Lucía M. Polis's Blog, page 3

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This is my translation of "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

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This Kind of Girl

Every once in a while,
in this wild life of mine
I’d wonder:
If I were a girl
what kind of girl would I be?

(And…sugar, spice are certainly nice
but here they’d hardly suffice.)


But I too highly doubt
that you’d find, if you peeked
in my mind
anything close to snips,
snails, or the tail of a pup.

(And woman scorned has wrath,
but I said girl, not psychopath.)


So, as far as I know,
I’d be a girl on the go,
who’d either be
always late, put together,
but never both.

(And time flies—doubly so
when you try to arrange your hair.)


I’d be a girl adorned,
adored, for colour I’d bring
everywhere
where my skirts might flare,
teasing hairy, muscular legs.

(And compliments, daily—
on my outfits, elegant taste.)


But don’t think that my brain
would go to waste; far from it—
I’d have wit
I’d run circles around
men dominating my field.

(And, speaking of men—
I’d know just when to press or yield.)


In short, you might expect
an elegant diva with brains
who would not
know of restraint,
dressed in yellow toe to neck.

(And she’d light up a room, and silence
great crowds when she’d speak.)


Sitting here, it occurs to me:
Dreaming is for the meek.
(And besides
I think I know who I’d be.)
I’ll be just the kind of girl

I already am—
this kind of girl, like me.

You Are the Revolution You Dreamed Of

I’m grateful to Samantha for unknowingly giving this piece its title.

The best words will not be yours, but you will take them,
give form to the shape of them, in the same way that
your palm can give heat, and take, lingering on
a lover's breast.

You no longer need dream of acquiring a bullhorn,
then installing yourself in the midst of a bustling street,
and expiring frantically into indifferent crowds
woven strands of sound.


Every single thing you wanted has come true.
Every single thought you've had has made sense.
Every single mistake that you made has turned you
so supple, so slowly.


When your broken fingers let go the bluebird,
it won't fly, eat, or sing ’til its color turns gold.
Have you tried living with Intention? He's a slob:
you'll always find

dishes in the sink, underpants on the TV,
an I.O.U. in the fridge, a note on the windowsill.
And what do you see when you look at him?
And what does he see?


You cleanse your hands and your soul. You dress yourself
in black cloths, gather dry wood, build a pyre,
then burn it all at the appointed hour
and watch the fire.

Maximus, to Óláfs son

With apologies to Charles Olson.For Nina Sloan

You no longer have to learn the
simplest things last. Let us learn them
as one. Even at sea we will sail slow, offer a hand when
crossing a wet deck.
We'll make the sea, finally, our trade.
But even our trade, at it, we shall stand close
to that which is most familiar. We will wait,
and give the man a brand-new argument
that every of our
delays is just cause,
for insurrection,
a soft revolt
that takes the sweetest time
Where the single
no longer need be
known

It couldn't be, though the sweetness (the canistel)
We'll note in others,
will make more sense
than our own distances. The agilities

we'll show only
in our nightly
businesses
And in our natures
as we have only
sense and have done both

Let us make dialogues,
and discuss all kind texts,
throw any light we can, offer
what pleasures
sentiat allows


But the known?
This, we must learn to forgive us,
a life, love, and from one friend
the word.
The whole.
And sitting here
We'll look out as a fire
and earth man, tasting,
savouring
the root

You still know of the
weather, whither the wind might blow,
where it goes. But the stem of you,
this they'll take from our welcome,
of our acceptance, of them

And their arrogance
will greatly diminish,
changed for love
by the communication


2

It is complete business
I speak of, this evening,
while the sea
swells and flows
under the bow

Debility Poems: Makin’ It?

For Rahim Valli

The hospital is shrouded in a blue gown.
Garlanded with lights, it beckons you, yet
has nothing to offer for helping make it
a little less lonely.

The staccato
clack of each crutch marks the implausible
passage of time, which for all seems to flow
equally, but stands still when you stop watching it.


In which arm will the fluid go tonight?
On which minute does the puncture begin to ache?
The courtyard remains sealed, but on special days
music wafts through landlocked trees. You try to imagine

these denizens dance, holding each other close.
This sight, this love, this gratitude, this despair—
it is only gotten upon returning—
more than once, more than three dozen more times.


A little poke here (the cannula fails to insinuate);
there’s always another vein, another
way to go in deeper, longer���just hold your breath,
facet it close, much too close for relief,

breathe into things—ideas, limbs—once patent nonsense,
now something you’ve finally made secret knowledge.
Last, remember to pull tight your corset of thoughts,
walk upright forward, as each foot follows support,


nod in agreement at the passing man,
who says to you—

Diddlehead

One night, at the open mic,
a greyhaired elder poet
stood, and with great excitement
told us, the enraptured crowd

that it had taken fifty
years to place a poem with
that well-regarded journal
and everyone cheered and clapped.

Cinnamon Hearts

To Emil

When you gave me your heart
I took it. For once, without
taking apart.


And, later, when
I finally found a box
of the cinnamon hearts

that you’d liked on some shelf,
they were surprisingly cheap,
pungent, and hard—

just like the thing
in itself.

Bearhood

It’s hard to convey
How happy I am—
How happy I am,
Well-covered, and warm.

Here, close to my chest,
Hides safe while I rest,
Soft, white unicorn,
My white unicorn.

Sweet light-mindedness!—darling sin…

This is my translation of «Легкомыслие! — Милый грех…» by Марина Цветаева [Marina Tsvetaeva].

For Linda Rogers

Sweet light-mindedness!—darling sin
Of companion and rival circles!
In my eyes you’ve spritzed laughter’s din,
In my sinew you’ve spritzed mazurka.

Taught me not to hold dear the ring—
Of each one that life gave my heart to!
From the end, from a guess, begin
And to finish ’fore I had started.

And to be like a stalk, like steel,
In a life we can do so little…
—With dark chocolate sorrows heal,
And to laugh in the faces’ skitter.