- Ungaretti: Dawn (24-25/7/26)
- Ungaretti: Soldiers (26/7-12/8/26)
- Ungaretti: Vigil (26/7-12/8/26)
- Perse: Anabasis: Song (1-10/9/26)
- Perse: Éloges: Scrawled on the Door (2-11/9/26)
- Perse: Éloges: Celebrating Childhood II (2-9/9/26)
- Césaire: from Return to My Native Land (2-11/9/26)
- Césaire: Voodoo Ceremony for St.-John Perse (2-10/9/26)
- Césaire: When Naked Monks Climb Down the Himalayas in the Heat (2-10/9/26)
- René Char: Pyrenees (5/2010-20/9/26)
- Rilke: Sonnets to Orpheus, I: ix (5/2010-21/9/26)
- Pasternak: Hamlet (22-24/9/2026)
- Pasternak: My Sister Life (22/9-1/10/26)
- Pasternak: In Memory of Marina Tsvetaeva (22/9-1/10/26)
- Tsvetaeva: To Osip Mandelstam (22/9-1/10/26)
- Tsvetaeva: from Insomnia (22/9-1/10/26)
- Tsvetaeva: Gone (22-30/9/26)
- Tsvetaeva: Your years (22/9-1/10/26)
Pierre de Ronsard - Cassandre (1989):
from Jack's Metamorphoses (1997-98):
Uncollected Poems (1998-2026):
Dawn Chorus (2026):
Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba (2026):
Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse (2026):
Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva (2026):
Stanzas from Ancient Authors
(1986)
•
Gaudeamus igitur, Iuvenes dum sumus; Post iucundam iuventutem, Post molestam senectutem Nos habebit humus, Nos habebit humus. Ubi sunt, qui ante nos In mundo fuere? Vadite ad superos, Transite ad inferos, Ubi iam fuere, Ubi iam fuere. Vita nostra brevis est, Brevi finietur; Venit mors velociter, Rapit nos atrociter; Nemini parcetur, Nemini parcetur. Vivat academia, Vivant professores, Vivat membrum quod libet, Vivant membra quae libet; Semper sint in flore, Semper sint in flore. Vivat et respublica Et qui illam regit, Vivat nostra civitas, Maecenatum caritas, Quae nos hic protegit. Vivant omnes virgines, Faciles, formosae, Vivant et mulieres, Tenerae, amabiles, Bonae, laboriosae. Pereat tristitia, Pereant osores, Pereat diabolus Quivis antiburschius, Atque irrisores. - Anon. (c. 18th century)• I Let us rejoice while we are young and not immune to mirth the days of youth are no so sage as to foresee with mounting age our future's in the earth. II O where are those who long ago lived much the same as us? if you would see them you must go to praise above or flames below damnation - or a fuss. III This life is brief and full of pain the psalmist was not wrong and death comes on at such a pace that man although he win the race is not on top for long. IV Long live the university! Long live the pedagogue who gives up every waking hour to eager students in their flower and labours like a dog. V Long live all beauty feminine! But ere you kss the bride make sure her mother's not a shrew or twenty stone and strong as you, they're all the same inside! VI Long live our honest government! Our leader Rob Muldoon who robs us of our bursaries and tempts the universities to dance to Labour's tune. VII Confusion to the pessimist and death to those who scoff! the devil and his following can all fly down to Wellington and drag the carcase off.
- Jack Ross (1980)
•
from Un Voyage à Cythère Dans ton île, ô Vénus! je n’ai trouvé debout Qu’un gibet symbolique où pendait mon image ... – Ah! Seigneur! donnez-moi la force et le courage De contempler mon cœur et mon corps sans dégoût ! - Charles Baudelaire (1857)• In your island, Venus, I found nothing upright save one symbolic gibbet with my image on it: – God, give me the strength and courage to see my heart and body in the light, without disgust ...
(26/12/85)
Publications:
- brief 20 (June, 2001): 23-29.
•
Je suis François, dont il me poise Né de Paris emprès Pontoise Et de la corde d'une toise Saura mon col que mon cul poise. - François Villon (c. 1462-63)• I'm called - it hacks me off! - François, born in Paris (quite near Pontoise), and from a length of twisted tause my neck will learn what my arse ... weighs.
(3/1/86)
•
Dictes-moy où, n’en quel pays, Est Flora, la belle Romaine ; Archipiada, ne Thaïs, Qui fut sa cousine germaine ; Echo, parlant quand bruyt on maine Dessus rivière ou sus estan, Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine ? Mais où sont les neiges d’antan ! - François Villon (c. 1461)• Tell me where, in what country, is Flora the Roman fair? Archipiades, or Thaïs, her closest cousin here? Echo, who speaks in every sound of rivers, or the pond-fringed shore, whose beauty far surpassed the human ... - but where are the snows of hefore?
(20/3/86)
•
Hwæt! Wē Gār-Dena in gēardagum, þēodcyninga, þrym gefrūnon, hū ða æþelingas ellen fremedon. Oft Scyld Scefing scēaþena þreatum, monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah, egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð feasceaft funden, hē þæs frōfre gebād, wēox under wolcnum, weorðmyndum þāh, oðþæt him æghwylc þāra ymbsittendra ofer hronrāde hȳran scolde, gomban gyldan. þæt wæs gōd cyning. - Anon. (c. 8th century CE)• We have heard of the Danes in the days of old, wards of the people and wielders of spears - how men of that nobleness never lacked deeds. Scyld of the Scefings shattered the benches, overturned mead-halls of enemy tribes; frightened his foes since first as a child he friendless was found. Fate made him prosper: wax great under heaven in worth and repute; until each of all the encircling tribes over the whale-road must wait on him, pay him their gold. Good was that king.
(22/8/1986)
Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)Pierre de Ronsard:
Cassandre
(1989)
Pierre de Ronsard: Les Amours de Cassandre (1945)Je vouldroy bien richement jaunissant En pluye d'or goute à goute descendre Dans le beau sein de ma belle Cassandre, Lors qu'en ses yeulx le somme va glissant. Je vouldroy bien en toreau blandissant Me transformer pour finement la prendre, Quand elle va par l'herbe la plus tendre Seule à l'escart mille fleurs ravissant. Je vouldroy bien afin d'aiser ma peine Estre un Narcisse, & elle une fontaine Pour m'y plonger une nuict à sejour: Et vouldroy bien que ceste nuict encore Durast toujours sans que jamais l'Aurore D'un front nouveau nous r'allumast le jour. – Pierre de Ronsard, Les Amours (1552): XX• Gilt, rich in raiment, falling on my love To reign there both as bridegroom & as dower (A trifle sordid, yes, this 'golden shower' Tho' sanctioned by the precedent of Jove) Were but one transformation – she, aloof, Strays sometimes from the path to pick a flower; I'd be the bull that waits within the bower To cozen her to live with me above. Sometimes I wish her melted to a spring That I might lie the whole night pondering My pain – self-mirrored there, Narcissus; &, like a star, desire an endless night To watch her, & that never morning's light Should come to drown the fountain's sweet susurrus.
(12/7/89)
•
Ha, seigneur dieu, que de graces écloses Dans le jardin de ce sein verdelet, Enflent le rond de deus gazons de lait, Où des Amours les fléches sont encloses! Je me transforme en cent metamorfoses, Quand je te voi, petit mont jumelet, Ains du printans un rosier nouvelet, Qui le matin bienveigne de ses roses. S'Europe avoit l'estomac aussi beau, De t'estre fait, Jupiter, un toreau, Je te pardonne. Hé, que ne sui-je puce! La baisotant, tous les jours je mordroi Ses beaus tetins, mais la nuit je voudroi Que rechanger en homme je me pusse. – Pierre de Ronsard, Les Amours (1553): XLI• It's quite a metaphor (imagine this, Lord God!) – her verdant breasts are like a garden Fenced by Love's arrows; when the nipples harden The grass swells up with milk and ... ambergris. I'd go through any metamorphosis To mouth those mammaries – I even pardon That bugger Jove who tried to put his yard in Europa, if her belly gave such bliss. Down there, like all trained shrubs, she welcomes spring With flowers; plays Miss Coy while birdies sing. Perhaps I'll ask to be the flea that sucks Her tits (I'll bite them. kiss them, cause her pain) If every night I can turn back again – So when she feels the itch it's me she fucks.
(13/7/89)
Publications:
- Spin 29 (1997): 31.
•
Franc de raison, esclave de fureur, Je voys chassant une Fére sauvage, Or sur un mont, or le long d'un rivage, Or dans le boys de jeunesse & d'erreur. J'ay pur ma lesse un cordeau de malheur, J'ay pour limier un trop ardent courage, J'ay pour mes chiens, & le soing, & la rage, La cruaulté, la peine, & la douleur. Mais eulx voyant que plus elle est chassée, Loing loing devant plus s'enfuit eslancée, Tournant sur moy la dent de leur effort, Comme mastins affamez de repaistre, A longz morceaux se paissent de leur maistre, Et sans mercy me traisnent à la mort. – Pierre de Ronsard, Les Amours (1552): LXXXIX• Freed from Right Reason, turn'd to Passion's slave All day I hunt a hart through the dark wood Of Error – 'Youth will have its fling' – well, good; Through rocks & streams & valleys, rant & rave? 'My hounds are bred out of ...' – Down, sir! Behave! Hate, rage & cruelty's their livelihood; I'd leash them in from madness if I could But their huntsman's mad to kill (it's meat they crave & every minute see it fast receding The more they run). They're tired, their feet are bleeding & logic rules them inescapably: I haven't fed them for too long ... Don't look At me like that, I'm not the bloody cook ... – They tear my flesh to shreds & feast on me.
(14/7/89)
from Jack's Metamorphoses
(1997-98)
(after Rainer Maria Rilke) Thus far they sail in wonder-like iceberg-work, wish till the silver earth begins to see all, sadder dark-signed (un)kill. Swish in worse ills, and spring this blood, this floodgate’s sudden mention, and swear we pour for sure (assuming) th’uncle. Son-star nicked rotors. Belsen was in there and visionless evil deer. Brew canoe Boleros, and ( yay!) ne’er grocer, grow a blinder tyke, the rubber sigh – ’Nam: fair, non-grinned, a hick- weed Reagan. Him. Mill you, bear; I, ne’er land-shaft, won’t swish in. We’s insane, if town-fella, long mutt- er: sheer design in Vegas’ blasé strife, en- vy. I nill anger, bleaker, hunger-lagged … And these designs in Vegas! Come in, sea.
(17/8-15/10/97)
Publications:
- brief 19 (2001): 70-79.
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018)
Notes:
Das war der Seelen wunderliches Bergwerk. Thus far they sail in wonder-like iceberg-work, Wie stille Silbererze gingen sie wish till the silver earth begins to see als Adern durch sein Dunkel. Zwischen Wurzeln all, sadder dark-signed (un)kill. Swish in worse ills, entsprang das Blut, das fortgeht zu den Menschen, and spring this blood, this floodgate’s sudden mention … Das war der Seelen wunderliches Bergwerk. Wie stille Silbererze gingen sie als Adern durch sein Dunkel. Zwischen Wurzeln entsprang das Blut, das fortgeht zu den Menschen, und schwer wie Porphyr sah es aus im Dunkel. Sonst war nicht Rotes. Felsen waren da und wesenlose Wälder. Brücken über Leeres und jener große, graue, blinde Teich, der über seinem fernen Grunde hing wie Regenhimmel über einer Landschaft. Und zwischen Wiesen, sanft und voller Langmut, erschien des einen Weges blasser Streifen, wie eine lange Bleiche hingelegt. Und dieses einen Weges kamen sie.
- Rainer Maria Rilke. “Orpheus. Eurydike. Hermes.” Neue Gedichte I (1907). In Ernst Zinn, ed. Sämtliche Werke. 6 vols (Frankfurt: Insel, 1987) 1: 542-45.
(after Ovid's Metamorphoses) In new moves Jack’s muse mutated to tell forms of bodies. Gods, starts (since by you changed, and others) inspire me with: first & from birth of world to my perpetual spin-out era song. Before sea and earth, and, which covers all, Sky-tower, united was all Nature’s face in sphere called Chaos; raw & undigested mass nor naught which wasn’t weight inert (Les Mills), not well joined-up discordant seeds of things. Nor as yet Auckland offered light the Titan, nor new by growing swelled her horns Marina, nor circum-harboured hung in air the earth weight balanced by its: nor arms along long stretch of shoreline edged out Rangitoto.
(19/9/97)
Publications:
- brief 19 (2001): 70-79.
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018)
Notes:
In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas In new moves Jack’s muse mutated to tell forms Corpora. Di, cœptis (nam vos mutastis et illas) of bodies. Gods, starts (since by you changed, and others) Adspirate meis: primaque ab origine mundi inspire me with: first & from birth of world Ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen. to my perpetual spin-out era song … In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas Corpora. Di, cœptis (nam vos mutastis et illas) Adspirate meis: primaque ab origine mundi Ad mea perpetuum deducite tempora carmen. Ante mare et tellus, et, quod tegit omnia, cœlum, Unus erat toto Naturæ vultus in orbe, Quem dixere Chaos; rudis indigestaque moles, Nec quicquam, nisi pondus iners, congestaque eodem Non bene junctarum discordia semina rerum. Nullus adhuc mundo præbebat lumina Titan: Nec nova crescendo reparabat cornua Phœbe: Nec circumfuso pendebat in aere tellus Ponderibus librata suis: nec brachia longo Margine terrarum porrexerat Amphitrite.
- Ovidius. Metamorphoseon, I: 1-14. In Gulielmus Sidney Walker, ed. Corpus Poetarum Latinorum, 1827 (Londini: Apud C. Knight, 1835) 325.
There’ll never be a door. You’re stuck inside. These sunken casemates are the universe, all the universe of signs: forward, reverse, no centre to the web, no world outside. Don’t think the insane precision of your game, monotonously counting every turn, monotonously counting every turn, will save you. The result will be the same. Stop looking forward to the bloody charge of the beast who is a man – who is your double – whose shadow punctuates this seamless puzzle of rubber walls contracted to a cage. He isn’t there. You’re fucked. You’d better learn not to expect the dark thrust of his horn.
(12-15/12/97)
Publications:
- Jorge Luis Borges, “Labyrinths: 1 – Theseus; 2 – Minotaur; 3 – Ariadne.” Boxkite: A Journal of Poetry & Poetics 2 (August 1998): 31-32.
- brief 19 (2001): 70-79.
- Minotaur. Poem by Jorge Luis Borges. Trans. Jack Ross. Designed by Bronwyn Lloyd. Auckland: Pania Press, November 6, 2008)
- Poetry Specials: 2008-2018. Papyri (28/12/2017)
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018)
Notes:
No habrá nunca una puerta. Estás adentro Y el alcázar abarca el universo Y no tiene ni anverso ni reverso Ni externo muro ni secreto centro. No esperes que el rigor di tu camino Que tercamente se bifurca en otro, Que tercamente se bifurca en otro, Tendrá fin. Es de hierro tu destino Como tu juez. No aguardes la embestida Del toro que es un hombre y cuya extraña Forma plural da horror a la maraña De interminable piedra entretejida. No existe. Nada esperes. Ni siquiera En el negro crepúsculo la fiera.
- Jorge Luis Borges, “Laberinto,” Elogio de la Sombra (1969). Obras completas, 3 vols (Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1989) 2: 364.
The year delivers me my meals-on-heels, and there’s water in the jar. Gravel tributaries meet in me. So what am I whinging for? Sometimes, in the late afternoon, this crown of horns can chafe a little.
(12-18/12/97)
Publications:
- Jorge Luis Borges, “Labyrinths: 1 – Theseus; 2 – Minotaur; 3 – Ariadne.” Boxkite: A Journal of Poetry & Poetics 2 (August 1998): 31-32.
- brief 19 (2001): 70-79.
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018)
Notes:
El año me tributa mi pasto de hombres Y en la cisterna hay agua. En mi se anudan los caminos de piedra. ¿De qué puede quejarme? En los atardeceres Me pesa un poco la cabeza de toro.
- Jorge Luis Borges, “Quince monedas: Asterión,” La Rosa Profunda (1975). Obras completas, 3 vols (Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1989) 3:90.
“Do we have worm-sign?” “We have worm-sign such as GAHD has never seen …” I had forgotten those people I have been, following monoton- ous paved lines. It’s all monotonous. Straight galleries curve – curve? – into circular vaults under pressure from the years. Sham parapets succumb to usurious, daily, direct-debits of cement dust. Persistence gets results. The dust writes me a book of spoor – cover those tracks, the big ones; what is there to fear as night nears, except tenuous air? A roar, the concave echo of a roar. I know there’s another face there in the shadows I need to find, trawling round this Brussels of rubble streets, tamped down by rubber heels: vampire, blood-sucker, rough beast of the shambles. Our problem’s with each other. I can’t wait to make her, consummate triple-pronged fate …
(12/12/97-19/2/98)
Publications:
- Jorge Luis Borges, “Labyrinths: 1 – Theseus; 2 – Minotaur; 3 – Ariadne.” Boxkite: A Journal of Poetry & Poetics 2 (August 1998): 31-32.
- brief 19 (2001): 70-79.
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018)
Notes:
Zeus no podría desatar las redes de piedra que me cercan. He olvidado los hombres que antes fui; sigo el odiado camino de monótonas paredes que es mi destino. Rectas galerías que se curvan en círculos secretos al cabo de los años. Parapetos que ha agrietado la usura de los días. En el alido polvo he descifrado rastros que temo. El aire me ha traído en las cóncavas tardes un bramido o el eco de un bramido desolado. Sé que en la sombra hay Otro, cuya suerte es fatigar las largas soledades que tejen y destejen este Hades y ansiar mi sangre y devorar mi muerte. Nos buscamos los dos. Ojalá fuera éste el último día de la espera.
- Jorge Luis Borges, “El laberinto,” Elogio de la Sombra (1969). Obras completas, 3 vols (Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1989) 2: 365.
(after Apollinaire & Supervielle)
Don’t be surprised
this tragedy belongs
to us
lower those eyelids
blank façades
till they look deep
into the stone
Your hands reach out
move on move on everything moves on
in their icy shells
I shall return
face washed clean
Memories are hunting horns
in a city square
between two armies
bare
(22/3/98)
Publications:
- brief 19 (2001): 70-79.
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018)
Notes:
Ne vous étonnez pas, Abaissez les paupières Jusqu’à ce qu’elles soient De véritable pierre. Laissez faire le coeur, Et même s’il s’arrête. Il bat pour lui tout seul Sur sa pente sécrète. Les mains s’allongeront Dans leur barque de glace, Et le front sera nu Comme une grande place Vide, entre deux armées.
- Jules Supervielle, “Whisper in Agony.” The Penguin Book of French Verse: 4 – The Twentieth Century, ed. Anthony Hartley (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969): 158.
•
Notre histoire est noble et tragique Comme le masque d’un tyran Nul drame hasardeux ou magique Aucun détail indifférent Ne rend notre amour pathétique. Et Thomas de Quincey buvant L’opium poison doux et chaste A sa pauvre Anne allait rêvant Passons passons puisque tout passe Je me retournerai souvent Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent
- Guillaume Apollinaire, “Cors de Chasse.” The Penguin Book of French Verse: 4 – The Twentieth Century, ed. Anthony Hartley (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969): 139.
•
(after Apollinaire)
I give for hope my eyes semi-precious stones
I give for hope my hands victory palms
I give for hope my feet supermarket carts
I give for hope my mouth this kiss
I give for hope my nostrils sampling spring flowers
I give for hope my heart keeping its promise
I give for hope the future flickering like a candle
far off in the forest
(10/3/99)
Publications:
- Poèmes à Lou [Chantal] – after Guillaume Apollinaire, Poèmes à Lou [Ombre de mon amour] (1915) xxxi & xlix. (Auckland: Perdrix Press, 1999).
- Shonagh’s Book / Jack’s Book (Auckland: Perdrix Press, 1999): 84 pp.
- Takahe 56 (2005): 20.
- Je donne à mon espoir. Auckland: Pania Press, November 23, 2008.
- Poetry Specials: 2008-2018. Papyri (28/12/2017)
Notes:
Je donne à mon espoir mes yeux ces pierreries
Text from Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques. Ed. Marcel Adéma & Michel Décaudin. Préface d’André Billy. 1956. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 121 (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1966): 465.
Je donne à mon espoir mes mains palmes de victoire
Je donne à mon espoir mes pieds chars de triomphe
Je donne à mon espoir ma bouche ce baiser
Je donne à mon espoir mes narines qu’embaument les fleurs de la mi-mai
Je donne à mon espoir mon cœur en ex-voto
Je donne à mon espoir tout l’avenir qui tremble comme une petite lueur au loin dans la forêt …
– Guillaume Apollinaire, “L'amour, le dédain et l'espérance,” from Poèmes à Lou [Ombre de mon amour] XLIX (1915).
•
Jorge Accamé: Fotografía de poeta Es una mujer joven en la foto, detrás de Pessoa. Camina apurada sobre los adoquines, vuelve la cabeza. Me pregunto qué habrá sido de ella. Seguramente iba a la feria a comprar un poco de pescado, ignorando que la retrataron junto a él. Habrá muerto, o tal vez no. Tendrá nietos, jamás se habrá interesado en poesía y no sospechará que la he descubierto. Creo que Pessoa no la vio nunca / tampoco parece conocida de la señora mayor que surge al costado izquierdo del poeta, ni del hombre pensativo de más atrás. ¿Dónde fue la hermosa joven esa mañana? Acaso un automóvil la esperaba en una esquina para atropellarla. Sólo sé que es conmovedora esa imagen inútil capturada hace casi sesenta años, un organismo vivo perdido en alguna ciudad de Portugal, inconsciente de su propia presencia. Ni siquiera tendría un buen motivo para estar allí.There’s a girl behind Pessoa. Hurrying over the paving stones, she turns her head. I wonder what happened? No doubt she was off to market for a few bits of fish, not knowing she’d be snapped. She’ll be dead now. Maybe not. She’ll have grandchildren, never have cared about poetry and won’t suspect she’s been found out. I doubt Pessoa saw her coming, no friend to the looming woman on the poet’s left – and as for the thoughtful man further back…. Where did the girl end up that morning? Perhaps a car idling around the corner knocked her down. It worries me, this image from sixty years ago, a tricked-out self in a Portuguese town. What’s the good of being here? – translated with David Howard
(4/2-13/2/2000)
Publications:
- Spin 36 (2000): 6-7.
- Masthead 6 (2002/3). [Available at: http://au.geocities.com/masthead_2/temp/photo.html].
- David Howard & Fiona Pardington. How To Occupy Our Selves (Wellington: HeadworX, 2003): 39.
- David Howard. The Incomplete Poems (Governor's Bay, Lyttelton: Cold Hub Press, 2011): 106.
- Fernando Pessoa (2000). Papyri (5/10/18).
- Pessoa in English. The Imaginary Museum (20/5/2026)
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Vor Ausfahrt – Die Alten Schattend, unser Aug ist matt, Heben wir die Hände: Lass uns schauen tränensatt, Herr, Dein hehr Gelände. Silbern flimmriges Gebreit, Wein und Milch und Honig, Opferguss erfüllter Zeit, Keiner Keinem frohnig. Morgen, Herr, ist Erntegang, Endet alles Darben, Doch wirstehn und schauern lang, Wie vergessne Garben. Uns zerbrach die arge Qual Harrens in der Leere. Gruss Dir, Land der Gotteswahl, Vor der letzten Kehre! Segen eurem tapfern Schritt, Wir sind wandermüder. Unsre Herzen nehmt ihr mit, Mit ins Land, ihr Brüder! – Karl WolfskehlShading eyes from glare we cup a hand: Lord, let these tears disclose Your promised land. Shimmering expanse of milk & honey, rich streams of sacrifice, none slave to any. That harvest-day must be tomorrow. Forsaken sheaves, we cradle sorrow. Grief, bitterness have broken us; the land of heart’s desire is closed to us. Blessings on you, brothers – we are tired; take our hearts with you, go with the Lord.
(17-21/2/04)
Publications:
- Golden Weather: North Shore Writers Past and Present. Poems edited by Jack Ross / Prose edited by Graeme Lay. ISBN 0-908561-96-2. Auckland: Cape Catley, 2004. 209-10.
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Gefunden Ich ging im Walde So für mich hin, Und nichts zu suchen, Das war mein Sinn. Im Schatten sah ich Ein Blümchen stehn, Wie Sterne leuchtend Wie Äuglein schön. Ich wollt es brechen, Da sagt' es fein: Soll ich zum Welken, Gebrochen sein? Ich grubs mit allen Den Würzeln aus, Zum Garten trug ichs Am hübschen Haus. Und pflanzt es wieder Am stillen Ort; Nun zweigt es immer Und blüht so fort. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1813)I went for a walk in my lunch-hour not looking for anything in particular I found a wild briar undermining the wall of an old foundry bright as steel I knelt down beside it although it looked as if it were saying Why should I be plucked just to wither for you? but I broke off a shoot & carried it back replanted it by the beat-up gate to my backyard which it’s spreading all over like a noxious weed
(8/4-20/9/09)
Publications:
- “Three Texts from Other Texts.” All Together Now: A Digital Bridge for Auckland and Sydney / Kia Kotahi Rā: He Arawhata Ipurangi mō Tamaki Makau Rau me Poihākena (March-September 2010).
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[after Heinrich Heine] Es gab den Dolch in deine Hand Ein böser Dämon in der bösen Stunde – Ich weiß nicht, wie der Dämon hieß – Ich weiß nur, daß vergiftet war die Wunde.There was a dagger in your hand a demon in an idle hour I never knew the demon’s name I only felt his stabbing powerIn stillen Nächten denk ich oft, Du solltest mal dem Schattenreich entsteigen Und lösen alle Rätsel mir Und mich von deiner Unschuld überzeugen.On quiet nights I lie & think you should come up from where you are & answer all these doubts for me confirm to me you were a whoreIch harre dein – o komme bald! Und kommst du nicht, so steig ich selbst zur Hölle, Daß ich alldort vor Satanas Und allen Teufeln dich zur Rede stelle.I’m waiting now You’d better show If you won’t come I’ll track you down & there in front of everyone conduct my cross-examinationIch komme, und wie Orpheus einst Trotz ich der Unterwelt mit ihren Schrecken – Ich finde dich, und wolltest du Im tiefsten Höllenpfuhle dich verstecken.gliding like some bright Orpheus across an underworld of fears I’ll find you in the deepest ditch dug out by centuries of tearsHinunter jetzt ins Land der Qual, Wo Händeringen nur und Zähneklappen – Ich reiße dir die Larve ab, Der angeprahlten Großmut Purpurlappen –& in that land of tortured dreams where sinners pay for what they did I’ll cut off the last shreds of skin the trappings of your girlish prideJetzt weiß ich, was ich wissen wollt, Und gern, mein Mörder, will ich dir verzeihen; Doch hindern kann ich nicht, daß jetzt Schmachvoll die Teufel dir ins Antlitz speien.& when I’ve found out what I need to I’d like to pardon you, you know but how can I stop TV scum from vomiting all over you?
(20/4-13/8/09)
Publications:
- "Orpheish". The Imaginary Museum (18/8/2009)
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Reading in Titirangi La noche oscura
The song of some souls who felt Canciones del alma que
pretty chuffed to have reached se goza de haber llegado
that high state of perfection al alto estado de la
which consists of being asked perfección, que es la
(& paid!) to read out your own unión con Dios, por el
poetry in public, then have it camino de la negación
reprinted in a special limited- espiritual.
edition chapbook ...
In the late afternoon En una noche oscura,
anxious about rush-hour traffic con ansias en amores inflamada,
(not to mention the parking!) (¡oh dichosa ventura!)
we drove off to Devonport salí sin ser notada,
to pick up Michele Leggott estando ya mi casa sosegada.
Fortunately she was ready A oscuras y segura,
already & even agreed por la secreta escala disfrazada,
to leave Olive behind (¡oh dichosa ventura!)
since there was so little room a oscuras y en celada,
in the car for a guide-dog estando ya mi casa sosegada.
On the motorway En la noche dichosa,
no-one noticed en secreto, que nadie me veía,
as I chose the wrong turn-off ni yo miraba cosa,
& had to go round again sin otra luz ni guía
to find the right exit sino la que en el corazón ardía.
Bronwyn was determined Aquésta me guïaba
to check out the exhibitions más cierta que la luz del mediodía,
in the Lopdell House Gallery adonde me esperaba
I’d set my sights quien yo bien me sabía,
on Murray Gray’s bookshop en parte donde nadie parecía.
O Café that welcomed us! ¡Oh noche que me guiaste!,
O waiter who made such a song & dance ¡oh noche amable más que el alborada!,
over pouring out wine! ¡oh noche que juntaste
O elegant curly fries amado con amada,
& soft, buttery loaves! amada en el amado transformada!
When we finally roused ourselves En mi pecho florido,
to tool off to the venue que entero para él solo se guardaba,
in the ramshackle old lift allí quedó dormido,
we found half the punters y yo le regalaba,
flushed & loud on mulled wine y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.
The musicians on stage El aire de la almena,
were strumming & bashing cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía,
their drums & guitars con su mano serena
so we settled in en mi cuello hería,
for a bit of a siege y todos mis sentidos suspendía.
I found after a while Quedéme y olvidéme,
I was starting to enjoy it el rostro recliné sobre el amado,
even after the crowd heckled cesó todo, y dejéme,
my attempts dejando mi cuidado
to speak French entre las azucenas olvidado.
In the late evening En una noche oscura,
avoiding the rush con ansias en amores inflamada,
from the Lopdell House carpark (¡oh dichosa ventura!)
we drove back from Titirangi salí sin ser notada,
to drop off Michele estando ya mi casa sosegada.
We got back to the flat A oscuras y segura,
more dead than alive por la secreta escala disfrazada,
to find the cat yawning (¡oh dichosa ventura!)
(unaware we’d been gone!) a oscuras y en celada,
so we turned off the lights estando ya mi casa sosegada.
& crawled straight into bed – San Juan de la Cruz
(1577-78)
(1/8/11)
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Le Lai du Rossignol ou du Laüstic Une aventure vus dirai, Dunt li bretun firent un lai; Laüstic ad nun, ceo m'est vis, Si l'apelent en lur païs; Ceo est russignol en franceis E nihtegale en dreit engleis. En seint mallo en la cuntree Ot une vile renumee. Deus chevalers ilec manëent E deus forz maisuns (i) aveient. Pur la bunté des deus baruns Fu de la vile bons li nuns. Li uns aveit femme espusee, Sage, curteise e acemee; A merveille se teneit chiere Sulunc l'usage e la manere. Li autres fu un bachelers Bien coneü entre ses pers De prüesce, de grant valur, E volenters feseit honur: Mut turnëot e despendeit E bien donot ceo qu'il aveit. La femme sun veisin ama; Tant la requist, tant la preia E tant par ot en lui grant bien Que ele l'ama sur tute rien, Tant pur le bien quë ele oï, Tant pur ceo qu'il iert pres de li. Sagement e bien s'entr'amerent; Mut se covrirent e garderent Qu'il ne feussent aparceüz. Ne desturbez ne mescreüz. E eus le poeient bien fere, Kar pres esteient lur repere, Preceines furent lur maisuns E lur sales e lur dunguns; N'i aveit bare ne devise Fors un haut mur de piere bise. Des chambres u la dame jut, Quant a la fenestre s'estut, Poeit parler a sun ami De l'autre part, e il a li, E lur aveirs entrechangier E par geter e par lancier. N'unt gueres rien que lur despleise, Mut esteient amdui a eise, Fors tant k'il ne poënt venir Del tut ensemble a lur pleisir; Kar la dame ert estreit gardee, Quant cil esteit en la cuntree. Mes de tant aveient retur, U fust par nuit u fust par jur, Que ensemble poeient parler; Nul nes poeit de ceo garder Que a la fenestre n'i venissent E iloec (ne) s'entreveïssent. Lungement se sunt entr'amé, Tant que ceo vient a un esté, Que bruil e pre sunt reverdi E li vergier ierent fluri. Cil oiselet par grant duçur Mainent lur joie en sum la flur. Ki amur ad a sun talent, N'est merveille s'il i entent. Del chevaler vus dirai veir: Il i entent a sun poeir, E la dame de l'autre part E de parler e de regart. Les nuiz, quant la lune luseit E ses sires cuché esteit, Dejuste lui sovent levot E de sun mantel se afublot. A la fenestre ester veneit Pur sun ami qu'el i saveit Que autreteu vie demenot, (que) Le plus de la nuit veillot. Delit aveient al veer, Quant plus ne poeient aver. Tant i estut, tant i leva Que ses sires s'en curuça E meintefeiz li demanda Pur quei levot e u ala. «Sire,» la dame li respunt, «Il nen ad joië en cest mund, Ki n'ot le laüstic chanter. Pur ceo me vois ici ester. Tant ducement l'i oi la nuit Que mut me semble grant deduit; Tant me delit'e tant le voil Que jeo ne puis dormir de l'oil.» Quant li sires ot que ele dist, De ire e (de) maltalent en rist. De une chose se purpensa: Le laüstic enginnera. Il n'ot vallet en sa meisun Ne face engin, reis u laçun, Puis les mettent par le vergier; N'i ot codre ne chastainier U il ne mettent laz u glu, Tant que pris l'unt e retenu. Quant le laüstic eurent pris, Al seignur fu rendu tut vis. Mut en fu liez quant il le tient; As chambres (a) la dame vient. «Dame,» fet il, «u estes vus? Venuz avant! Parlez a nus! J'ai le laüstic englué, Pur quei vus avez tant veillé. Desor poëz gisir en peis: Il ne vus esveillerat meis.» Quant la dame l'ad entendu, Dolente e cureçuse fu. A sun seignur l'ad demandé, E il l'ocist par engresté; Le col li rumpt a ses deus meins -- De ceo fist il que trop vileins -- Sur la dame le cors geta, Se que sun chainse ensanglanta Un poi desur le piz devant. De la chambre s'en ist atant. La dame prent le core petit; Durement plure e si maudit Ceus ki le laüstic traïrent E les engins e laçuns firest; Kar mut li unt toleit grant hait. «Lasse,» fet ele, «mal m'estait! Ne purrai mes la nuit lever Ne aler a la fenestre ester, U jeo suil mun ami veer. Une chose sai jeo de veir: Il quid(e)ra ke jeo me feigne; De ceo m'estuet que cunseil preigne. Le laüstic li trametrai, L'aventure li manderai.» En une piece de samit, A or brusdé e tut escrit, Ad l'oiselet envolupé. Un sun vatlet ad apelé, Sun message li ad chargié, A sun ami l'ad enveié. Cil est al chevalier venuz; De part sa dame dist saluz, Tut sun message li cunta, Le laüstic li presenta. Quant tut li ad dit e mustré E il l'aveit bien escuté, De l'aventure esteit dolenz; Mes ne fu pas vileins ne lenz. Un vasselet ad fet forgeér; Unques n'i ot fer në acer: Tut fu de or fin od bones pieres, Mut precïuses e mut cheres; Covercle i ot tresbien asis. Le laüstic ad dedenz mis; Puis fist la chasse enseeler, Tuz jurs l'ad fet of lui porter. Cele aventure fu cuntee, Ne pot estre lunges celee. Un lai en firent li bretun: Le laüstic l'apelë hum. - Marie de France (c. 1175-1200)The story that I’ll tell today the Bretons made into a lay: Laüstic they called the tale French rossignol – or nightingale. By Saint Malo there was a town famed far and wide, of great renown. Two knights lived there in luxury: fine houses, servants, horses, money. One had married a lady fair wise, discreet and debonair (she kept her temper wonderfully considering her company). The other was a bachelor well known among the townsfolk there for his courage and his courtesy and for treating people honourably. He went to all the tournaments, (neglecting solider investments) and loved the wife of his neighbour. He begged so many boons from her she felt he had to be deserving and loved him more than anything – as much for the good he’d done before as for the fact he lived next door. Wisely and well they loved each other avoiding undue fuss and bother by keeping everything discreet. This was the way they managed it: because their houses stood side by side there wasn’t much they couldn’t hide behind those solid walls of stone. The lady, when she was alone, would go to the window of her room and lean across to talk to him. They swapped small tokens of their love: he from below, she from above. Nothing interfered with them. No-one noticed, or poked blame. However, they could not aspire to reach the peak of their desire because there was so strict a guard on all her movements. It was hard, but still they had the consolation of leaning out in any season to exchange sighs across the gap. No-one could stop that access up. They loved each other for so long that summer came – green buds, birdsong: the orchards waxed into full bloom bringing amorous airs with them, and little birds carolled their joy from the tip of every spray. The knight and lady of whom I speak felt their resistance growing weak – when love wafts out from every flower it’s no surprise you feel it more! At night, when the moon shone outside, she’d leave her husband sleeping, glide wrapped only in a mantle, till she fetched up at the window sill. Her lover did the selfsame thing, sat by his window pondering, and there he’d watch her half the night. This simple act gave them delight. So often did she do it that her husband started to smell a rat. He asked her where she went at night and why she rose before first light. “Sir,” the lady said to him, “It’s more than just a passing whim. I hear the nightingale sing and have to sit here listening. So sweet his voice is in the night to hear it is supreme delight, the joy it gives me is so deep I can’t just close my eyes and sleep.” Her husband heard this glib reply and laughed once: coarsely, angrily. He thought at once of thwarting her by catching the bird in a snare. his serving men were rounded up and put to work on net and trap to hang on every single tree in his entire property. They wove so many strings and glue the bird was caught without ado. When the nightingale was caught they brought it living to the knight. This exploit pleased him mightily; he went at once to see his lady. “Lady,” said he, “where are you? Come here; this concerns you too. I’ve snared that little bird, whose song has been keeping you awake so long. Now you can sleep the whole night through, Rest easy: he won’t bother you.” When the lady heard him speak, she felt crestfallen and heart-sick. She asked a favour of her lord, if she could have the little bird. At that he did something macabre, snapped its neck in front of her, and threw the body at her dress to bloody it above the breast. Then he stalked out of her door. The lady picked it from the floor, and sobbing, called a living curse on those who’d made her prison worse by hanging nets in every tree to snare the bird who set her free. “Alas,” said she, “I am undone! I can no longer rise alone and sit by the window every night to watch my lover, my sweet knight. There is one thing I’m certain of: He will believe he’s lost my love unless I tell him what’s occurred. By sending him the little bird I’ll warn him of what’s befallen me.” She wrapped it in embroidery and cloth of gold, and asked a page to deliver this last little package to her friend who lived next door. The page walked over to their neighbour, saluted him on her behalf, and gave what he’d been asked to give: the bird’s body, the lady’s message. When he understood the damage his love had done to this lady the young man did not take it lightly. He had a cup made out of gold, studded with precious stones, and sealed against the corrosive outer air. He put the nightingale in there, then shut it in its little tomb and took it everywhere with him. The tale could not be hidden long so it was made into a song. Breton poets tell the tale; they call it “The Nightingale.”
(31/10/11-14/1/12)
Publications:
- "Marie de France: ‘Laüstic’ (c.1180).” Ka Mate Ka Ora. ISSN 1177-2182. 11 (30/3/2012): 75-88.
- "Marie de France: ‘Laüstic’ (c.1180).” Jack Ross: Opinions (1/7/2013)
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Reconnais-toi Recognise yourself cette adorable personne c’est toi this adorable person is you sous le grand chapeau caroline under the big Carolina hat oeil eye nez nose la bouche mouth voici l’ovale de la figure here is the oval of your face ton cou your neck et puis and then un peu plus bas a bit lower down c’est ton coeur qui bat there’s your beating heart ni nor ci confus should we mix with it l’impure the impure par le mirage through the mirage de ton buste adoré of your loved breast un comma a comma à travers un nuage through a cloud
- trans. Jack Ross (2012)
Publications:
- 139.123: Creative Writing – Administration Guide / Book of Readings (Massey University: School of Social and Cultural Studies, 2006-21): 2012 et seq.
- Guillaume Apollinaire: Poèmes à Lou, XXII: "Poème du 9 février 1915.” The Imaginary Museum (30/3/2026)
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Cors de chasse Notre histoire est noble et tragique Comme le masque d'un tyran Nul drame hasardeux ou magique Aucun détail indifférent Ne rend notre amour pathétique Et Thomas de Quincey buvant L'opium poison doux et chaste A sa pauvre Anne allait rêvant Passons passons puisque tout passe Je me retournerai souvent Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent. - Guillaume Apollinaire (1913)• Our story's noble and tragic like the deathmask of a tyrant no drama sparked by chance or magic no insignificant detail can render love like this unreal and Thomas de Quincey drinking the sweet chaste poison of opium dreamt all along of his poor Anne pass on pass on everything passes but I'll return here often memories are hunting horns whose sound dies softly in the wind
(22/3/98-23/12/2017)
Publications:
- The English Opium-Eater. The Imaginary Museum (23/12/2017)
Archaïscher Torso Apollos Wir kannten nicht sein unerhörtes Haupt, darin die Augenäpfel reiften. Aber sein Torso glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber, in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgeschraubt, sich hält und glänzt. Sonst könnte nicht der Bug der Brust dich blenden, und im leisen Drehen der Lenden könnte nicht ein Lächeln gehen zu jener Mitte, die die Zeugung trug. Sonst stünde dieser Stein enstellt und kurz unter der Shultern durchsichtigem Sturz und flimmerte nicht so wie Raubtierfelle; und brächte nicht aus allen seinen Rändern aus wie ein Stern: denn da ist keine Stelle, die dich nicht sieht. Du mußt dein Leben ändern. - Rainer Maria Rilke (1908)Du mußt dein Leben ändern – Rainer Maria Rilke Do we have to feel that pixilated head burning behind our eyes? the media keep broadcasting a manacled muscular torso signalling triumph over the dead his fingers cocked to a smirk the score perhaps Jacinda Ardern’s noble face caught in a rictus of grief can’t quite displace the bluntness of his semaphore on this darkest of days it feels like our worst fears were always justified our impotence out in the open for all to see our pain trumped by the old familiar reptile brain but scrolling down those flowers those faces those tears I can’t see them as nothing aren’t they us?
(19/3-14/4/19)
Publications:
- Three Versions from Rilke (2019). Papyri (21/4/19).
- Rilke in English. The Imaginary Museum (4/4/26).
Notes:
- This is how I described the inspiration for this very free adaptation of Rilke's famous poem when I republished it, together with a more literal version, on The Imaginary Museum in 2026:
I'm betting you've heard that phrase "You must change your life", even if the rest of the sonnet is less familiar.
At the time of the Christchurch Mosque Massacre in 2019, I found myself adapting these words of Rilke's for my own purposes, whether justifiably or not. Feelings were running very high here at the time, and I felt that I had to say something about the tragic events, whether others thought it opportune or not:
Archaic Torso of Apollo We never knew his unheard-of head where the eyeballs ripened. But his torso still glows like a candelabra in which his gaze, only half-illuminated holds and dazzles. Otherwise the bow of the breast wouldn’t join in, and the light twist of the loins couldn’t lend a smile to that centre, which holds fertility. Otherwise this stone would be shut and cut short under the shoulders’ transparent fall and would not flicker like a predator’s skin; and would not burst out on all sides like a star: since there’s no part which doesn’t see you. You must change your life. - Literal version by Jack Ross (2019)
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Бессоница, Гомер, тугие паруса ... Бессоница, Гомер, тугие паруса. Я список кораблей прочел до середины ... Сей длинный выводок, сей поезд журавлиный, Что над Элладою когда-то поднялся. Как журавлиный клин в чужие рубежи На головаx царей божественная пена ... Куда плывете вы? Когда бы не Элена, Что Троя вам одна, аxейские мужи?? И море и Гомер все движимо любовью.. Куда же деться мне? И вот, Гомер молчит.. И море Черное витийствуя шумит И с страшным гроxотом подxодит к изголовью ... - Осип Мандельштам (1915)• Insomnia. Homer. Reefed sails. I've read halfway through the ship catalogue; this inbred tribe, this siege of cranes which once took flight from Hellas. A wedge of cranes into foreign shores drenching your kings with spray ... Where are you going? If not for Helen, what would Troy matter to you, men of Achaea? The sea and Homer are moved by love. Where should I turn? Homer is silent. The Black Sea roars, booms up the beach to my bed.
(24-27/12/22)
Publications:
- Acquisitions (82): Homer. A Gentle Madness (18/12/2022)
- Mandelstam in English. The Imaginary Museum (10/3/2026)
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Den Vereinigten Staaten Amerika, du hast es besser Als unser Kontinent, der alte, Hast keine verfallenen Schlösser Und keine Basalte. Dich stört nicht im Innern, Zu lebendiger Zeit, Unnützes Erinnern Und vergeblicher Streit. Benutzt die Gegenwart mit Glück! Und wenn nun Eure Kinder dichten, Bewahre sie ein gut Geschick Vor Ritter-, Räuber- und Gespenstergeschichten. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1831)• America you're better off than our continent the old one you've got no fallen castles no ruins to build on your inner life is free of futile strife and fruitless memory live in the moment good luck to you and when your kids write poetry try to keep them well away from robbers ghosts and chivalry
(14-15/5/24)
Publications:
- The Other Side. The Imaginary Museum (15/5/2024)
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Александру Блоку Я пришла к поэту в гости. Ровно полдень. Воскресенье. Тихо в комнате просторной, А за окнами мороз. И малиновое солнце Над лохматым сизым дымом... Как хозяин молчаливый Ясно смотрит на меня! У него глаза такие, Что запомнить каждый должен; Мне же лучше, осторожней, В них и вовсе не глядеть. Но запомнится беседа, Дымный полдень, воскресенье В доме сером и высоком У морских ворот Невы. - Анна Ахматова (1914)• (after Anna Akhmatova) I came to visit the poet On Sunday, at high noon. It was quiet in the dusty chamber, He hummed an Irish tune As I tried not to meet his glance, Return the pressure of his eyes; A raspberry-coloured sun Blew wood-smoke over the rise. But the talk is what I remember From that long-ago Sunday, In the poet’s sea-green house By the sea-gates of Herne Bay.
(26/2-10/5/97)
Publications:
- Akhmatova in English. The Imaginary Museum (24/2/2026)
Notes:
- In early 1997 I wrote a short story called "The Great New Zealand Vortex," which purported to be a reconstruction of the life and work of an imaginary Kiwi Vorticist named Walter E. Clarke.
In its original form, the story included extensive quotations from the preface to A World Away, a collection of Clarke's literary remains edited in 1947 by a certain Winifred Cannon. Much of this was pruned away before the story first saw print - first in two issues of local journal evasion 2 (4) & (5) (2003)], and subsequently in my short fiction collection Monkey Miss Her Now (Auckland: Danger Publishing, 2004).
One of the sections which was cut included an adaptation to local conditions of Akhmatova’s poem:... she concludes her remarks on this first visit [to Clarke, with whom she "may well have been romantically involved"} by quoting from some verses she wrote about it (apparently an imitation of Akhmatova’s famous tribute to Aleksandr Blok).
It is hard to guess what precisely is meant by “the sea-gates of Herne Bay” until one remembers that Akhmatova’s poem closes with a evocation of her own poet’s house “by the sea-gates of the Neva”.
•
Мы живем, под собою не чуя страны ... Мы живем, под собою не чуя страны, Наши речи за десять шагов не слышны, А где хватит на полразговорца, Там припомнят кремлевского горца. Его толстые пальцы, как черви, жирны, И слова, как пудовые гири, верны, Тараканьи смеются глазища И сияют его голенища. А вокруг него сброд тонкошеих вождей, Он играет услугами полулюдей. Кто свистит, кто мяучит, кто хнычет, Он один лишь бабачит и тычет. Как подкову, дарит за указом указ — Кому в пах, кому в лоб, кому в бровь, кому в глаз. Что ни казнь у него — то малина И широкая грудь осетина.. - Осип Мандельштам (November, 1933)• We live, not knowing the land beneath us, our speeches are inaudible ten feet away, but where there’s enough for half a conversation – there we remember the Kremlin mountain-man. His fat fingers are as slimy as worms, but his words as reliable as forty-pound weights. His cockroach moustache laughs, and his leather boot-tops shine. Around him presses a pack of thick-skinned bosses, he toys with the favours of such submen. One whistles, one meows, another one whimpers, He alone points at us in thunder. Tossing off decree after decree like horseshoes – one in the groin, one in the head, one in the brow, one in the eye. For him, every killing is – a raspberry and the Ossetian’s chest is wide.
(8/9/22-3/2/24)
Publications:
- E M O. ISBN 978-1-877441-07-3. Auckland: Titus Books, 2008.
- Collage Poems: 1997-2005. Papyri (2018).
- Mandelstam in English. The Imaginary Museum (10/3/2026)
Notes:
- When I tried my hand at translating Mandelstam's Stalin epigram with my friend Sasha Loukine in 2001, I had in mind a dual-text, with a transparent copy of the poet's original manuscript from the KGB files on top, and our own literal version showing through underneath. On the facing page I was planning to print a poem of praise for Ceaușescu, who seems to have inspired more bad verse than virtually any other dictator since Stalin.
Alas, that didn't happen. I still hope it's a useful crib to measure some of the more artful versions against, though. You can see it here in its original context as part of the longer sequence Ancestral Voices (2001).
•
in the Jardin des Plantes, Paris
Der Panther ... Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält. Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt. Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte, der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht, ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte, in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht. Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille sich lautlos auf -. Dann geht ein Bild hinein, geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille - und hört im Herzen auf zu sein. - Rainer Maria Rilke (1903)• His eyes have grown so tired of watching bars they can’t see anything beyond them bars a thousand bars no world no rest outside him nothing the narrow circle of his steps carries him around again dancing to the silent beat that pins his will inside this pen once in a while the pupils open take a snapshot pass it through the shuttered stillness of his body to the heart it answers to
(23/2-2/3/26)
Publications:
- Poetry Shelf Playing Favourites: Jack Ross picks Rilke’s ‘Panther’.” Paula Green: NZ Poetry Shelf: a poetry page with reviews, interviews, and other things (1/4/26)
Notes:
- This is what I wrote about the poem on Paula Green's blog:
Some thoughts on Rilke’s ‘Panther‘
Rainer Maria Rilke, a young Czech-German poet, moved to Paris in 1902. He worked there for a while as the great sculptor Auguste Rodin’s secretary. It was a difficult time for Rilke, a time he later tried to recreate in his autobiographical novel The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, about a Danish student adrift in the immense, alien city. Rilke, too, was dissatisfied with most of the work he’d done to date, but couldn’t yet settle on a new direction for his poetry.
Paris, in the early 1900s, was a hotbed of Modernism. Exposure to these new ideas had both a stimulating and a paralysing effect on Rilke. At Rodin’s atelier he met artists and writers of all kinds, but their own certainties only left him more in doubt.
One day (or so the story goes) he was bemoaning his fate to his boss Rodin – in particular his inability to write anything of substance. Rodin replied, “Why don’t you do what I do? When I get stuck on something, I go for a walk with my sketchbook, then just sit down and draw something. You should try it.”
“But I’m a poet,” complained Rilke. “Poets don’t do sketches. We wait for inspiration to come, then write a poem.” Rodin shrugged his shoulders. “Why wait? Go out and sketch something with words.”
What did he have to lose? Why not give it a go? Rilke, already – in his late twenties – a bit set in his ways, reluctantly agreed to go out with a pad and pencil, and try to find something to describe.
Eventually he found his way into the Jardin des Plantes, the zoological gardens. The first cage he sat down in front of held a panther. This was the result:
It may well be the most famous poem Rilke ever wrote. The intensity with which he described the panther’s frustration at being locked up in such a narrow space, with no possible escape, pacing round and round forever, must surely have had something in it of his own feelings at being penned in a foreign city, unable to write, unable to form real connections, at a complete loss.Der Panther The Panther Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris In the Botanical Gardens, Paris Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe His gaze is from the passing of the bars so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält. grown so tired, that it can hold no more. Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe It seems to him, as if there were a thousand bars und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt. and behind the thousand bars no world. Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte, The soft passing of supple strong strides der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht, which draw him in the smallest of circles ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte, is like a dance of might around a centre in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht. in which a great will stands stunned. Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille Only sometimes does the curtain of the pupil sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein, lift itself silently – then a picture enters, geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille – passes through the tense stillness of the limbs – und hört im Herzen auf zu sein. and comes to an end in the heart. Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903 [literal version: Jack Ross]
After that, he went out every day and wrote down descriptions of what he saw. There was no more waiting at home for inspiration. The result, eventually, was a collection called simply Neue Gedichte [New Poems], which helped to revolutionise not only his own poetry, but European poetry in general.
But, through it all, that sense of imprisonment, of melancholy, of the need to escape from confinement still speaks through his poem. There are many translations of it, in many languages. Some reproduce the original rhymes and pentameter lines precisely; others take a freer approach: concentrating on what they themselves can draw from the poem, how it intersects with their own lives.
I, too, have been a stranger in a strange land, have felt that sense of loneliness, confinement, and loss. But the suffering of the Panther dwarfs all that, putting it in brutal perspective.
Here’s my own attempt to get across something of Rilke’s poem:
Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde. Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn: die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale. Im Spiegel ist Sonntag, im Traum wird geschlafen, der Mund redet wahr. Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten: wir sehen uns an, wir sagen uns Dunkles, wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis, wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln, wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes. Wir stehen umschlungen im Fenster, sie sehen uns zu von der Straße: es ist Zeit, daß man weiß! Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt, daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt. Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird. Es ist Zeit. - Paul Celan (1948)• Autumn gnaws its leaves from my hands we're friends we crack time from nutshells till it runs free time returns to its shell in the mirror it's Sunday in dreams it's sleep we mouth our truth my eye goes down to my lover's sex we look at each other darkly we mutter we love each other like poppy and memory we sleep like wine in mussel shells like the sea in the blood moon we hug in windows they watch from the street it's time they knew it's time the stone burst into flower the heart beat unrest it's time it were time It's time
(17/8/2006-15/4/26)
Publications:
- Celan in English. The Imaginary Museum (16/4/2026)
Portami il girasole Portami il girasole ch’io lo trapianti nel mio terreno bruciato dal salino, e mostri tutto il giorno agli azzurri specchianti del cielo l’ansietà del suo volto giallino. Tendono alla chiarità le cose oscure, si esauriscono i corpi in un fluire di tinte: queste in musiche. Svanire è dunque la ventura delle venture. Portami tu la pianta che conduce dove sorgono bionde trasparenze e vapora la vita quale essenza; portami il girasole impazzito di luce. - Eugenio Montale (1925)• Bring me the sunflower so that I can transplant it in my soil burnt by salt air, and show all day to the mirroring blues of the sky the anxiety of its yellow face. Dark things tend towards clarity, bodies consume themselves in a flowing of colours: these in music. Vanishing is thus the chance of chances. Bring me the plant that leads where blonde transparencies rise and life evaporates like spirit; bring me the sunflower crazed with the light.
(3/98-7/7/01)
Publications:
- "Poetry in Translation". Poetry NZ 23 (2001): 125-34.
- Montale in English. The Imaginary Museum (21/4/2026)
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Antico inverno Desiderio delle tue mani chiari nella penombra della fiamma: sapevano di rovere e di rose; di morte. Antico inverno. Cercavano il miglio gli uccelli ed erano sùbito di neve; così le parole: un po’ di sole, una raggiera d’angelo, e poi la nebbia; e gli alberi, e noi fatti d’aria al mattino. - Salvatore Quasimodo (1930)• Desire for your clear hands in the half-light of the flame: They smelt of oak and of roses; Of death. Old winter. The birds looked for millet and were suddenly of snow; the same with words: a little sun, an angelic halo, and then the fog; and the trees, and us made of air in the morning.
(5/2010-26/4/26)
Publications:
- "Theme and Variations". Papyri (2010)
- Quasimodo in English. The Imaginary Museum (26/4/2026)
•
Cien sonetos de amor: XXVII Desnuda eres tan simple como una de tus manos, lisa, terrestre, mínima, redonda, transparente, tienes líneas de luna, caminos de manzana, desnuda eres delgada como el trigo desnudo. Desnuda eres azul como la noche en Cuba, tienes enredaderas y estrellas en el pelo, desnuda eres enorme y amarilla como el verano en una iglesia de oro. Desnuda eres pequeña como una de tus uñas, curva, sutil, rosada hasta que nace el día y te metes en el subterráneo del mundo como en un largo túnel de trajes y trabajos: tu claridad se apaga, se viste, se deshoja y otra vez vuelve a ser una mano desnuda. - Pablo Neruda (1959)• Nude you’re as simple as one of your hands earthy smooth straight translucent round you have moon-lines apple-paths nude you’re slim as stripped wheat nude you’re as blue as the night in Cuba vines and stars in your hair nude you’re yellow and vast like summer in a gold church nude you’re cute like your fingernail curved subtle rose till day breaks and you re-enter our underworld that cul-de-sac of clothes and chores your clarity fades doffs its petals gets dressed turns into a bare hand again
(2/2001-8/5/2026)
Publications:
- Neruda in English. The Imaginary Museum (8/5/2026)
Dawn Chorus: A Recycled Poem from the Ancient Greek Tebtunis Papyri. Trans. Salvatore Quasimodo & Jack Ross. Artwork by Béatrice Carlson. “Where We Meet: Four Artists. Four Poets. Four Collaborations”. Curated by Pippa Mothersole. Angela Morton Room, Aug 23-Sep 27. Auckland: Takapuna Library, 2026. 8 pp.
ΠΟΜΟΣ ΟΡΘΡΙΟΣ
ξουθὰ δὲ λιγύφων᾽ ὄρνεα δι᾽ ἐφετᾶν ἔρημον
δρίος ἄκροις ἐπὶ κλωσὶ πίτυος ἥμεν᾿ ἐμινύριζ ἐτιττύβιζεν
κέλαδον παντομιγῆ, καὶ τὰ μὲν ἄρχετο, τ[ὰ δ᾽ ἔμ] ελλεν, τὰ δ᾽ ἐσίγα,
τὰ δὲ βωστρεύοντ᾽ ἀν᾿ ὄρη λαλεῦσι φωναῖς, φιλέρημος δὲ νάπαις λάλος ἀνταμείβετ᾽ ἀχώ
– Anon. (c 1st-3rd century BCE)
•
Canto Mattutino
Dorati uccelli dall'acuta voce, liberi
per il bosco solitario in cima ai rami di pino
confusamente si lamentano; e chi comincia,
chi indugia, chi lancia il suo richiamo verso i monti:
e l'eco che non tace, amica dei deserti,
lo ripete dal fondo delle valli.
– trans. Salvatore Quasimodo (1940)
•
Morning Song
Bright birds with their sweet voices freely
through the lonely forest on pine branches
sing their sorrows one starts off
another takes it up some cry to the hills
until the burbling echo friend of emptiness
replays them in the hidden valley
– trans. Jack Ross
(23-25/4/26)
Publications:
- Dawn Chorus: A Recycled Poem from the Ancient Greek Tebtunis Papyri. Trans. Salvatore Quasimodo & Jack Ross. Artwork by Béatrice Carlson. Takapuna Library: Angela Morton Room, 2026. [3].
- Dawn Chorus (1). Papyri (5/1/2026)
•
(after Quasimodo) Native birds with raucous voices cry from our backyard for food or love or just to say they’re there echoing outward through the bay up to the hilltop rush-hour traffic
(10-11/3/26)
Publications:
- Dawn Chorus: A Recycled Poem from the Ancient Greek Tebtunis Papyri. Trans. Salvatore Quasimodo & Jack Ross. Artwork by Béatrice Carlson. Takapuna Library: Angela Morton Room, 2026. [4].
- Dawn Chorus (2). Papyri (3/1/2026)
•
E le docili api laboriose
dall’ali gialle, dal viso schiacciato,
le folte operaie dell’estate
che lasciano le pungiglione cupamente ronzando,
le costruttrici dagli amori luttuosi,
indifese succhiano il soave nettare
dal quale si ricava il miele.
And the hardworking bees
yellow wings and pinched faces
busy all summer long
buzz as they plant their stings
in the labyrinths of love
sipping the clear sweet nectar
from which the honey comes
– trans. Jack Ross
(25-27/7/26)
Publications:
- Dawn Chorus: A Recycled Poem from the Ancient Greek Tebtunis Papyri. Trans. Salvatore Quasimodo & Jack Ross. Artwork by Béatrice Carlson. Takapuna Library: Angela Morton Room, 2026. [5].
- Dawn Chorus (3). Papyri (1/1/2026)
Notes:
- The poem this collaboration was based on was discovered among the Tebtunis papyri sometime in the early twentieth century. These papyri fragments were (according to Wikipedia):
… written in either Demotic Egyptian or Koine Greek and were found during a single expedition led by Bernard Pyne Grenfell and Arthur S. Hunt, two British papyrologists in the winter of 1899/1900 at the village of ancient Tebtunis (near modern Umm-el-Baragat), Egypt. The papyri can be divided into three groups based on their provenance: texts from the crocodile mummies, the town and from the temple of Soknebtunis, and the cartonnage of human mummies. A total of 1093 fragments of the Tebtunian papyri are registered ...
Most of them have been dated to sometime between the 3rd and 1st century BCE.
This particular piece was translated into Italian by poet and classicist – and future Nobel Prize winner – Salvatore Quasimodo, and included in his wartime collection Lirici Greci [Greek Lyrics] (1940):Salvatore Quasimodo. Lirici Greci: Testo Greco a fronte. 1940. Saggio di Luciano Anceschi. 1944. Biblioteca Moderna Mondadori clxxxix. Verona: Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, 1951. pp. 152-53.
It originally formed the final section of a longer poem, which Quasimodo includes in full in his notes (pp.164-65).
•
Giuseppe Ungaretti: Vita d'un uomo: Tutte le Poesie (1888-1970)
Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba
(2026)
Umberto Saba: Tutte le poesie (1883-1957)
Ulisse Nella mia giovinezza ho navigato lungo le coste dalmate. Isolotti a fior d'onda emergevano, ove raro un uccello sostava intento a prede, coperti d'alghe, scivolosi, al sole belli come smeraldi. Quando l'alta marea e la notte li annullava, vele sottovento sbandavano più al largo, per fuggirne l'insidia. Oggi il mio regno è quella terra di nessuno. Il porto accende ad altri i suoi lumi; me al largo sospinge ancora il non domato spirito, e della vita il doloroso amore. - Umberto Saba (1946)
• When I was young I sailed down the Dalmatian coast rock-reefs stood out above the waves slick with algae emerald-green an occasional raptor hovering there intent on prey but when high tide and darkness swallowed them my leeward sails would steer us out to the open sea away from danger today my kingdom is that no-man’s land the harbour lights its lamps for others my love of life painful at times my perverse soul chase me out from every shelter
(28/7-12/8/26)
Publications:
- Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba. The Imaginary Museum (16/8/2026)
•
La capra Ho parlato a una capra Era sola sul prato, era legata. Sazia d'erba, bagnata alla pioggia, belava. Quell'uguale belato era fraterno al mio dolore. Ed io risposi, prima per celia, poi perchè il dolore è eterno, ha una voce e non varia. Questa voce sentiva gemere in una capra solitaria. In una capra dal viso semita sentiva querelarsi ogni altro male, ogni altra vita. - Umberto Saba (1909-10)
• I talked to a goat she was tied up alone on the lawn sick of grass wet with rain she baa’d that baa matched exactly how I felt so I replied first as a joke then because pain’s endless it has a voice and never shuts up I heard it in that lonely goat in a goat with a long semitic face I heard the moan of every pain in every life
(28/7-12/8/26)
Publications:
- Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba. The Imaginary Museum (16/8/2026)
•
TUTTI EROI! O IL PIAVE O TUTTI ACCOPPATI !
All heroes! The River Piave or everyone killed !
Luigi Marzocchi: Church of Sant'Andrea di Barbarana (24/6/1918)
Mattina M'illumino d'immenso - Giuseppe Ungaretti (1917)
• enlighten me immensity
(24-25/7/26)
Publications:
- Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba. The Imaginary Museum (16/8/2026)
•
Soldati Si sta come d'autunno sugli alberi le foglie - Giuseppe Ungaretti (1917)
• like leaves on autumn trees
(26/7-12/8/26)
Publications:
- Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba. The Imaginary Museum (16/8/2026)
•
Veglia Un'intera nottata buttato vicino a un compagno massacrato con la sua bocca digrignata volta al plenilunio con la congestione delle sue mani penetrata nel mio silenzio ho scritto lettere piene d'amore Non sono mai stato tanto attaccato alla vita - Giuseppe Ungaretti (1917)
• a whole night laid beside a battered comrade fish mouth gaping at the moon with the touch of his hands upon my silence I scribbled letters full of love I’ve never felt so close to life
(26/7-12/8/26)
Publications:
- Giuseppe Ungaretti / Umberto Saba. The Imaginary Museum (16/8/2026)
•
Aimé Césaire: Poésie, théâtre, essais et discours (1913-2008)
Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse
(2026)
Saint-John Perse: Oeuvres complètes (1887-1975)
Anabase: Chanson Il naissait un poulain sous les feuilles de bronze. Un homme mit des baies amères dans nos mains. Etranger. Qui passait. Et voici qu’il est bruit d’autres provinces à mon gré... « Je vous salue, ma fille, sous le plus grand des arbres de l’année. » * Car le soleil entre au Lion et l’Etranger a mis son doigt dans la bouche des morts. Etranger. Qui riait. Et nous parle d’une herbe. Ah ! tant de souffles aux provinces ! Qu’il est d’aisance dans nos voies ! que la trompette m’est délice, et la plume savante au scandale de l’aile !... « Mon âme, grande fille, vous aviez vos façons qui ne sont pas les nôtres. » * Il naquit un poulain sous les feuilles de bronze. Un homme mit ces baies amères dans nos mains. Etranger. Qui passait. Et voici d’un grand bruit dans un arbre de bronze. Bitume et roses, don du chant ! Tonnerre et flûtes dans les chambres ! Ah ! tant d’aisance dans nos voies, Ah ! tant d’histoires à l’année, et l’Etranger à ses façons par les chemins de toute la terre !... « Je vous salue, ma fille, sous la plus belle robe de l’année. » - St.-John Perse (1924)
• A foal was born under the bronze leaves a man put bitter bay leaves in our hands a stranger passing by now pleasing rumours from distant provinces greetings daughter under the grandest tree of the year * The sun enters Leo the stranger thrusts his hand in the mouths of the dead a stranger laughing telling us of a herb so many winds cross the provinces how easy our ways how the trumpets ring pens peddle scandal under its wing daughter of my soul your ways were not ours * A foal was born under bronze leaves a man pressed bitter bay leaves in our hands a stranger passing by now the bronze tree resounds tar and roses the gift of song thunder and flutes in the rooms so easy our ways so many stories told throughout the year the stranger traversing the ways of the earth greetings daughter in your brightest dress of the year
(1-10/9/2026)
Publications:
- Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse. The Imaginary Museum (11/9/2026)
Éloges: Écrit sur la porte J'ai une peau couleur de tabac rouge ou de mulet, j'ai un chapeau en moelle de sureau couvert de toile blanche. Mon orgueil est que ma fille soit très-belle quand elle commande aux femmes noires; ma joie, quelle découvre un bras très-blanc parmi ses poules noires ; et qu'elle n'ait point honte de ma joue rude sous le poil, quand je rentre boueux. ⁂ Et d'abord je lui donne mon fouet, ma gourde et mon chapeau. En souriant elle m'acquitte de ma face ruisselante; et porte à son visage mes mains grasses d'avoir éprouvé l'amande de kako, la graine de café. Et puis elle m'apporte un mouchoir de tête bruissant; et ma robe de laine; de l'eau pure pour rincer mes dents de silencieux : et l'eau de ma cuvette est là; et j'entends l'eau du bassin dans la case-à-eau. ⁂ Un homme est dur, sa fille est douce. Qu'elle se tienne toujours à son retour sur la plus haute marche de la maison blanche, et faisant grâce à son cheval de l'étreinte des genoux, il oubliera la fièvre qui tire toute la peau du visage en dedans. ⁂ J'aime encore mes chiens, l'appel de mon plus fin cheval, et voir au bout de l'allée droite mon chat sortir de la maison en compagnie de la guenon... toutes choses suffisantes pour n'envier pas les voiles des voiliers que j'aperçois à la hauteur du toit de tôle sur la mer comme un ciel. - St.-John Perse (1911)
• My skin’s red as tobacco or a mule my dusty pith helmet’s white my daughter’s fair as she bosses around the black women I’m glad that she preens her white arms against the black hens and that she’s not ashamed to feel my rough cheeks under the stubble when I come home flecked in mud ⁂ first I give her my whip my flask and my hat she smiles in my sweaty face puts her face in my hands stained brown by cocoa and coffee beans then she wraps my head in a bandanna brings me my dressing gown water to rinse my teeth the water in the basin feels cool I can hear the waters below us in the cistern ⁂ a man is hard his daughter soft she comes out to welcome him on the top step of our blank house the horse is glad to be free of the grip of his knees he forgets the pain that tightens the skin of his face ⁂ I love my dogs the neigh of my horse seeing at the end of the straight path my cat step out of the house beside the monkey ... plenty of things here to stop me longing for the winged ships I can glimpse from the tip of the tin roof on that sea blue like the sky
(2-11/9/2026)
Publications:
- Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse. The Imaginary Museum (11/9/2026)
Éloges: Pour fêter une enfance, II Et les servantes de ma mère, grandes filles luisantes ... Et nos paupières fabuleuses ... O clartés! ô faveurs! Appelant toute chose, je récitai qu'elle était grande, appelant toute bête, qu'elle était belle et bonne. O mes plus grandes fleurs voraces, parmi la feuille rouge, à dévorer tous mes plus beaux insectes verts! Les bouquets au jardin sentaient le cimetière de famille. Et une très petite soeur était morte: j'avais eu, qui sent bon, son cercueil d'acajou entre les glaces de trois chambres. Et il ne fallait pas tuer l'oiseau-mouche d'un caillou ... Mais la terre se courbait dans nos jeux comme fait la servante, celle qui a droit à une chaise si l'on se tient dans la maison. ... Végétales ferveurs, ô clartés ô faveurs ! ... Et puis ces mouches, cette sorte de mouches, vers le dernier étage du jardin, qui étaient comme si la lumière eut chanté! ... Je me souviens du sel, je me souviens du sel que la nourrice jaune dut essuyer à l'angle de mes yeux. Le sorcier noir sentenciait à l'office: «Le monde est comme une pirogue, qui, tournant et tournant, ne sait plus si le vent voulait rire ou pleurer ...» Et aussitôt mes yeux tâchaient à peindre un monde balancé entre des eaux brillantes, connaissaient le mât lisse des fûts, la hune sous les feuilles, et les guis et les vergues, les haubans de liane, où trop longues, les fleurs s’achevaient en des cris de perruches. - St.-John Perse (1911)
• And my mother's maids tall lustrous girls our eyelids open wide O lights O gifts reaching for everything around me I testified that it was great naming each creature that it was beautiful and good chief among them the voracious flowers hidden in the red leaves devouring the most beautiful of my green insects but the bouquets in the garden smelled of the family graveyard a very little sister had died I felt her fragrant mahogany coffin poised between the mirrors of three rooms nor should you kill the hummingbird with a pebble the earth bent over our games as the maid does the one who’s allowed to sit down when you’re in the house green excess O lights O gifts and then those flies that kind of fly in the dizzy heights of the garden which felt as if the light had sung I remember the salt I remember that salt scurf the yellow nurse had to wipe from the corners of my eyes the black magician prophesied the world is like a canoe it spins around no longer knows if the wind wants to laugh or cry and at once my eyes could see a world poised between bright planes of water I felt the smooth heft of the barrels the crow's nest under the leaves the spars and yards the shrouds of vines where the flowers run out at last in the calls of the parakeets
(2-9/9/2026)
Publications:
- Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse. The Imaginary Museum (11/9/2026)
Cahier d'un retour au pays natal 1 Au bout du petit matin bourgeonnant d’anses frêles les Antilles qui ont faim, les Antilles grêlées de petite vérole, les Antilles dynamitées d’alcool, échouées dans la boue de cette baie, dans la poussière de cette ville sinistrement échouées. 2 Au bout du petit matin, l’extrême, trompeuse désolée eschare sur la blessure des eaux ; les martyrs qui ne témoignent pas ; les fleurs du sang qui se fanent et s’éparpillent dans le vent inutile comme des cris de perroquets babillards ; une vieille vie menteusement souriante, ses lèvres ouvertes d’angoisses désaffectées ; une vieille misère pourrissant sous le soleil, silencieusement ; un vieux silence crevant de pustules tièdes 3 l’affreuse inanité de notre raison d’être. 4 Au bout du petit matin, sur cette plus fragile épaisseur de terre que dépasse de façon humiliante son grandiose avenir – les volcans éclateront, l’eau nue emportera les taches mûres du soleil et il ne restera plus qu’un bouillonnement tiède picoré d’oiseaux marins – la plage des songes et l’insensé réveil. 5 Au bout du petit matin, cette ville plate – étalée, trébuchée de son bon sens, inerte, essouflée sous son fardeau géométrique de croix éternellement recommençante, indocile à son sort, muette, contrariée de toutes façons, incapable de croître selon le suc de cette terre, embarrassée, rognée, réduite, en rupture de faune et de flore. - Aimé Césaire (1939)
• 1 in the wee hours budding with frail coves the hungry Antilles Antilles pockmarked with smallpox Antilles dynamited by alcohol stranded in the mud of this bay in the dust of this city malevolently stranded 2 in the wee hours the extreme deceptive desolate scab on the wound of the waters the martyrs who can’t bear witness the flowers of blood that wither and scatter in the wind useless like the prating of parrots an old life lying through smiles its lips open with anxieties disaffected an old misery rotting under the sun in silence old silences bursting with tepid pustules 3 the dreadful inanity of our reasons for being alive 4 in the wee hours on this most fragile weight of earth whose grandiose future humiliatingly overtops the volcanoes will erupt the naked water will carry away the ripe spots of the sun and all that will remain is a tepid bubbling pecked by seabirds the beach of dreams and inchoate awakening 5 in the wee hours these city wastes sprawling stumbling over their own common sense inert breathless under their geometric weight of crosses eternally recurrent defiant of their fate mute relentlessly thwarted incapable of growth through the sap of this land hampered clipped diminished deprived of fauna and flora
(2-11/9/2026)
Publications:
- Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse. The Imaginary Museum (11/9/2026)
Notes:
-
Aimé Césaire supplied a new opening stanza of the 1947 Parisian edition of his poem:
Au bout du petit matin ... Va-t’en, lui disais-je, gueule de flic, gueule de vache, va-t’en je déteste les larbins de l’ordre et les hannetons de l’espérance. Va-t’en mauvais gris-gris, punaise de moinillon. Puis je me tournais vers des paradis pour lui et les siens perdus, plus calme que la face d’une femme qui ment, et là, bercé par les effluves d’une pensée jamais lasse je nourrissais le vent, je délaçais les montres et j’entendais monter de l’autre côté du désastre, un fleuve de tourterelles et de trèfles de la savane que je porte toujours dans mes profondeurs à hauteur inverse du vingtième étage des maisons les plus insolentes et par précaution contre la force putréfiante des ambiances crépusculaires, arpentée nuit et jour d’un sacré soleil vénérien.
• feck off I told him flat-foot arse-licker feck off I hate grovelling toadstools obsequious cockroaches feck off bad juju bedlice of a monk then turned to paradises lost for him and his loved ones calmer than the face of a lying woman and there lulled by the effluvia of a nagging maggot I fed the wind untied the monsters and heard rising from the other side of the disaster the river of doves and savannah pollen which I still hold in my inverse depths as high as the twentieth floor of the most insolent houses as a charm against the putrefying force of twilight air patrolled night and day by a dose from the cursed sun
Cérémonie Vaudou pour Saint-John Perse ... celui qui balise l’aire d’atterissage des colibris celui qui plante en terre une hampe d’asclépias de Curaçao pour fournir le gîte aux plus grands monarques du monde qui sont en noblesse d’exil et papillons de pasage celui pour qui les burseras de la sierra suant sang et eau et plus de sang que d’eau et pelés n’en finissent pas de se tordre les bras grotesques dans leur parade de damnés celui qui contemple chaque jour la première leerte génétique qu’il est superflu de nommer jusqu’à parfait rougeoiement avec à recueillir le surplus de forces hors du vide historique le chercheur de sources perdues le demèleur de laves cordées celui qui calcule l’étiage de la colère dans les terres de labour et de mainbour celui quid u sang reencontré la roue du temps et du contretemps mille fois plus gémissante que norias sur l’Oronte celui qui remplace l’asphodèle des prairies infernales par – sacrale - la belle coiffure afro de l’haemanthus -Angela Davies de ces lieux- riche de toutes les épingles de nos sangs hérissés (le vit-il le vit-il l’Etranger Plus rouge pourtant que le sang de Tammouz et nos faces décebales le vit-il le vit-il l’Etranger?) phlégréennes oiseaux profonds tourterelles de l’ombre et du grief et que l’arc s’embrase et que l’un à l’autre océan les magmas fastueux en volcans se répondent pour de toutes gueules de tous fumants sabords honorer en route pour le grand large l’ultime Conquistador en son dernier voyage - Aimé Césaire (1976)
• he who marks out the hummingbird landing strip who plants a stalk of Curaçao milkweed in the earth guarding the world's most gaudy monarchs nobility in exile errant butterflies he for whom the aromatic tree resin of the Sierra sweating blood and water more blood than water never ceases to writhe its grotesque stump in a blind parade of the damned he who meditates day by day on that first genetic letter superfluous to name till history stains it red with the excess force excreted by the void the seeker of lost springs the disentangler of ropy lava he who reckons the low point of rage in the ploughed lands and measures the wheel of time and anti-time in domains a thousand times more harsh than the man-trodden waterwheels of the Orontes he who replaces the asphodel of the infernal meadows with the sacred consecrated Afro of the haemanthus Angela Davis of the underworld rich with the pricks of our inflected blood did he see it did he see the Stranger redder than Tammuz’ blood and our Dacian decebalic faces did he see it did he see the Stranger? Phlegraean lava fields knee-deep in birds doves of shadow and grief that the bow ignites and from one sea to the other the mater magma in volcanoes answers to honour each mouth each smoking pothole on the way to the open ocean the ultimate Conquistador on his last voyage
(2-10/9/2026)
Publications:
- Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse. The Imaginary Museum (11/9/2026)
A L'heure ou dans la Chaleur les Moines Nus Descendent de L'himalaya Très fort pendant les moustiques montés des volutes chargées à mitraille des maremmes joli cœur de la brutalité à la patte moricaude des bouges de sangliers Très fort pendant les grands fleuves qui à la vermine débranchent leurs cuisses très immondes lèvres bleues giclant un rire cru de vagin Très fort pendant la face molle des pollens s'écrasant dans la conspiration du vent et les cheminées qui fument sous le tunnel des épaules des fauves en escarboucles d'yeux plus tendres que leur alentour de graminées Très fort monstre contre monstre le tien dont le corps est une statue de suc de bois rouge dont le crachat est un pissat de fofa le mien dont la sueur est un jet de bile de caïman que je les sorte enfin comme une nuit pluvieuse de cris d'alouates de ma poitrine si tendre de fausse oronge - Aimé Césaire (1946)
• very strong mosquitoes rising from the swirls loaded with shrapnel from the marsh smart heart of brutality in the swarthy paw of the wild boars' den very strong great rivers disconnect their soiled thighs from vermin blue lips disgorge a raw laugh of vagina very strong the soft mask of pollen crushing conspiracies of the wind the smoking chimneys under the tunnel of the wild beasts’ shoulders carbuncled eyes sweeter than the surrounding grass very strong monster against monster yours whose body is a statue of redwood sap whose spittle is a spurt of piss mine whose sweat is a jet of caiman bile till I whip them out at last like a rainy night of lark’s cries from my breast so soft in their mock orange
(2-10/9/2026)
Publications:
- Aimé Césaire / Saint-John Perse. The Imaginary Museum (11/9/2026)
•
Pyrénées Montagne des grands abusés, Au sommet de vos tours fiévreuses Faiblit la dernière clarté. Rien que la vide et l’avalanche, La détresse et le regret! Tous ces troubadours mal-aimés Ont vu blanchir dans un été Leur doux royaume pessimiste. Ah! la neige est inexorable Qui aime qu’on souffre à ses pieds, Qui veut que l’on meure glacé Quand on a vécu dans les sables. - René Char (1950)
• Mountains of the Moon on your deluded towers the light is fading emptiness the avalanche that showers chaos on all those love-lorn singers building up all summer their dreams of purity the snow piles up you want to suffer? turn to ice? stay in the sandpit
(5/2010-20/9/26)
Publications:
- "Theme and Variations". Papyri (2010)
•
Sonette an Orpheus – I: ix Nur wer die Leier schon hob auch unter Schatten, darf das unendliche Lob ahnend erstatten. Nur wer mit Toten vom Mohn aß, von dem ihren, wird nicht den leisesten Ton wieder verlieren. Mag auch die Spieglung im Teich oft uns erschwimmen: Wisse das Bild. Erst in dem Doppelbereich werden die Stimmen ewig und mild. - Rainer Maria Rilke (1922)
• Once you’ve tried your hand in Shadowland you may be ready to scale infinity once you’ve broken bread with the mute dead you won’t ignore their slightest whisper those faces in the water are treacherous dissolve before us in the double realm the voices will be calm don’t falter
(5/2010-21/9/26)
Publications:
- "Theme and Variations". Papyri (2010)
•
Boris Pasternak: Стихи (1987)
Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva
(2026)
Marina Tsvetaeva: Стихи (1979)
Гамлет Гул затих. Я вышел на подмостки. Прислонясь к дверному косяку, Я ловлю в далёком отголоске, Что случится на моем веку. На меня наставлен сумрак ночи Тысячью биноклей на оси. Если только можно, Авва Отче, Чашу эту мимо пронеси. Я люблю твой замысел упрямый И играть согласен эту роль. Но сейчас идёт другая драма, И на этот раз меня уволь. Но продуман распорядок действий, И неотвратим конец пути. Я один, всё тонет в фарисействе. Жизнь прожить — не поле перейти. - Борис Пастернак (1946)
• Crowd's roar subsides I enter stage left leaning against a doorpost I sense in the echoing emptiness what's coming for me at last darkness comes to bear on me through the sights of opera glasses if only it were possible Father to let this bitter cup pass? I admire your stubborn design and agreed to play this role but another drama's unfolding can't I too choose denial? the sequence of acts is planned Your Will will be fulfilled I'm alone with their smug hypocrisy life's not like crossing a field
(22-24/9/2026)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
Сестра моя — жизнь ... Сестра моя — жизнь и сегодня в разливе Расшиблась весенним дождем обо всех, Но люди в брелоках высоко брюзгливы И вежливо жалят, как змеи в овсе. У старших на это свои есть резоны. Бесспорно, бесспорно смешон твой резон, Что в грозу лиловы глаза и газоны И пахнет сырой резедой горизонт. Что в мае, когда поездов расписанье Камышинской веткой читаешь в купе, Оно грандиозней святого писанья И черных от пыли и бурь канапе. Что только нарвется, разлаявшись, тормоз На мирных сельчан в захолустном вине, С матрацев глядят, не моя ли платформа, И солнце, садясь, соболезнует мне. И в третий плеснув, уплывает звоночек Сплошным извиненьем: жалею, не здесь. Под шторку несет обгорающей ночью И рушится степь со ступенек к звезде. Мигая, моргая, но спят где-то сладко, И фата-морганой любимая спит Тем часом, как сердце, плеща по площадкам, Вагонными дверцами сыплет в степи. - Борис Пастернак (1917)
• My sister life’s in full flood today breaking like spring rain-squalls all over us people dangle like fluffy dice garish and sour arching their fangs like vipers in the grass oldies may have their own reasons for this but your excuse is at least original during a thunderstorm lilac eyes turn grey and the horizon reeks of deep purple in May when you read the train timetable for the city rail link in your cubicle it seems far wiser than the Bible or banquettes burdened by random people and whenever the brakes screech and bark at harmless simps in some village backwater they look up from their seats is this my stop? and the setting sun ceases to matter then third time lucky the signal drifts off like a long apology sorry not here breezes waft through the blinds in the hot night and the headlands stare upstairs at a star buzzing and blinking somewhere folks are still sleeping and my girlfriend lies prone like a meteor just as my heart splashing past the threshold topples downhill through the carriage door
(22/9-1/10/26)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
Памяти Марины Цветаевой Хмуро тянется день непогожий. Безутешно струятся ручьи По крыльцу перед дверью прихожей И в открытые окна мои. За оградою вдоль по дороге Затопляет общественный сад. Развалившись, как звери в берлоге, Облака в безпорядке лежат. Мне в ненастьи мерещится книга О земле и её красоте. Я рисую лесную шишигу Для тебя на заглавном листе. Ах, Марина, давно уже время, Да и труд не такой уж ахти, Твой заброшенный прах в реквие́ме Из Елабуги перенести. Торжество твоего переноса Я задумывал в прошлом году На снегами пустынного плеса, Где зимуют баркасы во льду. * * * Мне так же трудно до сих пор Вообразить тебя уме́ршей, Как скопидомкой мильонершей Средь голодающих сестёр. Что сделать мне тебе в угоду? Дай как-нибудь об этом весть. В молчаньи твоего ухода Упрёк невысказанный есть. Всегда загадочны утраты. В безплодных розысках в ответ Я мучаюсь без результата: У смерти очертаний нет. Тут всё — полуслова и тени, Обмолвки и самообман, И только верой в воскресенье Какой-то указатель дан. Зима — как пышные поминки: Наружу выйти из жилья, Прибавить к сумеркам коринки, Облить вином — вот и кутья. Пред домом яблоня в сугробе. И город в снежной пелене — Твоё огромное надгробье, Как целый год казалось мне. Лицом повернутая к Богу, Ты тянешься к Нему с земли, Как в дни, когда тебе итога Ещё на ней не подвели. - Борис Пастернак (1943)
• Dank blustery day drags on inconsolably runnels flow over the porch by the hall door down past my open window beyond the fence along the road the water overflows our local park clouds sprawl like vermin conspiring in the dark in this foul weather I try to picture our black earth bound up into a book I sketch a forest-green dryad for you but the cover stays blank Ah Marina it’s not that I forgot I’ve lived through an ocean of time since you laid down your ashes there Yelabuga I’ve owed you this requiem I want it to share the blind beauty of the new grave they dug you last year in a snow-bound reach of the river where barges lie frozen all winter * it’s still just as hard for me to work out how to picture you dead while their sisters are dying of hunger richniks lie tucked up in bed please tell me what to say to you anything farewell? would that do? the way you left us in silence still aches like a bitter blow a reproach even loss is a mystery I search everywhere to comprehend blaming myself blaming others death deals with an open hand all that’s left here is shadows the detritus of my self-regard not the slightest faith in rebirth just an obstinate debt that's still owed winter has laid us a banquet your wake is a blanket of snow iced wine the berries of twilight add up to a meagre show our apple tree’s buried deep in drifts the village is shrouded in white your cinderblock gravestone oppresses us a surfeit of love chokes the light but your face has turned away now as you stretch out your arms in the earth as it was then in the beginning when you saw the immutable truth
(22-1/10/2026)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
Осипу Мандельштаму Приключилась с ним странная хворь, И сладчайшая на него нашла оторопь. Всё стоит и смотрит ввысь, И не видит ни звёзд, ни зорь Зорким оком своим — отрок. А задремлет — к нему орлы Шумнокрылые слетаются с клёкотом, И ведут о нём дивный спор. И один — властелин скалы — Клювом кудри ему треплет. Но дремучие очи сомкнув, Но уста полураскрыв — спит себе. И не слышит ночных гостей, И не видит, как зоркий клюв Златоокая вострит птица. - Марина Цветаева (20/3/1916)
• A strange illness comes over him a sweet stupor possesses him he stands staring upwards seeing nothing not stars nor the dawn despite the sharp eyes of youth as he nods off stiff-pinioned eagles swoop down with raucous cries squabbling over his liver till one the lord of the wings pecks nonchalantly at his curls heavy-lidded with lips slightly parted he sleeps on oblivious to his nightly guests unaware that that golden-eyed bird is sharpening its cruel beak
(22/9-1/10/2026)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
Бессонница, 3 В огромном городе моём — ночь. Из дома сонного иду — прочь. И люди думают: жена, дочь, —А я запомнила одно: ночь. Июльский ветер мне метёт — путь, И где-то музыка в окне — чуть. Ах, нынче ветру до зари — дуть Сквозь стенки тонкие груди́ — в грудь. Есть чёрный тополь, и в окне — свет, И звон на башне, и в руке — цвет, И шаг вот этот — никому — вслед, И тень вот эта, а меня — нет. Огни — как нити золотых бус, Ночного листика во рту — вкус. Освободите от дневных уз, Друзья, поймите, что я вам — снюсь. - Марина Цветаева (17/7/1916)
• Falling on my vast echoing city night walking out from my quiet house late a woman all alone no common sight drawn by one thing the night the summer winds sweep a path for me music wafts from a window faintly yes that wind will blow until dawn steadily straight to this aching heart cruelly black poplar there from the window light bells ring in the tower my hand grasps a flower tight not following anyone down this street shadows back there but I’m out of sight streetlights like a beaded necklace gleaming fallen leaf lights on my tongue tart-tasting breaking free at last from the day’s false seeming friends I’m just a dream you’re dreaming
(22-1/10/2026)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
Ушёл — не ем ... Ушёл — не ем: Пуст — хлеба вкус. Всё — мел. За чем ни потянусь. …Мне хлебом был, И снегом был. И снег не бел, И хлеб не мил. - Марина Цветаева (23/1/1940)
• Gone can't eat bread gone stale chalky white all round me you were my bread you were the snow soiled snow loveless bread
(22-30/9/2026)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
Годы твои — гора ... — Годы твои — гора, Время твоё — 'царей.' Дура! любить — стара. — Други! любовь — старей: Чудищ старей, корней, Каменных алтарей Критских старей, старей Старших богатырей - Марина Цветаева (24/1/1940)
• Your years the mountains your times cold Tsars fool too old for love? love’s older still older than the Minotaur than roots older than Cretan stone altars older than the oldest gods and heroes
(22/9-1/10/2026)
Publications:
- Boris Pasternak / Marina Tsvetaeva. The Imaginary Museum (1/10/2026)
![Louise de Coligny-Châtillon ["Lou"]](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lou_Louise_de_Coligny_Chatillon.jpg){kind=link}
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