McClatchy, J.D. (ed);
The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry
Vintage Books Random House 1996, paper 654 pages
ISBN 0679741151
topics: | poetry | modern | translation | anthology
An excellent collection, full of completely unknown names, and much that is good poetry even after the rigours of translation. However, the arrangement by continents is somewhat jarring, since it pushes a lot of poetry from completely distinct cultures into single amorphous clumps like "Asia" (13% of pages). Europe is given the most space (46%); but i am sure it can be said that the literary diversity of India or China alone each is no less than that of the European continent. The separation of Caribbean and the Middle East as separate sections is actually more justified. While cultural continuity definitely transcencds political boundaries, decomposing the world into eurocentric geography makes little sense; if anything, the landmass should be eurasia; europe is a about a fifth of it, and the definition of asia (eurasia minus europe) is clearly past its use-by date. The eurocentricism of this division of Europe vs Asia, as an artificial construct, need not havve been carried out into this work. Within the continental sections, authors are grouped by their country of origin and by the language in which they write. On the whole though, the quality of the poetry is quite refreshing, and and the random-page test works well. Unlike Jeffrey Paine's Poetry of our World, omits English-speaking authors from North America, Great Britain, and Australia, leading to greater diversity, though most of the remaining poets are still from Europe. EUROPE (39 poets, roughly 280 pages, ~46%): MIDDLE EAST (5 poets, roughly 50 pages, ~8%): AFRICA (7 poets, roughly 55 pages, ~9% ): ASIA (12 poets, roughly 80 pages, ~13% ): LATIN AMERICA (11 poets, roughly 90 pages, ~15%): THE CARIBBEAN (6 poets, roughly 50 pages, ~8%): TOTAL: 80 poets, 605 pages While the Caribbean and the Middle East are distinguished, I wish McClatchy had done the same for East Asia and South Asia - which are lumped rather cursorily under "ASIA". Similarly, the Africa category lumps in too many disparate cultural groups. About half the poets (39/80) and half the pages (280/605) go to Europe.
The basis of all poetry, said Aristotle, is metaphor. Nothing can be freshly seen in itself until it iss seen first as something else. It is not the similarity, the urge towards identity, that most intrigues us about these poems. It is the familiar sensation of strangeness. We'rre reminded, over and over, of the isolation of each individual, the aloneness of a life. p.xxvi
tr. from dutch by james brockway Like us he had his quirks, but more indifference. In the winter he loved stoves, in summer little birds. Sick and as indifferent to death as to us. Dying he did himself.
tr. James Brockway. The dead are so violently absent, as though not only I, but they too were standing here, and the landscape were folding their invisible arms around my shoulders. We need for nothing, they are saying, we have forgotten this world. But these are no arms, it is landscape.
tr. Steven Ford Brown and Gutierrez Revuelta The dead are selfish: they make us cry and don't care, they stay quiet in the most inconvenient places, they refuse to walk, we have to carry them on our backs to the tomb as if they were children. What a burden! Unusually rigid, their faces accuse us of something, or warn us; they are the bad conscience, the bad example, they are the worst things in our lives always, always. The bad thing about the dead is that there is no way you can kill them. Their constant destructive labor is for the reason incalculable. Insensitive, distant, obstinate, cold, with their insolence and their silence they don't realize what they undo.
born in a small mining town in Minas Gerais, attended boarding school in Belo Horizonte, and was once expelled from a Jesuit high school for "mental insubordination." as a youth, marked by the growing sense of brazilian national identity. graduating with a pharmacy degree from Ouro Preto, he joined the civil service in rio de janeiro from 1934. was friends with Elizabeth Bishop who spent fifteen years in Brazil with the aristocratic Lota de Macdeo Soares. The airport at Belo Horizonte is named after him.
[tt. from Portuguese, Mark Strand ] When I was born, one of the crooked angels who live in shadow, said: Carlos, go on! Be gauche in life. The houses watch the men, men who run after women. If the afternoon had been blue, there might have been less desire. The trolley goes by full of legs: white legs, black legs, yellow legs. My God, why all the legs? my heart asks. But my eyes ask nothing at all. The man behind the mustache is serious, simple, and strong. He hardly ever speaks. He has a few, choice friends, the man behind the spectacle and the mustache. My God, why hast Thou forsaken me if Thou knew’st I was not God, if Thou knew’st that I was weak? Universe, vast universe, if I had been named Eugene that would not be what I mean but it would go into verse faster. Universe, vast universe, my heart is vaster. I oughtn’t to tell you, but this moon and this brandy play the devil with one’s emotions.
[tr. from Portuguese, Mark Strand] From everything a little remained. From my fear. From your disgust. From stifled cries. From the rose a little remained. A little remained of light caught inside the hat. In the eyes of the pimp a little remained of tenderness, very little. A little remained of the dust that covered your white shoes. Of your clothes a little remained, a few velvet rags, very very few. From everything a little remained. From the bombed-out bridge, from the two blades of grass, from the empty pack of cigarettes a little remained. So from everything a little remains. A little remains of your chin in the chin of your daughter. A little remained of your blunt silence, a little in the angry wall, in the mute rising leaves. A little remained from everything in porcelain saucers, in the broken dragon, in the white flowers, in the creases of your brow, in the portrait. Since from everything a little remains, why won't a little of me remain? In the train travelling north, in the ship, in newspaper ads, why not a little of me in London, a little of me somewhere? In a consonant? In a well? A little remains dangling in the mouths of rivers, just a little, and the fish don't avoid it, which is very unusual. From everything a little remains. Not much: this absurd drop dripping from the faucet, half salt and half alcohol, this frog leg jumping, this watch crystal broken into a thousand wishes, this swan's neck, this childhood secret... From everything a little remained: from me; from you; from Abelard. Hair on my sleeve, from everything a little remained; wind in my ears, burbing, rumbling from an upset stomach, and small artifacts: bell jar, honeycomb, revolver cartridge, aspirin tablet. From everything a little remained. And from everything a little remains. Oh, open the bottles of lotion and smoother the cruel, unbearable odor of memory. Still, horribly, from everything a little remains, under the rhythmic waves under the clouds and the wind under the bridges and under the tunnels under the flames and under the sarcasm under the phlegm and under the vomit under the cry from the dungeon, the guy they forgot under the spectacle and under the scarlet death under the libraries, asylums, victorious churches under yourself and under your feet already hard under the ties of family, the ties of class, from everything a little always remains. Sometimes a button. Sometimes a rat.
born in 1941 in the village of Birwa, Palestine. His mother was illiterate; Mahmoud learned to read from his grandfather. In 1947, the village was to be included in the Arab state according to the UN Partition Plan of Palestine. However, a few months later, the village with its estimated 380 houses were bulldozed after Israeli occupation in 1948 (known in Palestine as the Nakba, disaster). Today the Kibbutzim Yas'ur and Achihud are located there, though some ruins also remain. The theme of this loss reverberates through the corpus of Darwish's poetry. Darwish's family moved to Galilee. Despite receiving little formal education, he brought out his first volume of poetry, Asafir bila ajniha (Birds without Wings) at age 19. In 1971 Darwish left for Cairo, working for the newspaper Al-Ahram. In 1973, he joined the PLO and was banned from re-entering Israel. In 1995, he was allowed back and lived for a time in the West bank at Ramallah, which he said, felt like "exile". Denys Johnson-Davies has written of Darwish's poetry - "it consists largely of an extended and desperate love affair with his lost homeland. However unsatisfactory and painful the love affair, however hopeless of consummation, he has no choice but to continue with it." He died in 2008 of heart problems at a Houston hospital. The Palestinian government declared three days mourning and gave him a state funeral, after which the body was buried in a memorial at Ramallah.
Don’t say to me:
Would I were a seller of bread in Algiers
That I might sing with a rebel.
Don’t say to me:
Would I were a herdsman in the Yemen
That I might sing to the shudderings of time.
Don’t say to me:
Would I were a cafe waiter in Havana
That I might sing the victories of sorrowing women.
Don’t say to me:
Would I worked as a young laborer in Aswan
That I might sing to the rocks.
My friend,
The Nile will not flow into the Volga,
Nor the Congo or the Jordan into the Euphrates.
Each river has its source, its course, its life.
My friend, our land is not barren.
Each land has its time for being born,
Each dawn a date with a rebel.
see english-arabic bilingual page at atickettopeace
The son of a lawyer and wealthy landowner, Faiz Ahmed Faiz was born in Sialkot in the Punjab, then a part of India under British rule. He studied both English and Arabic literature at the university and in the 1930s became involved with the leftist Progressive Movement. During World War II he served in the Indian army, but with the 1947 division of the subcontinent, he moved to Pakistan, where he served as editor of The Pakistan Times. He was also closely involved with the founding of labor unions in the country and in 1962 was awarded the Lenin Peace Prize by the Soviet Union. But before that he spent some years in solitary confinement, under sentence of death, accused of helping to overthrow the government. The very government that has imprisoned him came, after his release, to praise him, and he was eventually put in charge of the National Council of the Arts. By the time of his death in Lahore - after another period of exile in Lebanon - his popularity with both the literary elite and the masses was enormous. He charged the traditional romantic imagery of Urdu poetry with new political tension, so that when his poems speak of the "beloved" they may be referring both to a woman or muse and to the idea of revolution. - from introductory bio
[mujh se pehli si mohabbat meri mehboob na mAng]
That which then was ours, my love,
don't ask me for that love again.
The world then was gold, burnished with light --
and only because of you. That's what I had believed.
How could one weep for sorrows other than yours?
How could one have any sorrow but the one you gave?
So what were these protests, these rumors of injustice?
A glimpse of your face was evidence of springtime.
The sky, wherever I looked, was nothing but your eyes.
If You'd fall into my arms, Fate would be helpless.
All this I'd thought, all this I'd believed.
But there were other sorrows, comforts other than love.
The rich had cast their spell on history:
dark centuries had been embroidered on brocades and silks.
Bitter threads began to unravel before me
as I went into alleys and in open markets
saw bodies plastered with ash, bathed in blood.
I saw them sold and bought, again and again.
This too deserves attention. I can't help but look back
when I return from those alleys --what should one do?
And you still are so ravishing --what should I do?
There are other sorrows in this world,
comforts other than love.
Don't ask me, my love, for that love again.
i find that even those who don't follow Urdu at all (myself included,
pretty much), can still find themselves moved by the power of the
original lines
mujh se pehli si mohabat mere mehboob na mang
mai ne samjha tha ke tu hai to darakh'shan hai hayat
tera gham hai tu gham e dehar ka ghag'da kya hai
teri soorat se hai alam main baharoon ko sabat
teri aankhon ke siwa dunya main rakha kya hai?
tu jo mil jaye to taqdeer nigoon ho jaye
yun na tha maine faqat chaha tha yun ho jaye
aur bhi dukh hain zamane main mohabbat ke siwa
rAhaten aur bhi hain wasal ki rahat ke siwa
un ginat sadyoon ke tareek bahi'mana talism
resham o utlas kimkhwab main bunwaye hue
ja baja bikte hue kocha o bazar main jism
khak main luthre hue khoon main nehlaye hue
laut jati hai idhar ko bhi nazar kya kijye
ab bhi dilkash hai tera husn magar kya kijye
aur bhi dukh hain zamane main mohabat ke siwa
rAhaten aur bhi hain wasal ki rAhat ke siwa
mujh se pehli si mohabbat mere mehboob na mang
also read this Agha Shahid Ali tribute at Milli Gazette
The day of judgment is here. A restless crowd has gathered all around the field. This is the accusation: that I have loved you. No wine is left in the taverns of this earth. But those who swear by rapture, this is their vigil. they’ve made sure, simply with a witnessing thirst, that intoxication is not put out today. In whose search is the swordsman now? His blade red, he’s just come from the City of Silence, its people exiled or fished to the last. The suspense that lasts between killers and weapons as they gamble who will die and whose turn is next? That bet has now been placed on me. So bring the order for my execution. I must see with whose seals the margins are stamped, recognize the signature on the scroll. sunne ko bhiiR hai sar-e-mahshar lagii hu’ii [mahshar : day of judgment] tohmat tumhaare ishq kii hum par lagii hu’ii [tohmat : accusation] rindon ke dam se aatish-e-mai ke baGhair bhii [rind : drunk; aatish: fire] hai maikade meN aag baraabar lagii hu’ii [mai : wine] aabad kar ke shahr-e-KhaamoshaaN har ek suu [the silent city] kis khoj meN hai teGh-e-sitamgar lagii hu’ii [sword of the oppressor)_ jiite the yuuN to pahle bhii hum jaan pe khel kar baazii hai ab ke jaan se baRh kar lagii hu’ii aakhir ko aaj apne lahuu par hu’ii tamaam baazi miyaan-e-qaatil-o-Khanjar lagii hu’ii [between killer and dagger] lao to qatl-naamaa meraa, maiN bhii dekh luuN [execution order] kis kis kii mohar hai sar-e-mahzar lagii hu’ii [seal; mahzar : scroll)
Over the soughing of the sombre wind priests chant louder than ever; the mouth of India opens. Crocodiles move into deeper waters. Mornings of heated middens [midden: dunghill] smoke under the sun. The good wife lies in my bed through the long afternoon; dreaming still, unexhausted by the deep roar of funeral pyres.
Children, brown as earth, continue to laugh away at cripples and mating mongrels. Nobody ever bothers about them. The temple points to unending rhythm. On the dusty street the colour of shorn scalp there are things moving all the time and yet nothing seems to go away from sight. Injuries drowsy with the heat. And that sky there, claimed by inviolable authority, hanging on to its crutches of silence.
At Puri, the crows. The one wide street lolls out like a giant tongue. Five faceless lepers move aside as a priest passes by. And at the streets end the crowds thronging the temple door: a huge holy flower swaying in the wind of greater reasons. (from Waiting, 1979)
Awaken them; they are knobs of sound that seem to melt and crumple up like some jellyfish of tropical seas, torn from sleep with a hand lined by prophecies. Listen hard; their male, gaunt world sprawls the page like rows of tree trunks reeking in the smoke of ages, the branches glazed and dead as though longing to make up with the sky, but having lost touch with themselves were unable to find themselves, hold meaning. And yet, down the steps into the water at Varanasi, where the lifeless bodies seem to grow human, the shaggy heads of word-buds move back and forth between the harsh castanets of the rain and the noiseless feathers of summer - aware that their syllables' overwhelming silence would not escape the hearers now, and which must remain that mysterious divine path guarded by drifts of queer, quivering banyans: a language of clogs over cobbles, casting its uncertain spell, trembling sadly into mist.
The substance that stirs in my palm could well be a dead man; no need to show surprise at the dizzy acts of wind. My old father sitting uncertainly three feet away is the slow cloud against the sky: so my heart's beating makes of me a survivor over here where the sun quietly sets. The ways of freeing myself: the glittering flowers, the immensity of rain for example, which were limited to promises once have had the lie to themselves. And the wind, that had made simple revelation in the leaves, plays upon the ascetic-faced vision of waters; and without thinking something makes me keep close to the walls as though I was afraid of that justice in the shadows. Now the world passes into my eye: the birds flutter toward rest around the tree, the clock jerks each memory towards the present to become a past, floating away like ash, over the bank. My own stirrings like the wind's keep hoping for the solace that would be me in my father's eyes to pour the good years back on my; the dead man who licks my palms is more likely to encourage my dark intolerance rather than turn me toward some strangely solemn charade: the dumb order of the myth lined up in the life-field, the unconcerned wind perhaps truer than the rest, rustling the empty, bodiless grains. -- from A Monsoon Day Fable p.418 The fable at the beginning of the monsoon echoes alone, like a bell ringing in a temple far from home. The furrows of earth that turned year after year do not change shape or colour: is it music, this immortality? ...
Gu Cheng was one of the Misty poets who broke out of the grim days of the Cultural Revolution with a modernist poetry style in early-80s China. He killed himself in New Zealand in 1993. In his last book, Ying'er, Gu Cheng describes his life with two women - Li Ying, and his wife Xie Ye. It was written in Berlin in early 1993, and typed up by Xie Ye (he had a morbid dread of technology), although the text is dominated by detailed erotic descriptions of Gu Cheng’s love-making with Ying’er (Li Ying). The book talks of his dream of living surrounded by young women, and how it is destroyed beccause Li Ying eloped with another man. On 8 October 1993, back in his adopted country of New Zealand, Gu Cheng attacked Xie Ye with an axe and then hung himself. Xie Ye died later. link: wiki death
tr. by J. P. Seaton and Mu Yi In Chunqing, at Shapingba Park among weeds and scrub trees, a good way from the Cemetery of the Revolutionary Martyrs at Geyue Shan, there is a stretch of graves of Red Guards. No sign that anyone has been here but me, and my poems, and what can, what should I say…
You fell in a heap here on this ground, together, tears of joy in your eyes, grasping imaginary guns. Your hands were soft, your nails clean, the hands of those who’d opened school books and storybooks, books about heroes. And maybe just out of habit, a habit we share, on the last page you wrote your name, your life, your own story. [...]
Don’t question the sun. Yesterday was not his fault; yesterday there was another star, a star that burned away in the fearsome fire of hope. Today’s shrine holds carefully selected potted plants and perfect silence, the silence of an iceberg afloat on a warm current. When will the raucous bazaar, when will the patched-up merry-go-round come to life, start to move again carrying the dancers or the silent young, the toothless infants and the toothless old. Maybe there are always a few lives destined to be shed by the world, the white crane’s feathers found every day at the camp site. Tangerine, and pale green, sweet and bitter the lights come on. In the fog-soaked dusk time heals and we go on living. Let’s go home and go back to living. I haven’t forgotten; I’ll walk carefully past the graves. The empty eggshell of the moon will wait there for the birds that have left to return.
Introduction xxiii - xxvii
Sophia de Mello Breyner (Andresen) [Portugal b.1919] 3 Beach Day Of Sea The Flute I Feel The Dead Muse The Small Square Eugenio de Andrade (José Fontinhas) [Portugal, 1923-2005] 8 Fable Music Penniless Lovers Silence from White on White 5. 12. 18. 30. 35. Angel Gonzalez 15 Before I Could Call Myself Angel Gonzalez Cityp Diatribe Against The Deada The Future Inventory Of Places Propitious For Love Whatever You Want Yesterday Yves Bonnefoy 22 The All, The Nothing: 1 The All, The Nothing: 2. The All, The Nothing: 3 De Natura Rerum A Stone Summer Again The Top Of The World The Tree, The Lamp The Well The Words Of Evening Philippe Jaccottet 33 Dawn Distances Glimpses I Rise With An Effort Right At The End Of Night Swifts Swifts These Wood-shadows Weight Of Stones Jacques Dupin 38 Mineral Kingdom My Body, You Will Not Fill The Ditch Waiting With Lowered Voice from songs of rescue ( 1. 17. 19. 2. 20. 3. 43. 44. 45. 51. 54. 56. Claire Malroux 43 Every Morning The Curtain Rises Fingers Probe In October Octet Before Winter Pier Paolo Pasolini 50 Civil Song The Day Of My Death Lines From The Testament Part Of A Letter To The Codnigola Boy Prayer To My Mother Southern Dawn Andrea Zanzotto 57 Behold The Thin Green Campea Distance Epiphany How Long If It Were Not Patrizia Cavalli 64 Ah, Yes, To Your Misfortune But First One Must Free Oneself Far From Kingdoms The Moroccans With The Carpets Now That Time Sems All Mine This Time I Won't Permit The Blue, Glimpsed To Simulate The Burning Of The Heart, The Humiliation Rutger Kopland 69 Johnson Brothers Ltd. Ulumbo, A Cat Breughel's winter Natzweiler: 1 Natzweiler: 2 Natzweiler: 3 Natzweiler: 4 Natzweiler: 5 Thanks To The Things: 1 Thanks To The Things: 2 Thanks To The Things: 3 Thanks To The Things: 4 Thanks To The Things: 5 Eddy Van Vliet 76 The City The Coastline The Courtyard Old Champagne Glass Valecition - To My Father Henrik Nordbrandt 80 China Observed Through Greek Rain In Turkish Coffee No Matter Where We Go Our Love Is Like Sailing Streets Tomas Transtromer 85 After A Death Below Freezing The Scattered Congregation Sketch In October Paavo Haavikko 89 Darkness, Sels. The Short Years, Sels. Pentti Saarikoski 95 Potato Thief from The dance floor on the mountain 5. 8. 24. 25. 26. 30. 50. Nijole Miliauskaite 101 In The Damp Places On Winter Nights Temporary City These Are Lilacs Hans Magnus Enzensberger 108 At Thirty-three For The Grave Of A Peace-loving Man Middle-class Blues The Poison Short History Of The Bourgeoisie Song For Those Who Know Vanished Work Ingeborg Bachmann 117 Aria 1 Invocation Of The Great Bear A Kind Of Loss Paris Psalm Songs From An Island Czeslaw Milosz 126 Bypassing Rue Descartes Incantation My Faithful Mother Tongue A Poor Christian Looks At The Ghetto Tadeusz Rozewicz 132 Among Many Tasks Draft Of A Modern Love Poem Homework Assignment On The Subject Of Angels Who Is A Poet Wislawa Szymborska 137 The End And The Beginning Pieta Reality Demands Theater Impressions Under A Certain Little Star Unexpected Meeting Unexpected Meeting The Women Of Rubens Zbigniew Herbert 146 Drawer Elegy Of Fortinbras Hen Mr. Cogito Meditates On Suffering Our Fear Remembering My Father To Marcus Aurelius What Mr. Cogito Thinks About Hell Adam Zagajewski 155 At Daybreak Betrayal Electric Elegy Watching 'shoah' In A Hotel Room In America When Death Came Agnes Nemes Nagy 161 Between A Four-light Window Like One Who Sincerity Sandor Csoori 166 Everyday History My Masters Postponed Nightmare A Thin, Black Band We Were Good, Good, And Obedient Gyorgy Petri 172 By An Unknown Poet From Eastern Europe, 1955 Christmas 1956 Electra Gratitude Morning Coffee Night Song Of The Personal Shadow To Be Said Over And Over Again To S.V. Miroslav Holub 181 The Fly Immanuel Kant Interferon Man Cursing The Sea On The Origin Of The Contrary Vanishing Lung Syndrome Vasko Popa 193 Good For Nothing But To Give And Then Arrive And Give Again Heaven's Ring Immigrant Stars In The Ashtray Orphan Absence Pig The Shadow Maker Stargazer's Death The Starry Snail Yawn Of Yawns: Burning Shewolf Novica Tadic 203 Antipsalm Dog's Gambol Jesus Laocoon/serpent Little Picture Catalogue Man From The Death Institute Nobody Paul Celan (Antschel) 209 Alchemical All Those Sleep Shapes, Crystalline Death Fugue I Am The First In Prague Language Mesh Little Night Matiere De Bretagne Tenebrae Thread Suns When You Lie In Marin Sorescu 219 Fountains In The Sea Fresco Map Map Perseverance Precautions Start The Tear With A Green Scarf I Blindfolded Yannis Ritsos 227 The Distant The End Of Dodona 2 Marpessa's Choice Miniature Penelope's Despair Requiem On Poros Odysseus Elytis (Alepoudeli) 232 Aegean Melancholy The Axion Esti, Sels. The Origin Of Landscape Or The End Of Mercy Nazim Hikmet 238 Angina Pectoris The Cucumber Things I Didn't Know I Loved Andrei Voznesensky 244 The Call Of The Lake; To The Memory Of Victims Of Fascism A Chorus Of Nymphs I Am Goya Old Song Someone Is Beating A Woman Two Poems: 1 Two Poems: 2 Yevgeny Yevtushenko 252 Babii Yar Hand-rolled Cigarettes The Heirs Of Stalin Siberian Wooing Joseph Brodsky 261 Belfast Tune I Sit October Tune Roman Elegies Six Years Later Elena Shvarts 272 Elegies On The Cardinal Points: 1. North Elegies On The Cardinal Points: 2. South, Marble Statuette Elegies On The Cardinal Points: 3. East Elegies On The Cardinal Points: 4. West Elegy On An X-ray Photo Of My Skull Remembrance Of Strange Hospitality What That Street Is Called
Adonis (Ali Ahmad Said, Adunis) [Syria/Lebanon, 1930-] 285 Elegy For The Time At Hand The Passage Song Of A Man In The Dark Tree Of Fire Mahmoud Darwish (Palestine, 1941-2008) 296 Guests On The Sea Identity Card On Wishes Sirhan Drinks His Coffee In The Cafeteria Steps In The Night Victim Number 48 We Walk Towards A Land Not Of Our Flesh Words Yehuda Amichai 308 Anniversaries Of War: Huleikat The Third Poem About Dicky Anniversaries Of War: Ruhama Anniversaries Of War: Tel Gath Anniversaries Of War: The Shore Of Ashkelon Anniversaries Of War: What Did I Learn In The Wars Four Resurrections In The Valley Of The Ghosts Letter Little Ruth A Man In His Life Quick And Bitter We Have Done Our Duty Dan Pagis 321 Autobiography Conversation Footprints Picture Postcard From Our Youth Stolen Years: Wall Calendar Dahlia Ravikovitch 329 A Dress Of Fire Hovering At A Low Altitude The Sound Of Birds At Noon Surely You Remember Trying Again You Can't Kill A Baby Twice
Leopold Sedar Senghor 339 Before Night Comes I Am Alone Pearls Song Of The Initiate Kofi Awoonor 345 At The Gates The First Circle So The World Changes They Shall Know This Earth, My Brother Christopher Okigbo 354 Come Thunder Elegy For Alto (with Drum Accompaniment) Elegy Of The Wind Wole Soyinka 359 Funeral Sermon, Soweto The Hunchback Of Dugbe Edouard Maunick 365 20. 6. Seven Sides And Seven Syllables Dennis Brutus 373 At Night Endurance: 1 Endurance: 2 Endurance: 3 Endurance: 4 Endurance: 5 Endurance: 6 Endurance: 7 Robben Island Sequence There Was A Time When The Only Worth They Hanged Him, I Said Dismissively Breyten Breytenbach 381 Asylum Breyten Prays For Himself Dreams Are Also Wounds Firewing Out There
Faiz Ahmed Faiz 395 Don't Ask Me For That Love Again Fragrant Hands A Prison Evening So Bring The Order For My Execution Vista You Tell Us What To Do Taslima Nasrin 401 Another Life At The Back Of Progress ... Border Character Eve Oh Eve A. K. Ramanujan (Attipat Krishnaswami Ramanujan) 406 At Forty Elements Of Composition In The Zoo; A Tour With Comments Pleasure Some People Jayanta Mahapatra 415 Ash Main Temple Street, Puri A Monsoon Day Fable Sanskrit A Summer Poem Taste For Tomorrow Nguyen Chi Thien 421 A Jungle Night The Model Children Of The Regime Sundry Notes: 25 Sundry Notes: 26 Sundry Notes: 48 This Land's No Joy Travel With Joy - Goodbye To Joy! Bei Dao (Zhao Zhenkai) 425 Accomplices Answer The August Sleepwalker The Collection Discovery An Evening Scene Shu Ting (Gong Peiyu) [China, 1952-] 430 Assembly Line Bits Of Reminiscence Fairy Tales; For Gu Cheng Gifts Maple Leaf Missing You The Singing Flower Gu Cheng [China, 1956-1993] 441 Ark The Bulin File: Discovery Forever Parted: 1. A Labyrinth Of Forever Parted: 2. The Clouds Of Geyue Shan Forever Parted: 3. I Don't Have A Brother Forever Parted: 4. You Lived Among The Peaks Forever Parted: 5. Do Not Interrogate The Sun Forever Parted: 6. Yes, I Go Also Forever Parted: Introduction A Generation So Chong-Ju (Seo Jeong-ju) [Korea 1915-2000] 451 Beside A Chrysanthemum Flower-patterned Snake If I Became A Stone Peony Afternoon A Sneeze Untitled Winter Sky Ryuichi Tamura 457 Every Morning After Killing Thousands Of Angels Human House My Imperialism Chimako Tada 465 The Odyssey Or 'on Absence' A Poetry Calendar Universe Of The Rose Wind Invites Wind Shuntaro Tanikawa 472 Concerning A Girl Family Portrait Request River Sadness Stone And Light
Octavio Paz 481 Along Galeana Street [por La Calle De Galeana] I Speak Of The City [hablo De La Ciudad] The Key Of Water [la Llave De Agua] Small Variation [pequena Variacion] Manuel Ulacia 488 The Stone At The Bottom Veronica Volkow 494 The Beginning: 1 The Beginning: 10 The Beginning: 11 The Beginning: 6 The Washerwoman Ernesto Cardenal 498 Mosquito Kingdom Tahirassawichi In Washington Vision From The Blue Window Claribel Alegria 509 Documentary From The Bridge I Am Root Nocturnal Visits Savoir Faire Roebrto Juarroz 519 Pablo Neruda 525 The Heights Of Macchu Picchu: 10 I Remember You As You Were That Final Autumn Ode To The Cat Past Poet's Obligation Poetry Too Many Names Walking Around We Are Many Nicanor Parra 540 A Man The Pilgrim The Poems Of The Pope The Tablets Enrique Lihn 546 Cemetery In Punta Arenas The Dark Room A Favorite Little Shrine Goodnight, Achilles Of All Despondencies Six Poems Of Loneliness: 1 Six Poems Of Loneliness: 2 Six Poems Of Loneliness: 3 Six Poems Of Loneliness: 4 Six Poems Of Loneliness: 5 Six Poems Of Loneliness: 6 Torture Chamber Carlos Drummond de Andrade 555 Family Portrait Motionless Faces Residue Seven-sided Poem Souvenir Of The Ancient World Joao Cabral de Melo Neto 564 Daily Space Education The Emptiness Of Man The End Of The World A Knife All Blade Landscape Of The Capibaribe River
Heberto Padilla 575 Daily Habits The Discourse On Method A Fountain, A House Of Stone Landscapes Man On The Edge A Prayer For The End Of The Century Self-portrait Of The Other Maria Elena Cruz Varela 583 Invocation Kaleidoscope Love Song For Difficult Times Aime Cesaire 587 Bucolic Different Horizon In Memory Of A Black Union Leader In Order To Speak Lagoonal Calendar On The Islands Of All Winds Edward Kamau Brathwaite 594 Citadel Colombe Lorna Goodison 599 Always Homing Now Soul Toward Light Birth Stone Garden Of The Women Once Fallen: ... Pumpkins Garden Of The Women Once Fallen: Of Bitterness Herb Garden Of The Women Once Fallen: Thyme The Road Of The Dread Songs Of The Fruits And Sweets Of Childhood Derek Walcott 610 Crusoe's Island The Hotel Normandie Pool Midsummer, Tobago The Season Of Phantasmal Peace