"Two Trees" by Don Paterson

Two Trees

One morning, Don Miguel got out of bed

with one idea rooted in his head:

to graft his orange to his lemon tree.

It took him the whole day to work them free,

lay open their sides, and lash them tight.

For twelve months, from the shame or from the fright

they put forth nothing; but one day there appeared

two lights in the dark leaves. Over the years

the limbs would get themselves so tangled up

each bough looked like it gave a double crop,

and not one kid in the village didn’t know

the magic tree in Miguel’s patio.

The man who bought the house had had no dream

so who can say what dark malicious whim

led him to take his axe and split the bole

along its fused seam, then dig two holes.

And no, they did not die from solitude;

nor did their branches bear a sterile fruit;

nor did their unhealed flanks weep every spring

for those four yards that lost them everything,

as each strained on its shackled roots to face

the other’s empty, intricate embrace.

They were trees, and trees don’t weep or ache or shout.

And trees are all this poem is about.

Source of the text – Don Paterson, Rain: Poems.  New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009, p. 3.

TJB: Two couplet-stanzas personify arranged marriage & forced divorce—like Frost but with a punchline; like Marvell but with a real estate sale.

"The Thread" by Don Paterson

The Thread

Jamie made his landing in the world

so hard he ploughed straight back into the earth.

They caught him by the thread of his one breath

and pulled him up.  They don’t know how it held.

And so today I thank what higher will

brought us to here, to you and me and Russ,

the great twin-engined swaying wingspan of us

roaring down the back of Kirrie Hill

and your two-year-old lungs somehow out-revving

every engine in the universe.

All that trouble just to turn up the dead

was all I thought that long week.  Now the thread

is holding all of us: look at our tiny house,

son, the white dot of your mother waving.

Source of the text – Don Paterson, Landing Light.  Saint Paul, MN: Graywolf Press, 2005, p. 8.

TJB: The Kindly Ones leave unsnipped the poet’s son’s life-thread in this balled-up-action sonnet which surprises with multiple aviation motifs.

"The Husband's Message," anonymous Anglo-Saxon lyric

The Husband’s Message

[Text of the poem in the original Anglo-Saxon]

Nu ic onsundran þe     secgan wille
. . . . . . treocyn     ic tudre aweox;
in mec æld . . . sceal     ellor londes
settan . . . . . .     sealte streamas

. . . sse.     Ful oft ic on bates
. . . . . . gesohte
þær mec mondryhten     min . . . . . .
ofer heah hofu;     eom nu her cumen
on ceolþele,     ond nu cunnan scealt

hu þu ymb modlufan     mines frean
on hyge hycge.     Ic gehatan dear
þæt þu þær tirfæste     treowe findest.
Hwæt, þec þonne biddan het     se þisne beam agrof
þæt þu sinchroden     sylf gemunde

on gewitlocan     wordbeotunga,
þe git on ærdagum     oft gespræcon,
þenden git moston     on meoduburgum
eard weardigan,     an lond bugan,
freondscype fremman.     Hine fæhþo adraf

of sigeþeode;     heht nu sylfa þe
lustum læran,     þæt þu lagu drefde,
siþþan þu gehyrde     on hliþes oran
galan geomorne     geac on bearwe.
Ne læt þu þec siþþan     siþes getwæfan,

lade gelettan     lifgendne monn.
Ongin mere secan,     mæwes eþel,
onsite sænacan,     þæt þu suð heonan
ofer merelade     monnan findest,
þær se þeoden is     þin on wenum.

Ne mæg him worulde     willa gelimpan
mara on gemyndum,     þæs þe he me sægde,
þonne inc geunne     alwaldend god
. . . . . . ætsomne     siþþan motan
secgum ond gesiþum     s . . .

næglede beagas;     he genoh hafað
fædan goldes
. . . d elþeode     eþel healde,
fægre foldan
. . . ra hæleþa,     þeah þe her min wine . . .
nyde gebæded,     nacan ut aþrong, 

ond on yþa geong . . . . . . sceolde
faran on flotweg,     forðsiþes georn,
mengan merestreamas.     Nu se mon hafað
wean oferwunnen;     nis him wilna gad,

ne meara ne maðma     ne meododreama,
ænges ofer eorþan     eorlgestreona,
þeodnes dohtor,     gif he þin beneah
ofer eald gebeot     incer twega.
Gecyre ic ætsomne     ᛋ ᚱ geador

ᛠ ᚹ ond ᛞ     aþe benemnan, 
þæt he þa wære     ond þa winetreowe
be him lifgendum     læstan wolde,
þe git on ærdagum     oft gespræconn.

[Modern English translation by Michael Schmidt]

The Husband’s Message

To you far away     I carry this message

I remain true     to the tree I was hacked from

Wood I am, bearing     the marks of a man

Letters and runes     the words of his heart

I come from afar     borne on salt currents

Hiss . . .     in a hull I sought and I sought you

Where would I find you     my lord despatched me

Over fathomless seas     I’ve come, here I am

Do you think of him still     my lord in your dear heart

Do you recall him     or is your mind bare

He remains true to you     true and with fixed desire

You try his faith     you’ll find it stands firm

But hear me now, read     what is scratched on my surface

You, cherished treasure, dear     you in your youthful

Your hidden heart, dear     remember your vows

Your heart and his heart     when together you haunted

The lovely hamlets     the mead hall, the promise

To perform your love

                                             Well, all of that ended

In feud and in flight     he was forced from that place

Now he has sent me     to ask you come to me

Cross the seas, come to me     come here with joy

When to your listening     on the steep hillside

First comes the cuckoo’s voice     sad in the trees

Don’t pause don’t linger     come at that calling

Don’t stay or delay     come at that call

Go down to the shore     set out to sea then

To the tern’s chilly home     go south go south

Over the ragged sea     south find your lord

Come to him, there     he waits for you wedded

To your sure arrival     no other wish

But only the wish of you     You’re in his mind

Almighty God’s there     his power rebind you

One to the other     again as you were

Able to rule then     able to raise up

Your people, comrades     and endow you with jewels

Bracelets and carcanets     collars and combs

He has set aside for you     fair gold, bright gemstones

In a land far away     among foreign folk

A handsome mansion     hectares and cattle

Faithful retainers

                                  though when he set out

Pursued and a pauper     he pointed his prow

Out to the sea     alone set out sailing

Lost in his exile     yet eager to go

Weaving the currents     time in his veins

Now truly that man     has passed beyond pain

He has all he wants     has horses, has treasure

The great hall’s warm welcome     gifts the earth yields

Princess, Princess     you too are his portion

Remember the promises     each of you vowed

The sealing silences     he made and you made

A letter, a syllable     nothing is lost

What seem erasures     are kisses and praying

Are runes that keep counsel     a promise in touch

A promise in looking     how staunch he has stayed to you

Above him the heavens     the earth under foot

A man of his word he is     true to your contract

The twining of wills     in those days gone in time

Source of the text - The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation, Edited by Greg Delanty and Michael Matto.  New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2011, pp. 53-56.

TJB: Treemail. Riddlelike, burnmarked, devotional, ironic & earnest as hell, this lyric stresses its textuality beyond the grave & ends in runes.

"Traddutore, Traditore" by Fred Chappell

Traddutore, Traditore

Uncle Barber’s tangled tongue

           Turns his words to mush;

Vowel, consonant, diphthong

           Thicken into slush.

We know that he’s intelligent;

           The expressions of his face

Give us a hint, more than a hint,

           Dementia’s not the case.

Aunt Hannah interprets his every word,

           Yet as we follow along

Some things she says are so absurd

           She must have got them wrong.

We cannot avoid a dark suspicion:

           Isn’t there more than a tinge

In her tone of caustic, mocking derision?

           That would be her perfect revenge.

Source of the text – Fred Chappell, Family Gathering.  Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2000, p. 39.

TJB: In ballad stanzas, galloping iambs, & unmetrical last line, the mistranslation is due to a wife’s ancient anger—but why misspell the title?

Untitled Lyric by Sappho

Untitled Lyric by Sappho

[Text of the poem in the original Greek]

[Prose translation by David A. Campbell]

Hither to me from Crete to this holy temple, where is your delightful grove of apple-trees, and altars smoking with incense; therein cold water babbles through apple-branches, and the whole place is shadowed by roses, and from the shimmering leaves the sleep of enchantment comes down; therein too a meadow, where horses graze, blossoms with spring flowers, and the winds blow gently . . .; there, Cypris, take . . . and pour gracefully into golden cups nectar that is mingled with our festivities.

Source of the text in Greek and prose translation - Greek Lyric with an English Translation by David A. Campbell, Volume I: Sappho Alcaeus.  Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982, p. 56-57.

[Translation by Mary Barnard]

You know the place: then

Leave Crete and come to us

waiting where the grove is

pleasantest, by precincts

sacred to you; incense

smokes on the altar, cold

streams murmur through the

apple branches, a young

rose thicket shades the ground

and quivering leaves pour

down deep sleep; in meadows

where horses have grown sleek

among spring flowers, dill

scents the air. Queen! Cyprian!

Fill our gold cups with love

stirred into clear nectar

Source of the text – Mary Barnard, Sappho: A New Translation.  Berkeley: University of California Press, 1958.

[Translation by Anne Carson]

]

here to me from Krete to this holy temple

where is your graceful grove

of apple trees and altars smoking

            with frankincense.

And in it cold water makes a clear sound through

apple branches and with roses the whole place

is shadowed and down from radiant-shaking leaves

            sleep comes dropping.

And in it a horse meadow has come into bloom

with spring flowers and breezes

like honey are blowing

            [                     ]

In this place you Kypris taking up

in gold cups delicately

nectar mingled with festivities:

            pour.

Source of the text – Anne Carson, If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho.  New York: Alfred A. Knopf: distributed by Random House, 2002.

[Translation by Willis Barnstone]

Afroditi of the Flowers at Knossos

Leave Kriti and come here to this holy

temple with your graceful grove

of apple trees and altars smoking

             with frankincense.

Icy water babbles through apple bracnehs

and roses leave shadow on the ground

and bright shaking leaves pour down

             profound sleep.

Here is a meadow where horses graze

amid wild blossoms of the spring and soft winds

             blow aroma

of honey. Afroditi, take the nectar

and delicately pour it into gold

wine cups and mingle joy with

             our celebration.

Source of the text – The Complete Poems of Sappho, translated by Willis Barnstone.  Boston: Shambhala Publications, Inc., 2009.

TJB: Booty call? Sappho qua priestess puts the come-hither on Aphrodite, tempting her with springtime sights, sounds, & smells of Sappho’s hood.

"The Rare Birds" by Amiri Baraka

The Rare Birds

for Ted Berrigan

     brook no obscurity, merely plunging deeper
for light.  Hear them, watch the blurred windows tail
the woman alone turning and listening to another time
when music brushed against her ankles and held a low light
near the table’s edge.  These birds, like Yard and
Bean, or Langston grinning at you.  Can’t remember the shadow
pulled tight around the door, music about to enter.  We hum
to anticipate, more history, every day.  These birds, angular
like sculpture.  Brancusian, and yet more tangible like Jake’s
colored colorful colorado colormore colorcolor, ahhh, it’s about
these birds and their grimaces.  Jake’s colors, and lines.  You
remember the eyes of that guy Pablo, and his perfect trace of
life’s austere overflowings.

                                               Williams writes to us
of the smallness of this American century, that it splinters into worlds it
cannot live in.  And having given birth to the mystery
splits unfolds like gold shattered in daylight's beautiful hurricane.
(praying Sambos blown apart) out of which a rainbow of anything you need.
I heard these guys.  These lovely ladies, on the road to Timbuctoo
waiting for Tu Fu to register on the Richter scale.  It was called
Impressions, and it was a message, from like a very rare bird.


Source of the text - Nice to See You: Homage to Ted Berrigan, Edited and with an Introduction by Anne Waldman. Saint Paul, MN: Coffee House Books, 1991, p. 174.

TJB: Feint praise; memory-of-art as art. Baraka remembers Berrigan by placing him in company of the greats: Bird, Trane, Hughes, Picasso, & more.

"Coal" by Audre Lorde

Coal

I

is the total black, being spoken

from the earth’s inside.

There are many kinds of open

how a diamond comes into a knot of flame  

how sound comes into a word, colored  

by who pays what for speaking.

Some words are open like a diamond

on glass windows

singing out within the passing crash of sun

Then there are words like stapled wagers

in a perforated book—buy and sign and tear apart—

and come whatever wills all chances

the stub remains

an ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.

Some words live in my throat

breeding like adders. Others know sun

seeking like gypsies over my tongue

to explode through my lips

like young sparrows bursting from shell.

Some words

bedevil me.

Love is a word, another kind of open.

As the diamond comes into a knot of flame

I am Black because I come from the earth's inside  

now take my word for jewel in the open light.

Source of the text – Audre Lorde, Undersong: Chosen Poems Old and New.  New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1992.

TJB: Interlocking similes—words as poetic, mercantile, or hateful—power this poem, which mines many dualities. But who holds the mineral rights?

"Caedmon" by Denise Levertov

Caedmon

All others talked as if

talk were a dance.

Clodhopper I, with clumsy feet

would break the gliding ring.

Early I learned to

hunch myself

close by the door:

then when the talk began

I’d wipe my

mouth and wend

unnoticed back to the barn

to be with the warm beasts,

dumb among body sounds

of the simple ones.

I’d see by a twist

of lit rush the motes

of gold moving

from shadow to shadow

slow in the wake

of deep untroubled sighs.

The cows

munched or stirred or were still. I

was at home and lonely,

both in good measure. Until

the sudden angel affrighted me—light effacing

my feeble beam,

a forest of torches, feathers of flame, sparks upflying:   

but the cows as before

were calm, and nothing was burning,

                nothing but I, as that hand of fire   

touched my lips and scorched my tongue   

and pulled my voice

                                 into the ring of the dance.

Source of the text – Denise Levertov, Breathing the Water.  New York: New Directions, 1987.

TJB: Farmboy, interrupted. In short, Anglo-Saxonish half-lines, the poem dramatizes not the hymn itself but the moment of cowherd becoming poet.