Greek poet and translator, Ritsos was born in 1909. His early writings reflect the tragedies of his life, the war, and his involvement against the dictatorship in Greece. Ritsos served five years, 1947-1952 in prison camps, and after the 1967 Greek coup, he was placed under house arrest and surveillance. His best known works are Tractor, written in 1934, and Pyramids, in 1935. His lengthy poem, Epitaph, offers a message of brotherhood. Two volumes of poetry, Vigil and Districtsof the World, were written about his experiences in prison camp. The Dead House, is a monologue inspired by ancient Greek mythologies, and one of his last great poems, “Late in the Night,” offers a hope for a new start for humanity. He died in 1990.
If Only I Had The Immortals' Potion
If only I had the immortals' potion if only I had A new soul to give you, if only you could wake for a moment,
To see and to speak and delight in the whole of your dream Standing right there by your side, next to you, bursting with life.
Roadways and public places, balconies, lanes in an uproar, young maidens are picking flowers to sprinkle on your hair.
My fragrant forest full of tens of thousands of roots and leaves, how can I the ill-fated believe I can ever lose you?
My son, all things have vanished and abandoned me back here I have no eyes and cannot see, no mouth to let me speak.
Ishigaki Rin first became known as the “bank clerk poet.” Born in 1920, in Tokyo, Rin worked as a bank clerk for nearly four decades. She was active as a trade unionist throughout this time. She produced four major collection of poetry between 1959 and 1984, and was recipient of a number of prestigious literary prizes including the Tumura Toshiko Prize. In addition to poetry, Rin also produced several volumes of essays. Rin’s poetry is known for its honesty, and for her ability to tackle huge issues, such as war and conflict, and domestic concerns. Ishigaki Rin died in 2004.
In the Stomachs of One Hundred People
On the tables, one hundred plates, before them, one hundred people, on the plates, one hundred flounders; as the tableware clinks, tinkles, the fish are reduced to a few bones, heads, and tails. (What would the Princess of the Deep say to see this!)
The one hundred ladies and gentlemen wipe their lips with white napkins, and talk elegantly: "You know, the whole world is a mess now."
Rich was born in England in 1936. She is an expert on Byelorussian literature and is one of the foremost translators of poetry Polish, Russian and Ukrainian. She was educated at St. Hilda’s College at Oxford and London’s Bedford College. Rich has published three books of original poetry, several volumes of translations and translations of poetry from Old English and Old Norse. She also has been involved in translating scientific works from Russian and Ukrainian and has worked as a Soviet correspondent. Rich frequently lectures on Slavonic literatures internationally.
It was not rockets then, but the great-mouthed guns Sharp through November air. (I in my dress Of knitted red, brown-skinned still from the sun's Last kisses, dancing to the wind's caress On the high cliffs; three years, and one of war Were all my life), guns sharp and chill as the dew, And the scarlet sleeve where the Anson chugged before, And the scarlet sleeve trailing across the blue.
It was not rockets then, only the guns Echoing sharp as lances on the green Shield of the hills.... Long years back, I forgot All else, but the greenshield hills where an echo runs In a cascade of trumpets, sea like sheen Of silk, and the sleeve a gage from Camelot.
Should You Ask Me...
Should you ask me of D-Day, I would say 'Cataracts', for that night the sky roared, pulsing Wave upon wave of heavy-bellied engines; And afterwards, in blue morning, crimson roses, I found, had fallen from their fence-board moorings, Falling, cascading – not like blood, nor rubies, Nor fire, nor any metaphor... just roses, A waterfall of English roses...
Then Came the third cataract, a lone lark singing, High, high above the empty plane-ways, hidden Among the sunbeams...
Henry Reed was a poet, journalist, radio dramatist and translator. He served in the British army during the war as a Japanese translator. Born in 1914, in Birmingham, Reed worked as a teacher and journalist prior to the war. After the war he worked for the British Broadcasting Company as a playwright and broadcaster. Reed’s most famous poem, “Naming of Parts,” is a parody on basic army training. The poem was first printed in the New Statesman and Nation in 1942 and later published in a collection of his poetry, A Map of Verona in 1946. An excerpt from the poem appears in this book.
I. Naming of Parts
To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And to-day we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For to-day we have naming of parts.
II. Judging Distances
Not only how far away, but the way that you say it Is very important. Perhaps you may never get The knack of judging a distance, but at least you know How to report on a landscape: the central sector, The right of the arc and that, which we had last Tuesday, And at least you know
That maps are of time, not place, so far as the army Happens to be concerned—the reason being, Is one which need not delay us. Again, you know There are three kinds of tree, three only, the fir and the poplar, And those which have bushy tops too; and lastly That things only seem to be things.
A barn is not called a barn, to put it more plainly, Or a field in the distance, where sheep may be safely grazing. You must never be over-sure. You must say, when reporting: At five o'clock in the central sector is a dozen Of what appear to be animals; whatever you do, Don't call the bleeders sheep. I am sure that's quite clear; and suppose, for the sake of example, The one at the end, asleep, endeavors to tell us What he sees over there to the west, and how far away, After first having come to attention. There to the west, Of the fields of summer the sun and the shadows bestow Vestments of purple and gold.
The white dwellings are like a mirage in the heat, And under the swaying elms a man and a woman Lie gently together. Which is, perhaps, only to say That there is a row of houses to the left of the arc, And that under some poplars a pair of what appear to be humans Appear to be loving.
Well that, for an answer, is what we rightly call Moderately satisfactory only, the reason being, Is that two things have been omitted, and those are very important. The human beings, now: in what direction are they, And how far away, would you say? And do not forget There may be dead ground in between.
There may be dead ground in between; and I may not have got The knack of judging a distance; I will only venture A guess that perhaps between me and the apparent lovers, (Who, incidentally, appear by now to have finished,) At seven o'clock from the houses, is roughly a distance Of about one year and a half.
III. Movement Of Bodies
Those of you that have got through the rest, I am going to rapidly Devote a little time to showing you, those that can master it, A few ideas about tactics, which must not be confused With what we call strategy. Tactics is merely The mechanical movement of bodies, and that is what we mean by it. Or perhaps I should say: by them.
Strategy, to be quite frank, you will have no hand in. It is done by those up above, and it merely refers to, The larger movements over which we have no control.
But tactics are also important, together or single. You must never forget that, suddenly, in an engagement, You may find yourself alone.
This brown clay model is a characteristic terrain Of a simple and typical kind. Its general character Should be taken in at a glance, and its general character You can, see at a glance it is somewhat hilly by nature, With a fair amount of typical vegetation Disposed at certain parts.
Here at the top of the tray, which we might call the northwards, Is a wooded headland, with a crown of bushy-topped trees on; And proceeding downwards or south we take in at a glance A variety of gorges and knolls and plateaus and basins and saddles, Somewhat symmetrically put, for easy identification. And here is our point of attack.
But remember of course it will not be a tray you will fight on, Nor always by daylight. After a hot day, think of the night Cooling the desert down, and you still moving over it: Past a ruined tank or a gun, perhaps, or a dead friend, In the midst of war, at peace. It might quite well be that. It isn't always a tray.
And even this tray is different to what I had thought. These models are somehow never always the same: for a reason I do not know how to explain quite. Just as I do not know Why there is always someone at this particular lesson Who always starts crying. Now will you kindly Empty those blinking eyes?
I thank you. I have no wish to seem impatient. I know it is all very hard, but you would not like, To take a simple example, to take for example, This place we have thought of here, you would not like To find yourself face to face with it, and you not knowing What there might be inside?
Very well then: suppose this is what you must capture. It will not be easy, not being very exposed, Secluded away like it is, and somewhat protected By a typical formation of what appear to be bushes, So that you cannot see, as to what is concealed inside, As to whether it is friend or foe.
And so, a strong feint will be necessary in this, connection. It will not be a tray, remember. It may be a desert stretch With nothing in sight, to speak of. I have no wish to be inconsiderate, But I see there are two of you now, commencing to snivel. I do not know where such emotional privates can come from. Try to behave like men.
I thank you. I was saying: a thoughtful deception Is always somewhat essential in such a case. You can see That if only the attacker can capture such an emplacement The rest of the terrain is his: a key-position, and calling For the most resourceful maneuvers. But that is what tactics is. Or I should say rather: are.
Let us begin then and appreciate the situation. I am thinking especially of the point we have been considering, Though in a sense everything in the whole of the terrain, Must be appreciated. I do not know what I have said To upset so many of you. I know it is a difficult lesson. Yesterday a man was sick,
But I have never known as many as five in a single intake, Unable to cope with this lesson. I think you had better Fall out, all five, and sit at the back of the room, Being careful not to talk. The rest will close up. Perhaps it was me saying 'a dead friend', earlier on? Well, some of us live.
And I never know why, whenever we get to tactics, Men either laugh or cry, though neither is strictly called for. But perhaps I have started too early with a difficult task? We will start again, further north, with a simpler problem. Are you ready? Is everyone paying attention? Very well then. Here are two hills.
IV. Unarmed Combat
In due course of course you will all be issued with Your proper issue; but until tomorrow, You can hardly be said to need it; and until that time, We shall have unarmed combat. I shall teach you The various holds and rolls and throws and breakfalls Which you may sometimes meet.
And the various holds and rolls and throws and breakfalls Do not depend on any sort of weapon, But only on what I might coin a phrase and call The ever-important question of human balance, And the ever-important need to be in a strong Position at the start.
There are many kinds of weakness about the body, Where you would least expect, like the ball of the foot. But the various holds and rolls and throws and breakfalls Will always come in useful. And never be frightened To tackle from behind: it may not be clean to do so, But this is global war.
So give them all you have, and always give them As good as you get; it will always get you somewhere. (You may not know it, but you can tie a Jerry Up without rope; it is one of the things I shall teach.) Nothing will matter if only you are ready for him. The readiness is all.
The readiness is all. How can I help but feel I have been here before? But somehow then, I was the tied-up one. How to get out Was always then my problem. And even if I had A piece of rope I was always the sort of person Who threw rope aside.
And in my time I had given them all I had, Which was never as good as I got, and it got me nowhere. And the various holds and rolls and throws and breakfalls Somehow or other I always seemed to put In the wrong place. And, as for war, my wars Were global from the start.
Perhaps I was never in a strong position. Or the ball of my foot got hurt, or I had some weakness Where I had least expected. But I think I see your point. While awaiting a proper issue, we must learn the lesson Of the ever-important question of human balance. It is courage that counts.
Things may be the same again; and we must fight Not in the hope of winning but rather of keeping Something alive: so that when we meet our end, It may be said that we tackled wherever we could, That battle-fit we lived, and though defeated, Not without glory fought.
V. Psychological Warfare
This above all remember: they will be very brave men, And you will be facing them. You must not despise them.
I am, as you know, like all true professional soldiers, A profoundly religious man: the true soldier has to be. And I therefore believe the war will be over by Easter Monday. But I must in fairness state that a number of my brother-officers, No less religious than I, believe it will hold out till Whitsun. Others, more on the agnostic side (and I do not condemn them) Fancy the thing will drag on till August Bank Holiday.
Be that as it may, some time in the very near future, We are to expect Invasion ... and invasion not from the sea. Vast numbers of troops will be dropped, probably from above, Superbly equipped, determined and capable; and this above all,
Remember: they will be very brave men, and chosen as such. You must not, of course, think I am praising them. But what I have said is basically fundamental To all I am about to reveal: the more so, since Those of you that have not seen service overseas— Which is the case with all of you, as it happens—this is the first time You will have confronted them. My remarks are aimed At preparing you for that.
Everyone, by the way, may smoke, And be as relaxed as you can, like myself. I shall wander among you as I talk and note your reactions. Do not be nervous at this: this is a thing, after all, We are all in together.
I want you to note in your notebooks, under ten separate headings, The ten points I have to make, remembering always That any single one of them may save your life. Is everyone ready? Very well then.
The term, Psychological Warfare Comes from the ancient Greek: psycho means character And logical, of course, you all know. We did not have it In the last conflict, the fourteen-eighteen affair, Though I myself was through it from start to finish. (That is point one.) I was, in fact, captured—or rather, I was taken prisoner— In the Passchendaele show (a name you will all have heard of) And in our captivity we had a close opportunity (We were all pretty decently treated. I myself Was a brigadier at the time: that is point two) An opportunity I fancy I was the only one to appreciate Of observing the psychiatry of our enemy (The word in those days was always psychology, A less exact description now largely abandoned). And though the subject Is a highly complex one, I had, it was generally conceded, A certain insight (I do not know how, but I have always, they say, Had a certain insight) into the way the strangest things ebb up From what psychoanalysts now refer to as the self-conscious. It is possibly for this reason that I have been asked To give you the gist of the thing, the—how shall I put it?— The gist.
I was not of course captured alone (Note that as point three) so that I also observed Not only the enemy's behaviour; but ours. And gradually, I concluded That we all of us have, whether we like it or lump it, Our own individual psychiatry, given us, for better or worse, By God Almighty. I say this reverently; you often find These deeper themes of psychiatry crudely but well expressed In common parlance. People say: 'We are all as God made us.' And so they are. So are the enemy. And so are some of you.
This I in fact observed: point four. Not only the enemy Had their psychiatry, but we, in a different sense, Had ours. And I firmly believe you cannot (point six) master Their psychiatry before you have got the gist of your own. Let me explain more fully: I do not mean to imply That any, or many, of you are actually mentally ill. Though that is what the name would imply. But we, your officers, Have to be aware that you, and many of your comrades, May have a sudden psychiatry which, sometimes without warning, May make you feel (and this is point five) a little bit odd.
I do not mean that in the sense of anything nasty: I am not thinking of those chaps with their eyes always on each other (Sometimes referred to as homo-sensualists And easily detected by the way they lace up their boots) But in the sense you may all feel a little disturbed, Without knowing why, a little as if you were feeling an impulse, Without knowing why: the term for this is ambivalence. Often referred to for some mysterious reason, By the professionals as Amby Valence, As though they were referring to some nigger minstrel. (Not, of course, that I have any color prejudice: After all, there are four excellent West Nigerians among you, As black as your boot: they are not to blame for that.)
At all events this ambivalence is to be avoided. Note that as point seven: I think you all know what I mean: In the Holy Scriptures the word begins with an O, Though in modern parlance it usually begins with an M. You have most of you done it absentmindedly at some time or another, But repeated, say, four times a day, it may become almost a habit, Especially prone to by those of sedentary occupation, By pale-faced clerks or schoolmasters, sitting all day at a desk, Which is not, thank God, your position: you are always More or less on the go: and that is what (Again deep in the self-conscious) keeps you contented and happy here.
Even so, should you see some fellow-comrade Give him all the help you can. In the spiritual sense, I mean, With a sympathetic word or nudge, inform him in a manly fashion 'Such things are for boys, not men, lad.' Everyone, eyes front!
I pause, gentlemen. I pause. I am not easily shocked or taken aback, But even while I have been speaking of this serious subject I observe that one of you has had the effrontery— Yes, you at the end of row three! No! Don't stand up, for God's sake, man, And don't attempt to explain. Just tuck it away, And try to behave like a man. Report to me At eighteen hundred hours. The rest of you all eyes front. I proceed to point six.
The enemy itself, I have reason to know is greatly prone to such actions. It is something we must learn to exploit: an explanation, I think, Is that they are, by and large, undeveloped children, Or adolescents, at most. It is perhaps to do with physique, And we cannot and must not ignore their physique as such. (Physique, of course, being much the same as psychiatry.) They are usually blond, and often extremely well-made, With large blue eyes and very white teeth, And as a rule hairless chests, and very smooth, muscular thighs, And extremely healthy complexions, especially when slightly sunburnt. I am convinced there is something in all this that counts for something. Something probably deep in the self-conscious of all of them. Undeveloped children, I have said, and like children, As those of you with families will know, They are sometimes very aggressive, even the gentlest of them.
All the same we must not exaggerate; in the words of Saint Matthew: 'Clear your minds of cant.' That is point five: note it down. Do not take any notice of claptrap in the press Especially the kind that implies that the enemy will come here, Solely with the intention of raping your sisters. I do not know why it is always sisters they harp on: I fancy it must ebb up from someone's self-conscious. It is a patent absurdity for two simple reasons: (a) They cannot know in advance what your sisters are like: And (b) some of you have no sisters. Let that be the end of that.
There are much darker things than that we have to think of. It is you they consider the enemy, you they are after. And though, as Britishers, you will not be disposed to shoot down A group of helpless men descending from the heavens, Do not expect from them—and I am afraid I have to say this—gratitude: They are bound to be over-excited, As I said, adolescently aggressive, possibly drugged, And later, in a macabre way, grotesquely playful. Try to avoid being playfully kicked in the crotch, Which quite apart from any temporary discomfort, May lead to a hernia. I do not know why you should laugh. I once had a friend who, not due to enemy action But to a single loud sneeze, entirely his own, developed a hernia, And had to have great removals, though only recently married. (I am sorry, gentlemen, but anyone who finds such things funny Ought to suffer them and see. You deserve the chance to. I must ask you all to extinguish your cigarettes.)
There are other unpleasant things they may face you with. You may, as I did in the fourteen-eighteen thing, Find them cruelly, ruthlessly, starkly obsessed with the arts, Music and painting, sculpture and the writing of verses, Please, do not stand for that.
Our information is That the enemy has no such rules, though of course they may have. We must see what they say when they come. There can, of course, Be no objection to the more virile arts: In fact in private life I am very fond of the ballet, Whose athleticism, manliness and sense of danger Is open to all of us to admire. We had a ballet-dancer In the last mob but three, as you have doubtless heard. He was cruelly teased and laughed at—until he was seen in the gym. And then, my goodness me! I was reminded of the sublime story Of Samson, rending the veil of the Temple. I do not mean he fetched the place actually down; though he clearly did what he could. Though for some other reason I was never quite clear about, And in spite of my own strong pressure on the poor lad's behalf, And his own almost pathetic desire to stay on with us, He was, in fact, demobilized after only three weeks' service, Two and a half weeks of which he spent in prison. Such are war's tragedies: how often we come upon them! (Everyone may smoke again, those that wish.)
This brings me to my final point about the psychiatry Of our formidable foe. To cope with it, I know of nothing better than the sublime words of Saint Paul In one of his well-known letters to the Corinthians: 'This above all, to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day No man can take thee in.'
'This above all': what resonant words those are! They lead me to point nine, which is a thing I may have a special thing about, but if so, Remember this is not the first war I have been through. I refer (point nine this is) to the question of dignity. Dignity. Human dignity. Yours. Never forget it, men. Let it sink deep into your self-consciousness, While still remaining plentifully available on the surface, In the form of manly politeness. I mean, in particular, this: Never behave in a manner to evoke contempt Before thine enemy. Our enemy, I should say.
Comrades, and brothers-in-arms, And those especially who have not understood my words, You were not born to live like cowards or cravens: Let me exhort you: never, whatever lies you have heard, Be content to throw your arms on the ground and your other arms into the air and squawk 'Kaputt!' It is unsoldierly, unwarlike, vulgar, and out of date, And may make the enemy laugh. They have a keen sense of humor, Almost (though never quite, of course) as keen as our own. No: when you come face to face with the foe, remember dignity, And though a number of them do fortunately speak English, Say, proudly, with cold politeness, in the visitor's own language: 'Ich ergebe mich.' Ich meaning I,
Ergebe meaning surrender, and mich meaning me. Ich ergebe mich.' Do not forget the phrase. Practise it among yourselves: do not let it sound stilted, Make it sound idiotish, as if you were always saying it, Only always cold in tone: icy, if necessary: It is such behaviour that will make them accord you The same respect that they accorded myself, At Passchendaele. (Incidentally, You may also add the word nicht if you feel inclined to, Nicht meaning not. It will amount to much the same thing.)
Dignity, then, and respect: those are the final aims Of psychiatric relations, and psychological warfare. They are the fundamentals also of our religion. I may have mentioned my own religious intuitions: They are why I venture to think this terrible war will be over On Easter Monday, and that the invasion will take place On either Maundy Thursday or Good Friday, Probably the Thursday, which in so very many Of our great, brave, proud, heroic and battered cities, Is early closing day, as the enemy may have learnt from their agents. Alas, there may be many such days in the immediate future. But remember this in the better world we all have to build, And build by ourselves alone—for the government May well in the next few weeks have withdrawn to Canada— What did you say? The man in row five. He said something. Stand up and repeat what you said. I said 'And a sodding good job', sir, I said, sir. I have not asked anyone for political comments, thank you, However apt. Sit down. I was saying: That in the better world we all have to try to build After the war is over, whether we win or lose, Or whether we all agree to call it a draw, We shall have to try our utmost to get used to each other, To live together with dignity and respect. As our Lord sublimely said in one of his weekly Sermons on the Mount Outside Jerusalem (where interestingly enough, I was stationed myself for three months in 1926): 'A thirteenth commandment I give you (this is point ten) That ye love one another.' Love, in Biblical terms, Meaning of course not quite what it means today, But precisely what I have called dignity and respect. And that, men, is the great psychiatrical problem before you: Of how on God's earth we shall ever learn to attain some sort Of dignity. And due respect. One man. For another. Thank you; God bless you, men. Good afternoon.
Randall was the founder of Broadside Press, a Detroit publishing company that published many leading African American writers. Born in 1914, in Washington, D.C., Randall began writing poetry in his youth. Throughout his life Randall held a number of jobs including working for the Ford Motor Company, U.S. Post Office, and then as a librarian, having received an advanced degree in library sciences. He served in the military during World War II. The “Ballad of Birmingham,” commemorating the 1963 bombing of a Baptist Church in which four young girls were killed is his most famous poem. His first collection of poetry was Poem Counterpoem, published in 1966. This was followed by Cities Burning, in 1968, and More to Remember in 1973. Randall died in 2000.
In far-off Rabaul I died for democracy. Better I fell in Mississippi.
Splendid against the night The searchlights, the tracers' arcs, And the red flare of bombs Filling the eye, And the brain.
Radnóti is regarded as one of Hungary’s foremost 20th-century poets. Born in Budapest, he was orphaned early in life, lived with relatives and completed his education in 1927, becoming an accountant. His first collection of poems, Pogány köszöntoPagan Salute), were published in 1930, when he was 21. His second book, Újmódi pásztorok éneke (Song of Modern Shepherds), published the following year was confiscated by the government on grounds of indecency. For this, Radnóti received a jail sentence. In 1940 he was identified as a Jew and forced to serve on a series of labor battalions. In 1944 he was sent to a compulsory labor camp in Yugoslavia. The camp was evacuated as the Soviet army moved on the Eastern Front. Radnóti and 3,200 of his fellow internees were forced to march from Yugoslavia to Hungary. He was shot to death with other prisoners who were too sick and weak to walk. Several poems were found in his trench coat. (
And so will I wonder...?
I lived, but then in living I was feeble in life and always knew that they would bury me here in the end, that year piles upon year, clod on clod, stone on stone, that the body swells and in the cool, maggot- infested darkness, the naked bone will shiver. That above, scuttling time is rummaging
through my poems and that I will sink deeper into the ground. All this I knew. But tell me, the work—did that live on?
Translated by Gina Gönczi
I went out, closed the street door,
and the clock struck ten, on shining wheels the baker rustled by and hummed, a plane droned in the sky, the sun shone, it struck ten, I thought of my dead aunt and in a flash it seemed all the unliving I had loved were flying overhead, with hosts of silent dead the sky was darkened then and suddenly across the wall a shadow fell. Silence. The morning world stood still.
The clock struck ten, over the street peace floated: cold dread was its spell.
Translated by Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner
Excerpt from Razglednicas
The oxen drool saliva mixed with blood. Each one of us is urinating blood. The squad stands about in knots, stinking, mad. Death, hideous, is blowing overhead.
IV. I fell beside him and his corpse turned over, tight already as a snapping string. Shot in the neck. "And that's how you'll end too," I whisper to myself; "lie still; no moving. Now patience flowers in death." Then I could hear Der springt noch auf, above, and very near. Blood mixed with mud was drying on my ear. Translated by Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner
Lines from "Maybe"
... But don't leave me, delicate mind! Don't let me go crazy. Sweet wounded reason, don't leave me now.
Don't leave me. Let me die, without fear, a clean, lovely death, like Empedocles, who smiled as he fell into the crater.
Translated by Steven Polgár, Stephen Berg and S. J. Marks
The moon sways on a foamy sky, I am amazed that I live. An overzealous death searches this age and those it discovers are all so very pale.
At times the year looks around and shrieks, looks around and then fades away. What an autumn cowers behind me again and what a winter, made dull by pain.
The forest bled and in the spinning time blood flowed from every hour. Large and looming numbers were scribbled by the wind onto the snow.
I lived to see that and this, the air feels heavy to me. A war sound-filled silence hugs me as before my nativity.
I stop here at the foot of a tree, its crown swaying angrily. A branch reaches down -- to grab my neck? I'm not a coward, nor am I weak,
just tired. I listen. And the frightened branch explores my hair.
To forget would be best, but I have never forgotten anything yet.
Foam pours over the moon and the poison draws a dark green line on the horizon.
I roll myself a cigarette slowly, carefully. I live.
Translated by Gina Gönczi
He's foolish who, once down, resumes his weary beat, A moving mass of cramps on restless human feet, Who rises from the ground as if on borrowed wings, Untempted by the mire to which he dare not cling, Who, when you ask him why, flings back at you a word Of how the thought of love makes dying less absurd. Poor deluded fool, the man's a simpleton, About his home by now only the scorched winds run, His broken walls lie flat, his orchard yields no fruit, His familiar nights go clad in terror's rumpled suit. Oh could I but believe that such dreams had a base Other than in my heart, some native resting place; If only once again I heard the quiet hum Of bees on the verandah, the jar of orchard plums Cooling with late summer, the gardens half asleep, Voluptuous fruit lolling on branches dipping deep, And she before the hedgerow stood with sun bleached hair, The lazy morning scrawling vague shadows on the air ... Why not? The moon is full, her circle is complete. Don't leave me, friend, shout out, and see! I'm on my feet!
Born at the turn of the century, Quasimodo always dreamt of becoming an engineer. Though his dreams weren’t realized due to economic reasons, he was able to obtain a position with the Italian government’s civil engineering corps. By 1930 Quasimodo had several of his poems published in Solaria, an avant-garde review, in addition to his first book of verse, Acque e terre (Waters and Lands). Shortly after this his writing began to play a more prominent role in his life and he left his government position to devote himself to writing full time. During the war years, Quasimodo began the translation of poetry in earnest, in addition to writing his own poetry. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1959.
19 January 1944
I read you the soft verses of antiquity and the words, born of the vineyards and tents on the banks of eastern rivers—how mournful they fall and desolate in this profoundest night of war where no one flies the sky of the angels of death, and we hear the wind thunder with ruin shaking the metal sheets that up here divide the balconies, and gloom rises from the dogs howling in gardens at the rifle shots of patrols on the empty streets. Someone is alive. Someone, perhaps, is alive. But we, here, absorbed in listening to the ancient voice seek for a sign that outreaches life, earth's dark sorcery where even among the tombs of rubble the malign grass rears up its flower.
Prior to the Second World War Pudney worked as a radio producer and scriptwriter for BBC. In 1940 he joined the RAF as a war correspondent. As a squadron leader, he served in Africa, the Mediterranean and France. “For Johnny,” one of the most popular poems to come out of the war was written by Pudney on the back of an envelope during a London air raid in 1941. Following the war, Pudney became a reviewer for the Daily Express, and editor of News Review. In his life time he produced twenty collections of poetry, a string of novels, short stories, children’s books, and two plays. His non-fiction writing included an official history of the Battle of Malta.
"Just then I saw the bloody Hun" You saw the Hun? You, light and easy, Carving the soundless daylight. "I was breezy When I saw that Hun." Oh wonder Pattern of stress, of nerve poise, flyer, Overtaking time. "He came out under Nine-tenths cloud, but I was higher." Did Michelangelo aspire, Painting the laughing cumulus, to ride The majesty of air. " He was a trier I'll give him that, the hum." So you covert Ultimate sky o air speed, drift and cover; Sure with the tricky tools of God and lover. "I let him have a sharp four-second squirt, Closing to fifty yards. He went on fire." Your deadly petals painted, you exert A simple stature. Man-high, without pride, You pick your way through heaven and the dirt. "He burnt out in the air; that's how the poor sod died."
Do not despair For Johnny-head-in-air; He sleeps as sound As Johnny underground.
Fetch out no shroud For Johnny-in-the-cloud; And keep your tears For him in after years.
Better by far For Johnny-the-bright-star, To keep your head, And see his children fed.
Born in 1922 in Grebenac, Yugoslavia, Popa fought with the partisans during World War II. He studied in Vienna and Bucharest before completing his education at the University of Belgrade in 1949. He became an editor after his studies, and in 1953 published his first book of poetry, Kora (Bark). A number of significant collections followed, including Nepocin-polie, in 1956, and Sporedno nebo (Secondary Heaven), in 1968, Uspravna zemlja (Earth Erect) in 1972, Vucja so (Wolf’s Salt) in 1975 and Od zlata jabuka (The Golden Apple), in 1958. His collected poems were published in English in 1978, with an introduction by Ted Hughes. Popa died in Belgrade in 1991.
In The Village Of My Ancestors
Someone looks at me with the eyes of a wolf Someone takes off his hat So I can see him better
Everyone asks me Do you know how I'm related to you
Unknown old men and women Appropriate the names Of young men and women from my memory
I ask one of them Tell me for God's sake Is George the Wolf still living
That's me he answers With a voice from the next world
I touch his cheek with my hand And beg him with my eyes
To tell me if I'm living too
Far Within Us #1
We raise our arms The street climbs into the sky We lower our eyes The roofs go down into the earth
From every pain We do not mention Grows a chestnut tree That stays mysterious behind us
From every hope We cherish Sprouts a star That moves unreachable before us
Can you hear a bullet Flying about our heads Can you hear a bullet Waiting to ambush our kiss