… δυστυχώς, στα αγγλικά. Δεν υπάρχει κάποια μετάφραση στα ελληνικά, στο διαδίκτυο. Παρόλα αυτά αξίζει τον κόπο να πάρουμε μια γεύση.
Πατώντας πάνω στα ονόματα των ποιητών μπορείτε να δείτε τη βιογραφία τους.
Nine Poems on Arrival
Spiders infest the sky. They are palms, you say, hung in a web of light. Gingerly, thinking of concealed springs and traps, I step off the plane, expect take-off on landing. Garlands beheading the body and everybody dressed in white. Who are we ghosts of? You. You. You. Shaking hands. And you. Cold hands. Cold feet. I thought the sun would be lower here to wash my neck in. Contact. We talk a language of beads along well-established wires. The beads slide, they open, they devour each other. Some were important. Is that one, as deep and dead as the horizon? Upset like water I dive for my favourite tree which is no longer there though they've let its roots remain. Dry clods of earth tighten their tiny faces in an effort to cry. Back where I was born, I may yet observe my own birth.
Which virgin had left behind
Answering which desperate
Collecting the tears
Kindly free me from such riddles,
How the new dhoti
How a wonderful
Maybe I know things.
I have been warned.
When did the ant develop a taste for the news? Or did it always nurse it within? Crawling along the newspaper spread on the floor, it devours each letter of news, first the big headlines of national mourning later the medium-sized bride-burning bit and those who slit each other's throats for a dime, and then the small fonts of suicide, missing persons etc . . . Thus polishing off each item, the ant has left. The paper's blank now like the pale cheeks of a pregnant woman who died for want of blood Roll it up now and see the stars at the end of the tube or place it to your ear and hear somebody digging a trench somewhere faraway Place it between your lips and play the flute or if you so wish, abandon it in the bamboo forest nearby Now the only fear is, where is the ant and where is the trail of blood at its feet?