Saturday, July 24, 2010

61. What Breathes a Sound

written in as I was written
in a loud room from a room
not written but filled with
sounds of voices of people
not quite children but
younger than we are written
in a room of language for
that is what we make and
what is made of us and that
is all we could ever hope to be

spoken as if I had spoken
to you as if I were speaking
and my words were sounds
upon the wind so there is a
music to it in the form of
language and the language
it is such as the language
we call English and exists
upon me and exhibits my
features such as a mouth

no puedo escribir en la
idioma de mi juventud
en la lengua española
con mi lengua estranjera
creo que el mundo es una
palabra posiblemente
dos y nosotros son los
salvadores de la lengua
de los dos palabras de
los parablas estranrejas

in the mouth of July when
all good poets are born in
the heat of summer when
life’s too hot for words it is
that it is when all good
poets are born and start
to speak and come to be
in the mouth of July wet
and hot with words for us
and words for what we are

sitting in a room with the
windows closed and heat
held in sitting in a room
in the dark I fashion for
you a few words out of
air and for the eater of
these words that you are
while sitting in a room
with heat held in and
voices held in like heat

je n’ai pas de mots ou
des murs je vis entre
les mots et des murs
faits des mots il n’y a
pas de moi d’un moi
il n’y a que deux mois
ou trois les noms des
nombres sont aussi
nombreux que les mots
et il n'y a pas de mots

sweating in a room
under bulblight in a room
as sweet as bulblight
with the scent of sweat
upon my skin feels like a
speaking like a word like
a word sent out into space
like darkness enveloping
a word like the word
becoming real at last

sleeping at a table with a
word beneath my fingers
with words coming out of
my fingertips and sleeping
away the words so that
there is no word left for
you or to mean you or
to eat at breakfast with
a ripe tomato and some
sunlight only sleeping

non riesco a parlare
italiano l’unica frase che
so è “O che sciagurra
d’essere senza coglioni!”
e io non lo so e io non lo
so e io non lo so cosa fare
con le parole e non ci sono
parole e non c'è modo
di sfuggire parole per questo
motivo io uso solo parole

written out in a room now
quieter not wordless but
worded the world a little
smaller from the word
left dead the word not
breathed to life for a
thought for the thought
of it for what thought we
might share within it in a
room still filled with words

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