The Proposition (Pushkin)

Tried out something kind of cool with this one: transliterated this and turned the sounds into what seemed right. Here is a version of the original (didn't read it until after I wrote mine). I recommend this trick to people who want to depart from their usual styles.

The Proposition

Here, poppyseeded, tulip-rooted girl,

I've brought you something your myopic eyes can read.

No more running between pools of hot and cold water,

no nestling myself within your three houses.

The cabbage still quivers in the springtime fields;

the round jingle metal hum leads to summer;

my loyal pinto plays the existential philosopher;

and thieves scavenge like yesterday.

But, cream-filled bundt, we pair in the ranches

repeatedly, you so close to the hairs on my body.

We've built our own philosopher's farm for golems

with my bulbs and your mineral-rich tears.

Together we are the rushing of the river over the rocks,

and January cannot freeze us, we are May:

holy in the cellar stairwell, holy at the dusty crossroads,

holy rooms, holy boxes, holy honeypots.

So if I proposed a new Wednesday education

and nudged you toward a voting booth

no more could you run me with your arguments,

no more would I nestle in your three houses,

and I would pay you back for mud and seriousness

and chalk up the velvet, vulgar words you make me think.

And in your maroon chair, open this letter,

and look, and read slowly, and consent.

Eyjafjallajökull

We can't ever fly with silt in our wings,

or in our lungs, so we hold our breath

when wind mates with ash and makes clouds of dust.

Grounded again, our bones are steel,

at least, but everyone on the wrong side

of their oceans is counting and recounting the grains of salt

à la plage y la playa, everyone is finally

buying a converter, nobody's cell phone

works in this fucking country and the keyboards are confusing,

with accent marks and punctuation in

all the wrong places. And everyone really

just wants to go home but they'll have to board a ship or something

because the skies are down,

but the world is still up

and without our drones they can hear the bees humming.

AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE

After the earthquake I think that Orion

readjusted his belt; it seemed to hang lower

on his waist. I mean, it might have been the change

of seasons, an adolescence. But

the tropics seemed nearer, warmer, and

my tongue wanted to unhook his stars,

and I wanted to see the world unbuckle.

I wanted to see the sky exposed

and shaking. I wanted his bow and his arrows,

unslung, vulnerable. I wanted the tides

to tug him down, down, until

he would topple and fall.

Tauromachy

Drag me up the roofs, bull,

push me through the floors;

I will break the boards,

stain the wood,

and when I try to shape my mouth

I blow a bubble with right angles:

I cannot speak but with my hands,

those roving birds that court south.

Oh, you are yoked, you are rooted,

but I have seen you chase vermilion,

your twin horns balancing oblivion,

your nimble hooves confused

and accidentally crushing.

I may spill the pail,

empty the grail

and still you will never end up with nothing.

Why would you need the filling of a lover?

I will be the one tipped over and cracked,

perhaps,

as your toes stay wreathed in clover.

I tossed a rock onto the sand.
The moment it left my hand

I gave it up. It made no splashes,
settled before the crashes,

but when the sparkling water rose
my pebble changed Neptune's flows.

We trip gods with our crumbs.
The sea is moved by a slip of the thumb.

AIOLOS

My senses are restless,
leashless, giggling, battering, lapping
with echoed smells, tinted with myth.

They pause not at Persephone,
quicker than Hermes.

They whistle palm-ladders for Hermes.

I am chapped with keeping them,
my fingers skinless, I read in Braille,
but when they wind home I leach the world from them,
voracious, vicarious.

JANUARY

Mixed-up trees stepping in orange leaves,
Skin blessed with affectionate breezes;
Blues, greens, warms, silk feathers,
A crime to drive in this weather;
Bright shadows, flown smiles, limbs bared,
May-in-September-in-January;
If global warming takes me this peaceful way,
I won't revolt, I will obey.