ANONYMOUS, JOSEPH BRODSKY & ANONYMOUS          
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ditto

ANONYMOUS
The Man of Double Deed

There was a man of double deed,
Who sowed his garden full of seed;
When the seed began to grow,
'Twas like a garden full of snow;
When the snow began to melt,
'Twas like a ship without a belt;
When the ship began to sail,
'Twas like a bird without a tail;
When the bird began to fly,
'Twas like an eagle in the sky;
When the sky began to roar,
'Twas like a lion at my door;
When my door began to crack,
'Twas like a stick across my back;
When my back began to smart,
'Twas like a penknife in my heart;
And when my heart began to bleed,
'Twas death, and death, and death indeed.

__________ 

TPB's notes: found.

JOSEPH BRODSKY
Elegy

About a year has passed. I've returned to the place of the battle 
to its birds that have learned their unfolding of wings
from a subtle
lift of a surprised eyebrow or perhaps from a razor blade
- wings now the shade of early twilight now of state
bad blood.

Now the place is abuzz with trading
in your ankles's remanants bronzes
of sunburnt breastplates dying laughter bruises
rumors of fresh reserves memories of high treason
laundered banners with imprints of the many
who since have risen.

All's overgrown with people. A ruin's a rather stubborn
architectural style. And the hearts's distinction
from a pitch-black cavern
isn't that great; not great enough to fear
that we may collide again like blind eggs somewhere.

At sunrise when nobody stares at one's face I often
set out on foot to a monument cast in molten
lengthy bad dreams. And it says on the plinth "commander
in chief." But it reads "in grief " or "in brief "
or "in going under."

_________ 

TPB's notes: found notes: "1985 translated by the author." - i.e. translated by mr. brodsky himself. 

ARTE P. (ANONYMOUS)

The Tracks (Found Words Poetry)

Everything about our relationship to that track
is out of whack.
We curse it,
we fear it,
we daily look at it,
ride on it,
spit on it.
It doesn’t look as deep as it is,
the platform edge isn’t built the way you think it is;
the trains are massive and move quickly along and no one knows
what.his.leg.muscles.will.do.until
they
are
tested.

___________

TPB's notes: this anonymous poet "Arte P." is a published writer of novels; about poetry and art however, he suffers connoisseurial approaches to both.

THREE AMERICANS: EMILY DICKINSON, MAYA ANGELOU, & LANGSTON HUGHES
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theme HOPE, HOPE, HOPE

EMILY DICKINSON
Hope is the thing with feather
 
Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

_________ 

TPB's notes: n/a

___________________

MAYA ANGELOU
Still I RiseYou may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

________ 

TPB's notes: n/a

___________________

LANGSTON HUGHES 
Walkers With The Dawn

Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness--
Being walkers with the sun and morning. 
________

TPB's notes:n/a

KAREL ERBEN, ANDREI VOZNESENSKY, & DON MARQUIS
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ANDREI VOZNESENSKY

The Antiworlds

There is Bukashkin, our neighbor,
in underpants of blotting paper,
and, like balloons, the Antiworlds
hang up above him in the vaults.

Up there, like a magic daemon,
he smartly rules the Universe, 
Antibukashkin lies there giving
Lollobrigida a caress.

The Anti-great-academician
has got a blotting paper vision.

Long live creative Antiworlds,
great fantasy amidst daft words!
There are wise men and stupid peasants,
there are no trees without deserts.

There're Antimen and Antilorries,
Antimachines in woods and forests.
There's salt of earth, and there's a fake.
A falcon dies without a snake.

I like my dear critics best.
The greatest of them beats the rest
for on his shoulders there's no head,
he's got an Antihead instead.

At night I sleep with windows open
and hear the rings of falling stars,
From up above skyscrapers drop and,
like stalactites, look down on us.

High up above me upside down,
stuck like a fork into the ground,
my nice light-hearted butterfly,
my Antiworld, is getting by.

I wonder if it's wrong or right
that Antiworlds should date at night.
Why should they sit there side by side
watching TV all through the night?
They do not understand a word.
It's their last date in this world.
They sit and chat for hours, and
they will regret it in the end!
The two have burning ears and eyes,
resembling purple butterflies...

...A lecturer once said to me:
"An Antiworld? It's loonacy!"

I'm half asleep, and I would sooner
believe than doubt the man's word...
My green-eyed kitty, like a tuner,
receives the signals of the world.

translated by Alec Vagapov

_________ 

TBP's notes: n/a

KAREL ERBEN
The Wild Dove

Time is flying, flying,
Nothing's as before;
What was not, is coming,
What was, is no more.

Time is flying, flying;
Hours, years, have their term;
One thing never changes:
Guilt alone stands firm.

Three years he's been lying,
The dead man, in his grave;
On the mound that marks it
Fresh green grasses wave.

On the mound, grasses;
At his head, a young oak grows;
On that young oak-tree sits
A small dove, white as snow.

There it sits,
there it sits
With its plaintive coo;
Everyone who hears it feels
His heart will break in two.

One woman, most of all,
Feels hers break this way;
From her head she tears the hair,
Calling in dismay:

'Do not hoot, do not call,
Dinning in my ears;
That cruel song of yours
Through my soul does pierce!

Do not hoot, don't accuse;
My head is spinning round:
Or hoot to make it fly
In pieces at a bound!'

Water's flowing, flowing,
Wave on wave is surging,
See there, among the waves,
A white dress emerging.

Here a foot goes floating by,
There a pale hand waves;
That woman, poor lost soul,
Goes to seek her grave!

They pulled her to the bank,
Secretly to lie
Buried where footpaths cross
In a field of rye.

She had no tomb at all
As her last abode;
Only a massive stone
Pressed her with its load.

Never, though, could any stone
Lie upon her frame,
Heavy as the curse whose weight
Rests upon her name!

This translation: Susan Reynolds 2002.

_________ 

TPB's notes: found, about this poem:
"It tells of a young woman, who at the beginning is following her husband's funeral procession, but gradually it becomes plain that there is something very sinister here. Another suitor comes along and they get married, but gradually it is revealed that her first husband's death was not accidental. In fact she poisoned him."
poem is from "Kytice" - "The Bouquet"
also:"Karel Jaromir Erben is considered one of the icons of 19th century Czech literature"
source for all of above: radio praha

DON MARQUIS
Archy and Mehitabel

expression is the need of my soul
i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach
it has given me a new outlook upon life
i see things from the under side now
thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket
but your paste is getting so stale i cant eat it
there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have
removed she nearly ate me the other night why dont she
catch rats that is what she is supposed to be fore
there is a rat here she should get without delay

most of these rats here are just rats
but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him
he used to be a poet himself
night after night i have written poetry for you
on your typewriter
and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet
comes out of his hole when it is done
and reads it and sniffs at it
he is jealous of my poetry
he used to make fun of it when we were both human
he was a punk poet himself
and after he has read it he sneers
and then he eats it

i wish you would have mehitabel kill that rat
or get a cat that is onto her job
and i will write you a series of poems showing how things look
to a cockroach
that rats name is freddy
the next time freddy dies i hope he wont be a rat
but something smaller i hope i will be a rat
in the next transmigration and freddy a cockroach
i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then

dont you ever eat any sandwiches in your office
i haven’t had a crumb of bread for i dont know how long
or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings
and paste and leave a piece of paper in your machine
every night you can call me archy

__________ 

TPB's notes: this very well written light verse is typical of don marquis who is a champion at it. in our view here at TPB, there's a tragic element to his verses as well but the author cannot submit to it and he is in someway buried inside the roach. 

don marquis was an illustrator and humorist and lived in new york.