Today I wore a
warm red blood
today men love me
a woman smiled at me
a girl gave me a seashell
a boy gave me a hammerToday I kneel on the sidewalk
and nail the naked white feet of the passers-by
to the pavement tiles
they are all in tears
but no one is frightened
all remain in the places to which I had come in time
they are all in tears
but they gaze at the celestial advertisements
and at a beggar who sells hot cross buns
in the skyTwo men whisper
what is he doing is he nailing our hearts?
yes he is nailing our hearts
well then he is a poet
—Miltos Sa(c)htouris, “The Gifts”, trans. Kimon Friar.
The cry of the stag
Is so loud in the empty
Mountains that an echo
Answers him as though
It were a doe.
—Ōtomo no Yakamochi, from Kenneth Rexroth’s One Hundred Poems from the Japanese.
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Life without solitude is a deafening din. Solitude punctuates our life, making it more musical, restores us to ourselves.
—Dumitru Tsepeneag, Pigeon Post, trans. Jane Kuntz.
…we all suffer from light addiction.
It is the most modern of diseases.
—Mrs. Hortense, from Paul Scheerbart’s The Light Club of Batavia: A Ladies’ Novelette, trans. Wilhelm Werthern.
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In the river Maeander there is said to be a stone called “wise” by contradiction; for, if one puts it into anyone’s lap, he goes mad, and murders one of his relations.
— from De Mirabilibus Auscultationibus (On Marvellous Things Heard), found in Aristotle - Minor Works, trans. W. S. Hett.
In Paeonia they say that in the mountain called Hesaenus, which divides Paeonia from Maedice, there is a wild beast called “bolinthus,” which the Paeonians call “monaepus.” They say that the beast is in general character like an ox, but that it is larger and stronger, and also more hairy; for it has a mane on its neck like a horse, stretching down very thickly, and spreading from its brow to its eyes. Its horns are not like those of oxen, but are turned downwards, and come to a sharp point by the ears; each of these holds more than three pints and is pitch black, but they shine as though they were peeled. But when the hide is skinned it covers the space of eight couches. But when the beast is hit it flees, and even if incapacitated continues to do so; its flesh is sweet. It protects itself by kicking and voiding excrement over a distance of forty feet; it easily and often employs this form of defense, which scorches so fiercely that it will scrape off a dog’s hair. They say that it has this effect when the animal is disturbed, but that it does not scorch when it is undisturbed. When they bring forth their young they meet in large numbers, and collecting in a herd all the biggest bring forth young and void excrement in a circle. For the beast voids a great deal of such excrement.
— from De Mirabilibus Auscultationibus (On Marvellous Things Heard), found in Aristotle - Minor Works, trans. W. S. Hett.
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Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn’t you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?…
— Nichita Stănescu, “A Poem” from Bas-Relief with Heroes, trans. Thomas Carlson
(Source: romanianvoice.com)
Poetry is the weeping eye
it is the weeping shoulder
the weeping eye of the shoulder
it is the weeping hand
the weeping eye of the hand
it is the weeping soul
the weeping eye of the heel.
Oh, you friends,
poetry is not a tear
it is the weeping itself
[…]
— Nichita Stănescu, from “Poetry”, Bas-Relief with Heroes, trans. Thomas Carlson
(Source: romanianvoice.com)
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