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"hutchins" poems
During moments I yearned for forests grown for me alone, Caressing them in a dream, I could sense the throbbing of the heart Hidden beneath my ribs to bless my journey. Summoning me with a pulse that he recognizes in me. I heard the noise of abandoned smoke from a moment of care Join with me, Forcefully traversing desires to the hidden-most one. My spirit swung toward him, Creating a tingling On lips that devour breaths alive. I felt ashamed, But the eye, In moments—I scarcely know what to call them—that took me on another route Toward the television, saw warplanes . . . spray death on them. At that moment, The fire of machine guns raked all the bodies, And another fire raked my body when I trained my eye on him Hesitantly inclining his head Toward a shoulder unaccustomed to the secret of the stars of war Or to insomnia. Oh . . . . I leaned on it! And when he caressed a dumbfounded person I felt his fingers like coiling embers inside me. Bashfulness seized the excuse this caress gave . . . and vanished, Eliminating distance till the two of us were one. And the eye—he moaned: May love not forgive her the eye—repeated another evasion Toward a drizzle of men flung about in the air by just the rustling of a pilot penetrating a building To fall on screens as the debris of breaking news. But his breaths . . . shattering the still down of the cheek, And turning their picture into mist as Eddies of the screen’s corpses . . . varieties of death that they brought them. The spirit that became a body, The body that was sold for the sake of a touch, The eye that was concealed in his image And that approached the firebrand of conflagrations. Everyone drawing close to everyone, Everyone, Everyone, Everyone. But the thunder of their machine guns splintered them: Corpses piled on corpses, I mean on me, The eyes of those in it were extinguished. They slept in a trench of silence. My eyes’ lids parted in a wakefulness obsessed with them. I rose … and embraced the chill That the screens brought me in commemoration of Stalingrad. ……………………………… Translated by William Hutchins
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Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
faleeha-hassan
Stalingrad
During moments I yearned for forests grown for me alone, Caressing them in a dream, I could sense the throbbing of the heart Hidden beneath my ribs to bless my journey. Summoning me with a pulse that he recognizes in me. I heard the noise of abandoned smoke from a moment of care Join with me, Forcefully traversing desires to the hidden-most one. My spirit swung toward him, Creating a tingling On lips that devour breaths alive. I felt ashamed, But the eye, In moments—I scarcely know what to call them—that took me on another route Toward the television, saw warplanes . . . spray death on them. At that moment, The fire of machine guns raked all the bodies, And another fire raked my body when I trained my eye on him Hesitantly inclining his head Toward a shoulder unaccustomed to the secret of the stars of war Or to insomnia. Oh . . . . I leaned on it! And when he caressed a dumbfounded person I felt his fingers like coiling embers inside me. Bashfulness seized the excuse this caress gave . . . and vanished, Eliminating distance till the two of us were one. And the eye—he moaned: May love not forgive her the eye—repeated another evasion Toward a drizzle of men flung about in the air by just the rustling of a pilot penetrating a building To fall on screens as the debris of breaking news. But his breaths . . . shattering the still down of the cheek, And turning their picture into mist as Eddies of the screen’s corpses . . . varieties of death that they brought them. The spirit that became a body, The body that was sold for the sake of a touch, The eye that was concealed in his image And that approached the firebrand of conflagrations. Everyone drawing close to everyone, Everyone, Everyone, Everyone. But the thunder of their machine guns splintered them: Corpses piled on corpses, I mean on me, The eyes of those in it were extinguished. They slept in a trench of silence. My eyes’ lids parted in a wakefulness obsessed with them. I rose … and embraced the chill That the screens brought me in commemoration of Stalingrad. ……………………………… Translated by William Hutchins
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I rode to the cemetery, this Sunday morning. I chained my bike to the last log of the labyrinth. I danced softly in the center. I walked up that hill, while cars passed for a burial service. I wondered if I was rude, not dressed like everyone else, dressed in black. I was afraid they could tell, that I was looking for names. I hated feeling watched. Even earlier when I sat at the bar of a diner for breakfast. I kept to myself, smiled to strangers, so they knew that I was friendly. Could they tell that I was hurting? Could they sense my quench of thirst? As I look too see, and raise my head, the corn rows are to the right. To the left, a distant barn pillar. The last time I felt this way was six months ago, or so. In the month of April, the Spring breeze was there the ease my head. I slept in the sunshine at the top of the graveyard hill. There next to me, a gentle, wandering soul. As I look to my right again, barbed-wires keep me from the corn. This bench that I rest my body on, engraved where my langley-legs drape the edge, "KEEP SEARCHING FOR A HEART OF GOLD." In a handwriting that was too familiar. This shoots my compass magnet North, South, East, and West. 19 years later, an Autumn Breeze sways my way. Sometimes the sun sets when I am restless. Other times, I will not rest until the sun rises. When I saw the name Ripley, to the right was Bliss. Behind the bush of pink flowers, a rose bush I could only hope, I did see the name Shannon. I saw Melvin near Cahill. I saw Hutchins, Tobin, and Soloman. I saw Thomas, Owen, Jones, Donahue, and Roberts. I searched for the names that called to me. They thanked me, they apologized, and I did likewise. I searched for a name like mine, and then fell in love with the name I was given. As the burial service continued, I followed the bits of grass-path and gravel road, back towards the labyrinth. I am fire, here to shine, here to give warmth to those who need it. And one day, I too, shall burn to ashes. If they must, they might try to simmer the flame. Colorado forest fires are a natural way to give the Rockies a chance to resurface. And yes, my eyes have traveled from stars to soil, and now my eyes are set towards the Himalayan, East.
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Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
petuniawhiskey
Sinclair
I rode to the cemetery, this Sunday morning. I chained my bike to the last log of the labyrinth. I danced softly in the center. I walked up that hill, while cars passed for a burial service. I wondered if I was rude, not dressed like everyone else, dressed in black. I was afraid they could tell, that I was looking for names. I hated feeling watched. Even earlier when I sat at the bar of a diner for breakfast. I kept to myself, smiled to strangers, so they knew that I was friendly. Could they tell that I was hurting? Could they sense my quench of thirst? As I look too see, and raise my head, the corn rows are to the right. To the left, a distant barn pillar. The last time I felt this way was six months ago, or so. In the month of April, the Spring breeze was there the ease my head. I slept in the sunshine at the top of the graveyard hill. There next to me, a gentle, wandering soul. As I look to my right again, barbed-wires keep me from the corn. This bench that I rest my body on, engraved where my langley-legs drape the edge, "KEEP SEARCHING FOR A HEART OF GOLD." In a handwriting that was too familiar. This shoots my compass magnet North, South, East, and West. 19 years later, an Autumn Breeze sways my way. Sometimes the sun sets when I am restless. Other times, I will not rest until the sun rises. When I saw the name Ripley, to the right was Bliss. Behind the bush of pink flowers, a rose bush I could only hope, I did see the name Shannon. I saw Melvin near Cahill. I saw Hutchins, Tobin, and Soloman. I saw Thomas, Owen, Jones, Donahue, and Roberts. I searched for the names that called to me. They thanked me, they apologized, and I did likewise. I searched for a name like mine, and then fell in love with the name I was given. As the burial service continued, I followed the bits of grass-path and gravel road, back towards the labyrinth. I am fire, here to shine, here to give warmth to those who need it. And one day, I too, shall burn to ashes. If they must, they might try to simmer the flame. Colorado forest fires are a natural way to give the Rockies a chance to resurface. And yes, my eyes have traveled from stars to soil, and now my eyes are set towards the Himalayan, East.
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