Paul Verlaine—translated by myself

[ian-gazarek.livejournal.com]

"It rains gently on the town" -Arthur Rimbaud

—

It rains in my heart
like it rains on the town.
What is this pallor
that sinks through my chest?

Oh, rain's gentle sound
against the earth and on the rooftops!
For the restless heart,
oh, the aria of the rain!

It rains without thought
in this heart without a soul.
What; is it not a betrayal?
This requiem is meaningless.

It is truly the final sorrow
to not understand why—
without love and without hate—
my heart feels such pain.

(no subject)

[ghostofchance.livejournal.com]

Peter Desy


—To Dave Heaton
TO A FRIEND: DIRECTIONS FOR MY FUNERAL


Say I no doubt ascended on a bright ribbon
of flame, leaving behind a field
of sparks. Say that was my soul.
A fire started up from a tiny heap
of heat and spread, leapt up,
straining for its element, which was...
just plain up and away. That was my life,
consumed and consummated,
matter turned to ash and such—the
beautiful trees shrouded in a ravenous
crush of flame. You couldn’t tell
the fire from the branches (intone that).
Say that ends the metaphor.
Hold silence for a minute.


Tell those assembled I had an unfortunate
marriage with no issue, was distracted from
the outset by beautiful women.
Inform the gathered I loved too much the buzz
from booze, feared death, shared the joys
of companionship, but alienated many with my
intemperate earnestness. Or my passivity.
Say I was more ordinary than I’d admit.
Tell them I believed in carpe diem, though sometimes
falsely, in frantic made-up joy to please others.
I was only grabbing air, breathing the dust left
by the whirlwind of time. (Excuse yourself
in my name for the dramatic metaphor;
say in my simplicity I’d no doubt reject it.)
Somehow, give me a sense of immediacy;
say I suddenly stopped in the middle
of a headlong carpe diem and must have thought
death was just its temporary digression.
Tell them this was my big mistake,
that I said so. No, say so.

christopher logue, "london airport"

[lunar-endeavor.livejournal.com]

Last night in London Airport
I saw a wooden bin
labelled UNWANTED LITERATURE
IS TO BE PLACED HEREIN.
So I wrote a poem
and popped it in.