Anselm Berrigan and Stacy Szymaszek Poems

 

 

 

Have a Good One by Anselm Berrigan

                      

                                 Birdy shoots out from treetop

 

 

                            swallow pen

 

 

                                   laid down

 

 

                           leave them bugs alone boy

 

 

 

                sleep – dream back to

 

                     

                     yourself – the you you

 

 

                       remember yourself to be

 

 

                 when I sleep                it takes

 

 

                             less from me than

 

 

                  I need it to

 

 

                                      I belong anywhere

 

 

                          want to belong to

 

 

                          no particular place

 

 

                                          but there’s              a city of

 

 

             strangers for me despite

 

 

                            my predilections

 

 

       mind invents or retrieves faces

 

 

                                                when I shut my eyes

 

 

                              my chest has been

 

 

                                  weakened by my own hand

 

 

                          am on a farm

 

 

                             writing             eyes closed

 

 

                                            back to grass

 

 

                          I don’t aim to kill anything

 

 

                                 but I will take responsibility

 

 

                                                  for thousands upon

 

 

                                        billions of deaths if

 

 

                                                         these bugs stop

 

 

                                                                crawling on me.

 

 

**

 

 

Have a Good One translated into a poem by Stacy Szymaszek

 

arcane bird slings

forth from branches

try to write with a neck

bone and swallow pen

swatch would be writ

skyline but for this

 

congress of bugs beneath

feathery arms a dream

bellows me back

to boy self slings

 

from a crack in voice

into oversleep

where I am more

alive in villa than

this time-shared

aggregate if

 

no one is in

the bramble I may

sit if no one is in

I am inclined

a city of unfamiliars

 

fine feathered?

to challenge me

an injured retina

to retrieve spectrum

of faces I invent

cast arm bashes

 

them into my chest

misjudged acceleration

flawed technique for 

panorama color mix

my farm toppled

fence back to burnt

grass never my aim

 

for my grasp to kill

but I will testify

against myself

if these bugs

leave my wings!

 

slung out into realms

of public catastrophe

in need of a public service

and then I may

speak pliable inclined

toward what I think

is your face

 

 

 

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