For a Sixth Form Reader, by Hans Magnus Enzensberger

[bluerosesgirl.livejournal.com]

Don't read odes, my boy, read the timetables:
they are more exact. Unroll the seacharts
before it's too late. Be on your guard, don't sing.
The day will come when they'll hammer lists
on the door again and mark with special signs
all who say no. Learn to go unrecognized,
learn more than I ever did: to change
your domicile, passport, face. Become
adept at petty treacheries and the everyday
dirty get-out. Encyclicals
are good to light the fire with,
manifestos: to wrap the butter in and salt
for those who cannot defend themselves. Rage
and patience are needed
to blow into the lungs of power
the lethal dust
finely ground by those who have learned a lot
and are exact, like you.


(Translated from the German by David Constantine)

(no subject)

[drowningbabies.livejournal.com]

to the spider in the crevice/behind the toilet door
-janet sutherland

i have left you four flies
three are in the freezer next to the joint of beef
the other is wrapped in christmas paper
tied with a pink ribbon
beside the ironing table in the hall
should you need to contact me
in an emergency
the number's in the book
by the telephone.

p.s. i love you

(no subject)

[agata.livejournal.com]

MY COUNTRY by Cyprian Kamil Norwid

Those who say my country means
Meadows, flowers and fields of wheat,
Hamlets and trenches, must confess
These are her feet.

The child is not forced from his mother's arms,
The youth at her side will grow
While she leans on her eldest son,
These are my laws.

My country's brow has not risen here;
My flesh's beyond Euphrates and the Flood,
My spirit soars above Chaos,
I pay rent to the world.

No nation fashioned or saved me,
I recall eternity's span :
David's key unlocked my lips,
Rome called me man.

I fall on the sand to wipe with my hair
My country's blood-stained feet,
But I know her face and crown
Radiant like the sun of suns.

My ancestors have known no other;
Her feet with my hand I used to feel;
I often kissed the clumsy sandal strap
Round her heel.

They needn't teach me where my country lies;
Hamlets, trenches and fields of wheat,
Flesh and blood and this her scar
Are her print, her feet.

January 1861