Thursday, April 18, 2013


Another "translation."


The Captivator regards sensation 
a secret to obscure. He says: 
Reprobate verboten shall be sealed 
carefully within the core of one’s realness. 
This is because a) brutes trip 
when making self primary, becoming 
a river of ribald tragedies. Also, b) libertines 
simper stupidly when suffused 
with indebtedness to Al Capone. 
He assures us, only beasts sing songs of the self, 
sinking into soil pranced upon by gentlemen-
turned-baboons, before finishing with a trope 
that reveals their own mortality.

Sarah Segal

La chiesa vaticana a riguardo
– Segreto secreto dalle sue labbra oscure –
-Ripropone bromuro
Dato per secoli a' soldati suoi, cavalli e collegiali, 
Perché il cuore dei ragazzi
Brucia troppo selvaggiamente 
Prima di aver riposo tra i cadaveri. 
E libertà si smarrisce ancora
Per debiti al padrone,
La bestia da sonno a sonno passando,
Sogno a sogno piangendo al giudice bambino. 
Per Grecia fin troppo chiara,
Lontana Grecia morta.

Franco Buffoni

Tuesday, April 16, 2013


A pretend "translation" of a poem written in a different language.  "Translated" poem follows.

A History of Childhood
After Jorge Bustamente Garcia

See the mural of us as children:
you’ll see evisceration—torn
seams of the past exposed.
Nothing excuses voice from rumor.

Time regresses into a lie positioned
on a quarter. I cast memories recorded
into the sad waters. They yell, every day
for itself, then fade, now only transgressions

without a name. I see it, see it all: marigolds
that did not grow past infancy
because the sun stopped shining
on the canyons.


Se le murieron todos sus hijos
se le murió el viejo aquel que fue su esposo
se le murió el paisaje y su aguacero de soles
ya no escucha la música y las voces son apenas
un rumor. Cada vez que regreso la veo perdida
en su cuarto, acaso rehaciendo los recuerdos,
conversando con las sombras de aquellos
que todavía nunca acaba de irse
de aquellos que como yo estamos volviendo.
Cada vez que regreso veo su lluvia
sus manos de chicha y mariposas
y no puedo dejar de volver a la infancia
cuando su soledad no era más que una canción.
Jorge Bustamente Garcia

Monday, April 8, 2013

8/30, an ottava rima


Often, I find my eyes searching faces
for the traumas that govern bodies
as I keep to myself, preferring black space
that engenders black space, that which copies
oblivion until I reach wasted
time--until my body feels dead, a clam body,
worn into exhaustion by fear and heartache,
by a yearning that refuses to break.

Sunday, April 7, 2013


A cinquain, done right this time.


becomes a friend,
teaches the mind selfhood,
as if body had become air,

Thursday, April 4, 2013


(cinquain inspired by Iain Banks prompt)

Just Another Victim of the Ambient Morality
Maybe his eyes'd saw through the smokescreens,
could make out the artifice designed by the tricking
light. It wouldn't have been the first time--
or the last.  Once he got a sense of the rhyme,
the formula of me, there would be no more fixing.