by Giovanni Raboni

Judas says that his alibi was shaken,
the dead man’s: that’s why the dead man went down to the courtyard.
But the alibi was sound; the dead man was rehabilitated:
nobody says that Judas was mistaken.

The medical examiner says that the wounds
are not incompatible with the mechanics of
a fall from a high place.  The newspaper concludes
that therefore the dead man was a suicide.

Miserable old men who out of pity
for themselves ought to be dead
talk to us out of mirrors, warn us, show us the future,
come out of mirrors in order to kiss the dead.

The killer was quick to speak ill of the dead man.
A killer was heard to sympathize with a dead man.
A killer was seen to kiss the forehead of a dead man.
You see that killers don’t disregard the dead.

8:30 p.m. the drunkard’s lamentation
8:31 the scoundrel’s castigation
8:32 the imbecile’s advice
8:33 the hangman’s ultimatum

The stock market’s sound, the stock market reacts
with splendid, unexpected, encouraging vigor
to the news from the front, the proclamations, the limpid death
of the legionnaire killed by the enemy.

Wingless crows in the flat
shadow of the scales
trinity of cutthroats
brandishing the spears.

Judas says: the people were casting stones
at my warriors, that’s why my soldiers charged.
Of who was there it seems no notice was taken:
but the Senate decides that Judas was not mistaken.

Don’t preach the dictatorship
of one class over the other, that’s not your occupation.
Don’t say anything that might provoke
class hatred: they’ve already got the notion.

I speak for myself but maybe for you as well.
Friends, let’s tell the truth, I say:
It makes us happy when we feel oppressed;
what matters is being victims now, not being free someday.

— translated by Michael Palma

by James Koller

I open my door to two dippers, a river of stars, enough moon light
to watch a breeze lift the blue ribbons hung from the high garden posts.

What you see flying over is what you get, forest & little lakes,
long frozen rivers for as far as you can see.

Bluejays watch it all up close, busy bodies;
the ravens stay out of sight, talk to us from the treetops.

I listen now, make what I can of all those old songs,
her bare feet, swirl of long skirts, dancing the wooden floors.

The doors were all unlocked & blue,
like the doors of heaven, she said.

We moved from room to room, I carried her, legs around me
bed to bed, spread those spirits through this place.

We walked the dirt roads, trees still leafing out,

looking for yellow flowers, finding lost feathers;

we came to the pond, the new moon rising,
couldn’t see what it was slipped into the cool waters.

Bringing in firewood, fox tracks just north of the house.
Snow & ice, so cold I need to find my gloves.

by James Koller

Morning Star over the Uintas, red sun
coming up behind those mountains.
We missed
seeing you in Bolinas.  Did you come
out?
I’m here this morning, west of Salt Lake,
call them drowsy, drivers, cars all over
this road.
Carla Bruni sings lullabies,
soothes the cat, who like me, this time of day
likes it quiet.
The city now thirty
miles ahead.
The sun drops, down again,
out of sight.  Now you see her, now you don’t.
Are we all asleep now?  Not me.
Mountains
to the south are mirrored, pastel & pink
reflections in the still salt water, look,
to me, the color of Carla’s nightgown.

by James Koller

A dark wind filled with rain blows branches
against darker walls.  The stuff of wild dreams.

Thighs covered with light silk, I sprawl
over pillows, too lazy to take off my make up.

I fight with sleep.  My body aches
for a lover’s insistent touch, yet I know

I’ll wake at dawn still longing for lips
lush as grass & gentle hands, dancing fingers.

I must change this face, freshen up,
let makeup brighten still another day.

What clothes must one wear on a morning
when her body rises still moaning?

O, to have too many lovers, too much moonlight,
this yard full no more with fallen leaves.

*

I’ve opened the curtain, the mountain before me,
look down at drooping & broken yellow flowers.

I’ll try on the new clothes, pluck & paint
the delicate curve of my brows,

wait for darkness & night, climb the stairs,
alone.  Back, alone, to my bedroom.

Surely lovers will come in dream, to some moonlit
orchard, where the breeze opens my short dress,

where plum blossoms fall over us.  You let down
my hair, & I leave it, don’t put the pins back.

We feast through the nights, though
morning after morning I will say goodbye.

We live in the mountains, simply, in the mountain.
Magpies below.  What chatter.