BLOODHOUND by Ivan Goll

BLOODHOUND



Bloodhound in front of my heart
Watching over my fire
You that feed on bitter kidneys
In the suburb of my misery

With the wet flame of your tongue lick
The salt of my sweat
The sugar of my death

Bloodhound in my flesh
Catch the dreams that fly off from me
Bark at the white ghosts
Bring back to their pen
All my gazelles

And savage the ankles of my fleeting angel



-Translated by Michael Hamburger

PEOPLE W/ BARRELS

Li Po: "For Tu Fu"

FOR TU FU

by Li Po


On Boiled Rice Mountain
I met Tu Fu

wearing a big round
bamboo hat
in the hot noon sun

Tu Fu
how come
you've grown
so thin?

you must be suffering
too much
from poetry!




Translated by David Young

BENJAMIN PERET FRIDAY!

I'LL GO HOW ABOUT YOU
by Benjamin Peret


There was a big house
with a fire diver swimming on it

There was a big house
surrounded with kepis and golden helmets

There was a big house
full of glass and blood

There was a big house
standing in the middle of a swamp

There was a big house
whose master was made of straw
whose master was a beech tree
whose master was a letter
whose master was a hair
whose master was a rose
whose master was a sigh
whose master was a sharp turn
whose master was a vampire
whose master was a mad cow
whose master was a kick
whose master was a cavernous voice
whose master was a tornado
whose master was a capsized boat
whose master was the cheek of an ass
whose master was the Carmagnole
whose master was violent death

Tell me tell me where is the big house


Translated by Keith Hollaman

FINALLY A GOOD TRANSLATION OF 'SEA BREEZE'

SEA BREEZE
by Stephane Mallarme

The flesh is sad, and I've read all the books. Away! away! I sense
the birds are drunk on being between the unknown foam and the skies!
Nothing, not the old gardens reflected in eyes will hold back this
sea-soaked heart, O nights! not the desert brilliance of my lamp on the
empty paper defended by whiteness, and not the young woman nursing
her baby. I will depart! Steamer, rocking your masts, weigh anchor for
an exotic nature!

A boredom, aggrieved by cruel hopes, still believes in the last farewell
of handkerchiefs! And maybe the masts, inviting storms, are the ones
listing in wind above the shipwrecks lost, with no masts, no masts, no
fertile islets ... But hear, o heart, the master-singing sailors!



Translation: Peter Manson