by Thomas Feeny

Sarah, waiting

On sultry nights, Sarah
knows no sleep, edgy with summer,
the wet–mouthed kiss. It’s then
hands become shields against bats,
hovering close on leather wings,
shadowing sly passages,
drawing forth the same soft prayer.

Day comes, she leaps from her bed.
In pink slippers, runs to grease up
the frying pan, toss out the cat.
With dippy smile fervently she caresses
the flat iron, wet finger tickling heat,
before pressing a rib–cage of roses
into the man’s waiting shirtfront.
And though blinded by linen’s
white dazzle, deafened
by blood’s quick surge,
not a single button does she crack.

Noontime, Sarah nibbles her egg
as she goes from room to room
pursuing with glinty eye
the vaguest threat of dust.
Elbows, fingernails, into
each yellow corner she pokes
— such rub–a–dub–dub–
scraping away grime, uncovering crimes past.

Until, at last, slowing
into long day’s end,
she lays down her rag,
sighs softly,
and before panes aglow
with evening promise (ever promise)
smiles up into her beloved’s absent face.

by Thomas Feeny

translation of Antonio Machado’s
El casco roído y verdoso

The old boat

The old boat’s shell,
greenish, eroded,
rests on the sand

The tattered sail
drowses in
the sun and sea
The ocean is boiling, singing
its ever–present song.
In the April sun
waves toss and laugh,
trailed by a froth
of milk and silver;
rolling waters ever giddy
beneath the azure sky

Broth of milk and foam,
the haughty brine
reveals a scene
leaning into
easy sleep,
with tide’s afternoon ebb
kissed by sunlight

Amid this dreaminess
a gull drifts off,
floating on the still air
As if asleep, gray wings
glide into oblivion, swallowed
by the sun’s white glow

by Antonio Machado

El casco roído y verdoso
del viejo falucho
reposa en la arena . . .
La vela tronchada parece
que aun sueña en el sol y en el mar.
El mar hierve y canta . . .
El mar es un sueña sonoro
bajo el sol de abril.
El mar hierve y ríe
con olas azules y espumas de leche y de plata,
el mar hierve y ríe
bajo el cielo azul.
El mar lactescente,
el mar rutilante,
que ríe en sus liras de plata sus risas azules . . .
¡Hierve y ríe el mar! . . .
El aire parece que duerme encantado
en la fúlgida niebla de sol blanquecino.
La gaviota palpita en el aire dormido, y al lento
volar soñoliento, se aleja y se pierde en la bruma del sol.

by Neeli Cherkovski

1

When you talk I listen
And when the world spins I drop
To my knees When the spirit sings
I grow weary
Though not weary enough

When you talk of yourself
I am quiet the tree behind you pauses
And imaginary birds come out of hiding
so you may sound
Evermore sure of yourself

When the world knocks I close my ears
Because it seems the proper thing to
Thousands of concerts I did not atten
Innumerable celebrities II abandoned
One afternoon at the Dead Sea

You talk of money
And I fight to stay alive my physicians
Are like statues on the Grand Concourse

2

I am a language poet a rude awkeming
a confessional poet and a latter– day Beat

I wanted to be a Russian writer
but they sent me
Overseas

American Native is what I am
Born on the first of July
Not as black as ice
But a dreamer
Of leaves
And stone