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Kinton Ford

Two lipogrammatical translations
[Dante and Proust] 

Canto I
 
Just halfway through my own trip in our living,
Provisional, short world, I found that I
Had lost my path--woods dark and unforgiving

Making my way so hard that I must sigh
If I would say how brutal was that wood,
To think on which will always horrify.
 
If anything, it’s only dying could
Outdo that acrid wood’s malignity.
But I will turn from horror, towards that good
 
Which also on that pathway, luckily,
I found, though I can’t say what hid all truth
Away in total blank stupidity.
 
I cannot work out how it was, in sooth,
That in that  gloom awaking, full of stupor,
I’d lost that saving road I took in youth.
 
I got at last to what you’d call a croup or
Boundary of that dark and dismal hollow,
A bank of rocks transforming hill-wall to floor.
 
To that bluff’s scapula my look did follow
Upwards still that guiding morning glow,
Bright from that star so holy to Apollo.
 
Thus did that anxious horror, which had so
Brought churning with it, all that awful night,
To my soul’s pool, diminish, calm its flow.
 
And as a man who pants hard, still in sight
Of billows which, almost, brought him to sink,
From land looks back on that main, full of fright,

So did my spirit, panicking, still think
On that grim pass no mortal human can
Go out of without passing living’s brink.
 
At last my body pausing for a span
Until invigoration from that stop
Could now allow it motion, though no plan
 
Could show it how to go, with constant prop
On foot in back and downwards, sought to gain,
By climbing always upwards, that mount’s top. 
 
And lo! A cougar stood stock still, though plain
Its quick and light agility.  No turning
Could pass it by.  Upon its skin a rain
 
Of spots, which I, that bright and airy morning
(As sun and star-companions Loving God
Had first spun, still did spin) saw as adorning
 
That cat, a sign of succor I might laud,
During that blissful dawn, but not so bright
That I did not start shaking, on that road,
 
At what was now arising in my sight:
A lion, drawn up high, intimidating,
So much that air and I, both full of fright,
 
About how it its stomach might start sating,
Must stop — for what? A wolf, and I was pavid,
So skinny was it, though anticipating
 
It would sup soon on anything, for avid
It was for food: though lank it was full too:
That wolf so ruinous to man was gravid!
 
And I was too — with fright! I could not do
What I was hoping for — to climb that hill.
Alas, I found no pathway round nor through.
 
And as a man who’d got just what his will
Saw as most worth wishing of all things,
Now gasps on losing it, a poignant thrill
 
Of brutal pain, transfixing with its stings
From that wolf, did I sob at, and I shrank
Darkwards, away from Sol’s loud blazonings.
 
Back did I go, back to that lowland dank;
Abruptly in my sight shows up a man,
Who, dumb so long, I thought would sound as blank,

As our surround was. Straight to him I ran,
Still crying “Pity!” to him, “Man or shadow
Of a man!”  “Not a man, but Mantuan, 
 
By birth” was his account, “Born Sub Julio,
But it was good Augustus, though his gods
Did not say truth nor know your Christian Trio,
 
Who was my king.  My song got many nods,
All praising it as Roman history,
From Trojan loss to gain, against all odds,
 
From burning Ilion to victory.
But why do you avoid that joyous mountain,
As though to climb you’d no ability?”
 
“Now art thou Virgil? That riparian fountain,”
All blushingly I said, within his sight,
“Of words that all who follow find a sound in
 
Which our own songs would sing too?  If I might,
I’ll say how much I honor you, what study
I sanctify with loving to your light.
 
But now look on that animal so bloody,
To you I turn for aid, to you I’m flying.
O horror!” “You must go this path, though muddy,”
 
Did Virgil say, to try to hush my crying,
“If you would from this dark wood find a way.
For past that wolf can no amount of trying

Attain that goal; whoso will try will pay
With his annihilation; hungrily,
Voraciously that wolf puts him away.

Marrying many animals bodily,
It looks to go on doing so, until
A Sighthound, coming with finality,

Shall bring its pain to culmination, kill
That awful wolf, who did not pity show. 
That hound, consuming not, such is its will,

Things of this world, but only what would go
With wisdom — loving all morality —
In fabrics of Franciscan monks will know

His nation.  Savior of low Italy,
That hound is, land for which Camilla, dying
A maid, and Nisus, and his loving ally

And Turnus, all lay down for good.  Now plying
Its way through any town that it might harry,
That wolf cannot avoid damnation, buying,
 
Through vicious rivalry, a day to tarry,
So soon to finish. So I think it right
That I conduct you, and that you stay wary.
 
As onwards through this aways-lasting night
You go, with sounds of always-lasting sorrow
Imploring total dying, not this blight.
 
But going through, I will bring you tomorrow
To souls who though in pain stay happy with it,
Hoping to pay back soon what sin did borrow
 
And climb salvation’s mount to that first orbit,
To which I must not go. But if you will
You’ll find at that hill’s top a worthy spirit,
 
Which I am not, as I did not fulfill
Writs laid down by that just, all-causing King,
Combatting what was law. His codicil

About my task thus says: I may not bring
A pilgrim to his city.  Though his might’s
Ubiquitous, from that city starts its ring

Circling all worlds.  O, happy, any sights
Of Him; most so, who in that city strong
Find bright salvation in its million lights.”

And I to him: “I pray, by your high song —
And by that God you did not know, I pray—
That you will as conductor, for as long

As you can do so, bring us on that way
Of pain, at last to portals which saints hallow,
And far from this soil’s sorrow.” With no stay

On did Virgil go, downwards did I follow.


# # # # # # # # # # #



First 9 paragraphs of Proust

Long ago, I would couch at a good hour. On many occasions, my lamp hardly out, my lids would shut so fast I couldn't think "I am drifting off."  And, in about a half hour, thinking I should now nod off, I got up!  I would want to put my book down--I thought I was still holding it in my hands--and to blow my lamp out; although unconscious I had still thought about what was in my book, but my thoughts took an odd turn; I thought I was what my work was about! — a church, a musical composition for four to play, or Francis I’s rivalry with Joanna and Philip of Spain’s son.  Surviving, for an instant or two, my own waking, this illusion did not look shockingly irrational at all but would blind my vision and stop it from taking in that my lamp was not burning still.  But shortly it would turn baffling, as baffling as thoughts of living in a past world do following a transmigration of souls; unmooring from my book’s topic, I could apply my thoughts to it or not according to my wish; I got my vision back right away, and I would gasp at finding obscurity all around, winning and mild for my vision and, for my mind to boot, to which it would look as though nothing was causing it, a thing which my mind could not grasp, an obscurity truly dark.  In my mind I sought to work out what hour of night it was.  Far away, a train’s whistling would sound, just as bird song in distant woods might, thus indicating how spacious night was, how void its blank, vast plains, through which a solitary pilgrim would rush quickly towards his station, following a small road which would now stay in his mind thanks to his agitation about unfamiliar districts, unusual actions, thanks to his talk with companions, and to parting salutations, still following him through night’s hush, thanks too to coming back’s sugar-silky, mild harmony.
 
I would push my own maxilla against my pillow’s, rosy and vital as that of our childhood.  I struck a match to look at my watch.  Almost midnight.  That instant at which a sick man who has had to go on a trip, lodging at an unfamiliar inn, waking in crisis, looks down and is joyful at a ray of light shining through that slit at his door’s bottom.  What luck — what a good hour!  Morning so soon!  Its staff is up now, and just ringing will summon aid, bring him comfort.That anticipation of quick support grants him a valorous capacity to absorb it all.  Lo!  Rapid walking coming his way; coming… and going; that ray of daylight which had lit him up now vanishing.  It’s midnight: gaslight off, corridors void of any staff who could bring aid, and no possibility now but to wait all night, sick and in pain, without mitigation.
 
I would fall back into dormancy, and any wakings to follow might only last an instant, just sufficing for audition of that organic sound of woodwork crackling, for looking around to try to fix obscurity’s whirling dark, for tasting, thanks to a conscious flash, that torpor in which all was sunk — room and furnishings — of which I was only a small part and which I sought to join again, unconscious again.  Or again, drowsing, I had found that I had slid with facility into atavistic days from my archaic infancy, still finding, or coming again upon, this or that of my childhood horrors, as that of an avuncular pulling of my curls,  a horror dissipating that day — which I took as an important boundary-crossing in my growing up — on which my hair was cut short.  Oblivious, in my stupor, to that important shift, I would find it again as soon as I could squirm away from that avuncular, curl-pulling pair of hands, but out of abundant caution I would pull my pillow down on my scalp prior to going back into night’s imaginary world.
 
It might occur that, similarly to Adam giving birth to a woman from his rib, a woman was born as I lay unconscious from a slightly off positioning of my thigh. A product of that climax I was about to savor, it was this woman who I would think was its origin. My body which would warm to a warmth I thought was not within but without, which I thought was in that woman, but which was my own,  sought to join with it: and I would jolt into waking.  All humans now would look distant and unimportant in comparison to this woman whom just instants ago I had had to abandon, my lips warm still from kissing, my body aching with that body’s mass.  If, as would occur, I saw in that woman any traits of a woman whom I had known in truth, I would aim with all my might at this goal: finding that woman again, as a tourist might who, imagining that truth could match an illusory charm, wants to look in actuality at a city long thought about, wistfully. Bit by bit that haunting flashback would vanish, consigning that fantasy girl to oblivion.
 
A drowsing, unconscious man holds around him a chain of hours, a disposition of annual circuits, of worlds. Looking to that chain by instinct, on waking, such a man can fix in an instant what spatial point is his, how long his dormition was; but a muddling, a rupturing of that ranking of hours can occur. If towards morning, following a bout of insomnia, lost in his book, a nap waylays him in a bodily position too dissimilar from that which is habitually his if dozing, all that has to occur is for his arm to lift so as to shadow him from sunlight and at that first instant of awaking, not knowing what hour it is, it might look to him as though it was only just now that his couch had drawn him into its warmth. If that man nods off in a highly unusual position, as in a post-prandial nap in an armchair, a total shuffling and undoing of orbit upon orbit, world upon world will occur, his magic armchair will carry him at full tilt into long-ago days and lands, his sight coming back, such a man will think what surrounds him is what did surround him months ago, in a distant country.  But all it took was that in my own cot, my own dormition’s profundity should allow my mind to go slack, and so waking at midnight, not knowing what my location was, I only had, in its primordial simplicity, a kind of participation in primary actuality as it was, as it might churn far within an animal’s soul; and I was as starkly solitary, as lacking in situational surrounding, as a lithic grotto-inhabitant, living prior to all human history. But a flashback—not of any location that was actually my own, but of a handful of locations I had, and might still, inhabit, coming in aid from on high, dragging my mind away from that void out of which, as a solitary soul, I could find no way out, I would jump past civilization upon civilization, and looking, at first with confusion, on oil lamps, on my shirts with collars, I would fit back, into a normal congruity, bit by bit, my own original traits.
 
Possibly that immobility of things around us is a function of our faith and conviction that any such thing is what it is, a function of our thought’s immobility confronting it.  Anyhow it was always thus, that waking, my mind, anxious to find, in vain, just what location it was in, all would turn around and around, in obscurity, things, lands, spans and durations from my past. My body, too stiff to shift, sought, following what form its languor took, to align its limbs’ position, so as by induction to find my rooms’ walls, its furnishings, thus building again and naming again this location in which it found that it was lying.  Thinking back on what was past, thinking in and through its flanks, its joints, its scapulas, my body had room upon room brought back to it, any and all rooms in which it had, far back, found that it was dropping off, and walls with invisibly changing locations, changing according to how my body was imagining its room’s contours, would swirl around it in shadowy commotion.  And prior to my thought’s twigging again to what lodging this was, by bringing back to mind parts of what it saw circumstantially -- prior to that, waiting in confusion on this brink of forms, this brink of archaic days, it — my body — could summon up for all, individually, by what kind of couch it was on, or at what location you could find doors, by what light you saw from windows, or if you could pass through a corridor, what I had thought about as I would start drowsing, which I would find still in my thoughts on waking. My stiff flank sought to work out its position in its narrow room’s compass, imagining (this can stand for many such imaginings) that it was lying along a wall, a grand baldaquin high aloft, and right away I would say, “Ah, I did drop off, without Mama’s coming to say goodnight”, I was at my grandpa’s country lodging, my grandpa, long now in his tomb, and my body, its flank on which I lay, faithful guardians of a past that ought not to part from my mind, but which my mind did in fact turn away from, brought back to it light from an oil-lamp in Moravian glass, its form that of an urn, hanging down into my room by chains, its duct of stony Italian crystal, in my dormitory in Combray, at my grandpa’s and grandma’s, in faraway days that right now I thought actual, without having to stir up again any particulars of such days, as my vision would soon grasp all of it again, upon my fully waking.
 
At that point, I would find, born again, and brought back to mind, a contrasting position of my body: my wall would point towards an opposing compass point: I was in my room at Madam Saint-Loup’s country manor.  My God — it’s past 10:00 p.m. — no supping now!  That’s what my prolonging too long my daily twilight nap did, a nap which I always had on coming back from my walk with Madam Saint Loup, prior to putting on formal duds. For Combray was far, far away from that, far, far past, Combray at which our walks back would occur by an hour that would always still allow for my catching sight of a rosy mirroring of sundown in my window glass.  It’s a dissimilar way of living that occurs at Tansonton, at Madam Saint-Loup’s, a dissimilar joy that I find, going out only at night, following in moonlight paths that I would play on long ago in sunlight:  this room in which it must turn out I was dozing and not gussying up for supping, from afar I saw it, on coming back, lit up by lamp light, a solitary signal glowing through that night air. 
 
Such rushing limbic confusions would last only an instant or two; mostly my short doubt about what locality I was now in didn’t distinguish among a host of suppositions comprising that doubt, just as, watching a galloping stallion, you can’t fix on any of its particular positions, which only chronophotography can show us.  But I had got to look again on this or on that of various of my rooms, rooms from my past, and I would finish by summoning all such rooms back to mind in my long, abstract musings, on waking up: rooms bringing back frosty months during which I’d go plunging down, scalp first, into a warm burrow comprising this thing and that: a point of my pillow, my quilt’s top, a bit of a shawl, my cot’s rim, a pink copy of Disputations, which you finish by piling up into a unity, just as birds do, by continuously piling scraps up; months of frost bringing a kind of joy out of glacial cold, by making us conscious of our insulation from outdoors cold (similarly to littoral swallows, who roost in low bottoms in warmth-giving soil), months of cold in which, with combustion going on all night in your hob, you can stay dozing in a giant coat of warm and smoky air, lit up by scintillations of twigs catching, flaming again, you can stay in drowsing in a kind of phantom bay, a warm grotto, a hollow, a room within your room, a patch burning hot within it, its snug contours blown by slight motions of air which can inspirit you, coming from crooks, from junctions and window rims, or coming from afar, from hallways, cool again; or, during hot months, rooms in which you long to join with night’s moist warmth, in which moonlight shining on half-drawn curtains, throws as far as your cot’s foot its magic stairway, rooms in which your dormition is practically outdoors, similar to that of a robin bobbing against light wind on a point of light—haply that Louis XVI room, so gay that I wasn’t too unhappy in it, not on my first night nor on any night, its supports so lightly and graciously sustaining its top, so as to show and mark my cot's location; or not that room at all, but in total contrast, a small room, with so high a vault that its spacious form was similar to a pyramid, two floors high, and partially mahogany in its lining, in which from my first instant in it I thought it poisonous, morally anyhow, on account of an unknown odor, that of Chrysopogon bunchgrass,  with no doubt of its crimson curtains’s hostility, as an arrogant clock, ignoring my sojourn in that room, would yack loudly away; — that locality in which without pity an odd mirror, with quadrangular supports, barring in its obliquity a junction of two walls, would sharply hollow out of my customary flat visual canvas a patch which I was not anticipating;—a locality in which my thought trying for hours to pull and twist around, to modify its own form so as to fill its room’s gigantic tundish, had had to withstand many hard nights during which I lay along my cot, staring upwards, anxiously vigilant also for any sound at all, and my nostrils worrying too, my torso pounding with palpitations, until habit, changing my curtain’s tint, calming my clock’s ticking, instilling pity into my nasty angling mirror, hiding, if not wholly driving out, that odor of bunchgrass, could bring my room’s dizzying roof calmingly downwards again.  Habit!  Skillful charwoman and maid, though so awfully slow, who starts by allowing our mind to wait painfully for days or months in a provisional installation, but whom, still and all, our mind is so happy to find, for without habit and having to count only on its own capacity and capability, it could not possibly do anything to fix up a lodging in a way making it into a habitat you could inhabit. [Pun on “habit” and “inhabit” is in Proust’s original. —Tr.]
 
No doubt about it: I was truly up now. My body having spun about in a final twist, my guardian spirit, with an assuring warranty that all was what it was, brought my room and all that was around its inhabitant to a stop, and, tucking my bunk comfortably with quilts, put roughly into its right position my washstand, my writing rolltop, my hob, my window looking out on a familiar roadway, and my two doors.  But in vain did I know that I was not in faraway parts — of which waking’s foggy oblivion would bring up for an instant, if not a distinct portrait, still a possibility of its actuality — it shook my mind into flashbacks;  I wouldn’t try to drop off again right away, I would pass most of that night in calling back to mind our way of living long ago, in Combray at my grandaunt’s, in Cabourg, in Paris, in St. Cyr’s, in Astonio, and in various additional lands, bringing back many distant parts, souls I had known in this or that locality, what I actually saw of how such humans would act, or what I was told about it.





 

Twenty-Six Lipograms and a Pangram on a Pear

Each of the 26 lipograms uses 25 different letters, leaving one out from Z to A.  The pangram at the end uses all 26 letters, of course. --K.F.

This is just to say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

their quick so sweet

so cold
 

*
 

This is just to confess

I was so bold as to eat

the plums

that were 

in the icebox 

and which

I think were meant to be 

saved

for breakfast

Forgive me

I found them delicious

their quick so sweet

and so cold
 

*

Just to quickly tell you what the buzz is

I have eaten

the plums

that were

in the fridge

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so juicy

and so cold 
 

*

This is just to say

I have brazenly eaten

the plums

that I found

in the icebox

the plums

you probably meant

to save

for breakfast

I must inquire if you'll forgive me

for eating them --  so delicious

so honeyed

and so cold  

*

This is just to say

I was brazen enough to eat

the plums

that were

in the icebox

and which

you were

probably intending

to eat at breakfast

Pardon O pardon me

they were delicious

their quick so sweet

and so cold  

*
 

This is a jesting way of confessing

that I have eaten

the damsons

that were

in the icebox

 

and which

were probably

meant to be saved

for breakfast,

 

not serve as

a prize for

my late Stevensian

homecoming – cf. “The World as Meditation”

 

Forgive me

they were tasty

so sweet

and so cold  

*

I am confessing -- jokingly yes and also seriously -–

My having brazenly consumed

every plum

in our

icebox

plums

you were

probably saving

for our morning meal

Forgive my delinquency

all were delicious

so saccharine and

so cold  

*

I am writing a note to tell you

What a jerk I am: I have eaten

each plum

in the

icebox

each and every plum

you probably

meant for our

morning meal

Forgive me

To the tongue

they were like quickened honey

and amazingly cold 

*

This is just to say

I have fecklessly eaten

the plums 

that I found

in the icebox

and that I bet

you meant

to save

to eat in the AM

OK -- Now I am in quest

that you should be zen

enough

to indulge

my weakness of will.

But how delicious

each one was

so sweet and so cold 

*

This is just to say

I have eaten

the plums 

that were

in the icebox

and which

you were probably

Saving for breakfast after

a night of z’s

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold 

*

This is just to say

that I quickly zeroed in

on the damsons

that were

in the icebox

and which

you were

most likely saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold 

*

Just me saying

that grazing

last night I ate

the plums

that were in the fridge

and which

were very likely

intended 

as breakfast

Accept my repentance

but they were delightful

I didn’t expect such high quality

chilled

sweetness  

*

This is just to say

that I felt a little peckish

& too lazy to go to the store

to quell my appetite

after I saw the plums

I took them from the icebox & ate them

the plums

which you probably

had thought

would make a good breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

& cold  

*
 

This is just to say

that I have eaten

the apricots

that were

in the icebox

and which

you were

probably

saving for breakfast

Having reduced their quantity to zero

I now ask whether I can be forgiven.

They were delicious

so sweet and so cold  

*

This is just a quick zing to impart

that I have eaten

the damsons

that were

in the icebox

 

and which you were

I imagine

saving

for breakfast

 

Forgive me 

they were toothsome

so sweet

and fresh

 

*

 

I have eaten the plums, yo

that were

in the

icebox

 

and which

you were probably

saving for

tomorrow morning

 

This is just to forestall

the quizzical glance

you were going

to give me

 

I’d prefer that you forgave me instead.

They were delicious

so sweet 

and so cold

 

*

This is only to say

that I did something crazy

(by our domestic standards)

sed quaritur what?

I ate the plums in the icebox

that you were prolly saving for breakfast.

 

Forgive me

they were scrumptious

so sweet

and so cold  

*

Just a note to tell you

that the azure plums

you probably planned

to eat for breakfast

are gone from the cold storage box

All my fault

and a query

can you pardon me

they were

very good

delectable

so sweet

and so cold

*

I am just writing to say

I’ve eaten plum upon plum

as you were quietly snoozing

every plum

in our icebox

in fact

plums

you were probably

saving for breakfast

Forgive me

it was a delicious experience

so sweet and so cold 

*

This is just to say

before you make any inquiries

that I ate

the plums

that were in the icebox

and which

you probably

wanted

for breakfast 

I was quite bedizened

by how delicious they were

so sweet and cold

Absolve me?   

*
 

This is just to say

I have eaten

the plums

that were

in the icebox

and which

you were

probably saving to have as a quick, not too ritzy meal tomorrow morning

Pardon me

they were delicious

so sweet and

so cold  

*
 

I’m just taking up my quill to say

I had a gravid craving

to scarf down plums and…

wait for it… LOX

last night

and I was too high on Zoloft

to go out

and buy

any

So I did scarf down a bowlful with

Nova although I thought you thought

you’d start your day

with fruit or fish

I ask pardon for indulging

in a wrong that I must still

admit was flavorful

so sugary, so cold 

*
 

This is to say

I have eaten

the plums

that were

in the icebox

an act you probably won't accept acquiescently

since I guess you were saving them

for breakfast

Forgive my zaniness

in writing a poem

about this but they were just so palatable

so sweet so cool   

*
 

This is just to say

that I was morally lax enough

to have left the zone

of ordinary human virtue

so far behind as to have downed

without a qualm the plums

that were in the fridge

and that you were

probably

saving for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delightful

so sweet and

so refreshing   

*
 

This is just to say

that I am using an iphone app

to fax you this note

from the toilet to let you know that

I quenched a violent desire

for fresh fruit through eating

the dozen or so plums

that were in the fridge

and which you were most likely

saving for the whole family when we all woke up.

I know I shouldn’t have

which is why I can’t face you

and have to fax this note instead

and plus it might seem yucky

Forgive me

as I am forgiving myself

they were delicious

so sweet and so cold 

*
 

This is just to tell you

I consumed

the plums

you left

in the icebox

no doubt with

the intent of

enjoying them

in the morning

Question: will you forgive me

or will you zing me

or withhold sex

It’s OK if you do

I deserve it

but they were delicious

so sweet

so cold   

*

 

This is to say that

I saw a querulous zebra

jump over a fox’s 

back to invade

our home

and munch on the

pears

that you were probably

saving

 

to make a keepsake out of

I took it down

with my cross-bow

and now you can have

 

a striped tanned zebra-hide

rug instead

In the meantime

I ate some of its meat

 

it was delicious

so gamey and hot

here is a selfie


 

 

Lipogrammatical Variations

An Unfamiliar Colossus

(Lazarus)

      

No avatar of that Colossus old,

Victorious limbs strutting upon two lands,

In inspiring tidal purity now stands

A mighty woman with a torch which gold

Can't match or buy: its caught, bright lightning bold

Glows hospitality world-round; its brands

Shining. "Against all banishing, all bans" 

Is that woman's matronymic told.

"Oh lands of old, your famous pomp may stay,"

Is tacit from that mouth, which calls to all,

"I hail all humans who, though hardship and dismay

And want and pain and tyranny appal,

Still from such awful night look for that day

My lamp commits this land to, always shall." 

LXXIII

 

Just turn my way and look at that which shows

What will occur at last, and without fail:

An autumn wind brings gusts of cold, such blows

Against which bird-shorn twigs can only flail.

 

It’s turning dark: day’s giving up its light.

Last glow of sunlight’s fading: so long, day!

And by and by, this black, surrounding night,

A kind of dying, lulls us far away.

 

Although it’s dark, brands glowing do no good

Apart from marking vigor’s ruination.

For now what long ago was its bright food

Lays down an ashy mat, youth’s final station.

 

You fathom this, that’s why your loving’s strong—

By proof you grasp you also can’t last long.




 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Night

(with a hat tip to Bob Frost)

 

I think I know what man must own

This wood, with snow now thickly sown,

And piling up still in this storm. 

I stop and watch, afar, unknown. 

 

My tiny nag must find such form

A divagation from that norm

That says a night so cold and long

Should aim us towards a sojourn warm. 

 

It hints, by ringing out "ding dong"

At its opinion: viz., it's wrong

To sink into this vast audition,

Of snow's and wind's and pond's soft song.

 

Although I long for dark submission,

What I must do brooks no omission,

Far is it, prior to dormition,

Far is it, prior to dormition.



 


 

At North Farm

J.A., R.I.P.

 

In an unknown far-away, far away, an unknown is charging furiously toward you,

Blindlingly fast, charging day and night,

Through blizzards and parching cauldrons, across rushing rapids, through
narrow ways.

But can that unknown find you,

Know you on coming upon you,

Hand you what should go to you?


Hardly anything grows around us,
But our silos burst with grain,
Sacks of it piling up roofwards.
Brooks run silky rich, making our fish fat;
Birds turn our sky dark. Would it count as satisfaction:

That dish of milk put out at night?

As satisfaction, thinking of him now and again,

Now and again and always, with an ambiguous pathos?






Man-Moth*

(Bishop)

 

Up in our world,

shabby moonlight fills up building-cracks

Man’s total shadow is only as big as his hat.

Lying circular in front of him, as though for a doll to stand on,

and man is a topsyturvy pin, his point drawn moonwards.

Not looking at it at all; only at its vast doings,

its odd light on his hands, not warm, nor cold,

far from what any dial could possibly show.

 

But to him, a Man-Moth and not man,

paying his occasional, although sporadic, visits up to our world,

moonlight looks dissimilar, to him, coming out

from an inconspicuous cut at our walkways’ bottom

and starting, anxiously, to climb buildings,

thinking it not a moon but a small gap, high up, sky-high,

proving it is no bulwark at all.

Shaking, still that ghost must climb high and look into it.

 

Up and up, high,

his shadow dragging as a film-portraitist’s cloth would,

climbing, full of worry, hoping at last

to push through that lucid, round gap,

forcing through, as from a straw, in black scrolls against bright plains of light

(Man, unmoving, far down from him, has no such illusions),

Having to do what, as Man-Moth, most afrights him, although

failing, naturally, and falling back, but totally intact.

 

Back to

what is his habitat, so to call it: subways dug out of rock. Flitting

Flopping, trying but failing to board trains moving with a hush

sufficingly fast to suit him. Its doors shut swiftly.

This Man-Moth always sits facing backwards

on a train that starts without transition with its full, awful motion,

without any shift in its propulsion, without a gradation of any sort.

No way to quantify how fast it’s going backwards.

 

Nightly must night

carry him through artificial conduits, unchanging hallucinations haunting him.

Just as tracks his train, such hallucinations support

his rushing brain, which turns him away from looking out any window,

for a continuous draught of poison, a third rail,

runs contiguously: to him a malady

that can attack him in particular, so his hands stay out of sight, always,

as many must scarf throats to avoid cold.

 

If you catch him,

hold up a flashlight to his dichoptic organ. It’s all dark pupil,

a total night; its hairy horizon contracts

staring back, staring and closing. His lids allow to slip out

just a drop, all that is his, much as a wasp’s sting.

Slyly his hand palms it, if you don’t look hard,

so as to swallow it. But, if you look, you can watch him giving it up,

cool as though from dark springs and of such purity you can drink it.

 

*Man-Moth: misprint for “mammoth”

Kinton Ford is a pseudonym. 

[photo: Georges Perec]