Violin Smoke. Alan Britt. Translated by Sohár Pál. Irodalmi Jelen Könyvek, 2015.
Magic
Our words shed misery
like shotgun cartridges
red as December holly berries
littering the book prints
of childhood misadventures.
And happy words exist
for those who can afford them.
So, words, now, are hostages,
if I hear you correctly,
for this impossible life
to which we all aspire?
I say
strip the words down again,
like Lorca;
the greatest of all the warrior troubadours,
who died for us
puny civilians.
Destiny
Each poem has its destiny.
So, why interfere?
Intellectual leaps are obtained
through blind Faith, anyway.
Or, we could continue slinging
fresh feces from behind the bars
of our miserable cages.
Lost Among the Hours. Alan Britt. New York City, USA: Rain Mountain Press, 2014.
One more time
I gave myself to the universe.
What more can I give?
I’m down to one eye
and one lung.
If ashes from souls dumped into urns
are designed to nourish us,
why then do we still carry
nuclear clubs into heaven
and complain
about guardian angels
behaving like rented Geishas
in upscale Manhattan hotels?
Time to prison-break,
don’t you think –
that is,
if time were
a lusty hourglass
with Pablo’s
Isla Negra sand
feathering its crystal waist?
Alianza. 5 U. S. Poets in Ecuador. Alan Britt et al. Rio Rico, Arizona, USA: CypressBooks, 2015.
Neruda Sings Whitman
It was like the invisible salt of waves,
you said, when you were just about
an internal combustion me –
all heart, no dark energy.
You said pinch the head off Ozymandias,
so poor folks could get their fill,
& fill they did, for a moment, until
United Fruit snatched it away, again.
You named the names required of thruth.
Alternative?
If now I believe in dark energy,
& there seems to be good evidence
for it, then surely I believe in you,
Pablo, son of Walt, incomparable
poet of love & mischief.
Neruda Canta a Whitman
Era como la sal invisible de las olas,
decías, cuando no eras sino
un yo de combustión interna –
todo corazón, nada de energía oscura.
Dijiste arrancad la cabeza de Osymandias,
que la pobre gente pudiera saciarse,
y saciáronse, por un instante, hasta que
Fruta Unida se lo arrebató, una vez más.
Nombraste los nombres que requerían la verdad.
¿Alternativa?
Si ahora creo en la energía oscura,
& parece haber buena evidencia
de ello, entonces creo en ti con certeza,
Pablo, hijo de Walt, poeta
incomparable del amor y la picardía.
(Translated by Ricardo Pérez-Salamero García)
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* Contact: http://alanbritt.wordpress.com/
