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SLOWLY, LOVE LOVED
Slowly, love loved. Quick had been my desperate desire— But slowly love loved. I stood by a dying fire. Slowly, she decided, With limitations, to be mine. She loved me a morning, Or an evening, after...
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LOVE NOTHING
Do you feel nothing for me? Can this be true? Is this why you run from me when I come into view? I’m a philosopher. I philosophize about you. I don’t think we love a person—we only love what they do....
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MY POETRY
My poetry, there’s no help for you Now that she—my love!—tells me what to do. I had a good idea for a poem yesterday; A good poem!—she looked at me and it flew away. My poetry, we need to talk. In the...
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THE LOVER WHO REJECTS YOU IS THE CRUELEST GOD
The lover who rejects you is the cruelest god. This cruelty you expected all along: When you walked with her, when the two of you listened to a song, It hid under everything you two felt and said, In...
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WHAT DO YOU DO?
For Ben What do you do in the twilight, when there won’t be any sun? When every bird is darkness, and the birds, to their dark mother, run? When every song is darkness, and all that was dear, and...
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YOU SAW MY COMMA, YOU SAW WHAT I SAID WAS NICE
You saw my comma, you saw what I said was nice; The shouting world that you see has nothing to do with me, But I, at least, can prove to you, with the way I write, That I am kind, nice to kiss, and...
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REFINE THE BRUTE
When I’m asked for an opinion on modern American poetry, I want to do more than list poems and poets I like, though this is probably the only adequate response. Anything else will be sure to confuse...
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THE PROLIFIC POET
The prolific poet is never trusted, Like a beautiful woman—isn’t she too beautiful to give her beauty to one? (Yes I know that beautiful women are truer than most But we can’t help but see a beautiful...
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THE ONE MUSE I KNOW
The one muse I know Makes my inspiration come and go In forms of various shadows and light. Ah, the one muse is my highest delight. When you see me talking to you It is only because I see her too. The...
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I CAUSE LOVE
I cause love, Though I, myself, am not loving. I give no roses. I am not love, I am what love exposes: The mind, uncomfortable; a vain thought; a sigh; Or the look on your face when you see my face...
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IRAN: POETRY IN TRANSLATION
THREE POEMS BY FOROUGH FARROKHZAD (1935-1967) Forough is the Sylvia Plath of Iran. She is one of the greatest poets of the 20th century. Her work is passionate, controversial, and was banned for ten...
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YOU CAN INSULT ME
You can insult my country. I am not my country. But not my poetry. You can insult my gender. I am not my gender. But not my metaphor. You can insult my race. I am not my race. But not my book case....
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TO BE UNMOVED
The world is a sea anemone reacting to stimulation. We react to stimulation. Our reaction creates stimulation. This is both reality and virtual reality, plain and simple. This is why the addict of the...
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WHAT SITS BEHIND THE EYES
What sits behind the eyes? More eyes. They watch the insects of the rain flitting. O wash of colors and recriminations Which sat once, with you and I—and are still sitting. What sits behind the eyes?...
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SEA OF LOVE
I didn’t know what music was, not yet, Not until I heard how the two of them met In a large lagoon under the moon And the poems in their books got wet. There’s been many sleepless nights because of...
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THE FACE
The face grows old so fast. We can’t look down and see our face The way we can our hand. We need an event to see our face, We approach the mirror and there’s our face Like a performance in a play....
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BEN MAZER: POEM FROM HIS FORTHCOMING BOOK
Greatest poet of his generation? Ben Mazer in Romania last month. Photo, Scarriet THE GREATEST JOY KNOWN TO MORTAL MAN The greatest joy known to mortal man, shall live beyond us, in eternity. Catching...
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THE CHE GUEVARA OF IRAN, KHOSROW GOLSORKHI: “EQUALITY”—TRANS. SHERRY...
Khosrow Golsorkhi, an Iranian journalist, poet and activist, was accused of plotting to kidnap the Shah of Iran’s son and arrested at the age of 29. In televised court proceedings he defended his...
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WE BEGAN IN SPACE
We began in space, but it was time That made us joy—and grieve. You wanted theirs to be your rhyme And I wrote to you so you would believe In poetry, as well as me. Now that you have read This, which...
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I WILL TELL YOU OF THE BLUE BELL
We all copy, for words Are less than actual birds. We make a mark And there is Shelley’s lark. O joyous marks! What joy they are bringing. The alphabet is singing. I am flesh, and compared to words my...
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