"cavanagh" poems
The onion, now that's something else
its innards don't exist
nothing but pure onionhood
fills this devout onionist
oniony on the inside
onionesque it appears
it follows its own daimonion
without our human tears
our skin is just a coverup
for the land where none dare to go
an internal inferno
the anathema of anatomy
in an onion there's only onion
from its top to it's toe
onionymous monomania
unanimous omninudity
at peace, at peace
internally at rest
inside it, there's a smaller one
of undiminished worth
the second holds a third one
the third contains a fourth
a centripetal fugue
polypony compressed
nature's rotundest tummy
its greatest success story
the onion drapes itself in it's
own aureoles of glory
we hold veins, nerves, and fat
secretions' secret sections
not for us such idiotic
onionoid perfections
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
“Humanity enveloped in entropy desperately seeking symmetry for peace of mind”
― Dean Cavanagh
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by S. Barańczak & C. Cavanagh
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
I’d have to be really quick
to describe clouds -
a split second’s enough
for them to start being something else.
Their trademark:
they don’t repeat a single
shape, shade, pose, arrangement.
Unburdened by memory of any kind,
they float easily over the facts.
What on earth could they bear witness to?
They scatter whenever something happens.
Compared to clouds,
life rests on solid ground,
practically permanent, almost eternal.
Next to clouds
even a stone seems like a brother,
someone you can trust,
while they’re just distant, flighty cousins.
Let people exist if they want,
and then die, one after another:
clouds simply don't care
what they're up to
down there.
And so their haughty fleet
cruises smoothly over your whole life
and mine, still incomplete.
They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone.
They don't have to be seen while sailing on.
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
So then, let's take the Foraminifera.
They lived, since they were, and were since they lived.
They did what they could since they were able.
In the plural since the plural,
although each one on its own
small limestone shell.
Time summarized them later
in layers, since layers,
without going into details,
since there's pity in the details.
And so I have before me
two views in one:
a mournful cemetery made
of tiny eternal rests
or,
rising from the sea,
the azure sea, dazzling white cliffs,
cliffs that are here because they are.
Wislawa Szymborska from Here New Poems
translated from Polish by Clare Cavanagh
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 5:59 AM UTC
For the kids the first ending of the world.
For the cat a new Master.
For the dog a new Mistress.
For the furniture stairs, thuds, my way or the highway.
For the walls bright squares where pictures once hung.
For the neighbors new subjects, a break in the boredom.
For the car better if there were two.
For he novels, the poems - fine, take what you want.
Worse with encyclopedias and VCR's,
not to mention the guide to proper usage,
which doubtless holds pointers on two names -
are they still linked with the conjunction "and"
or does a period divide them.
Wislawa Szymborska from Here New Poems
translated from Polish by Clare Cavanagh
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC