MUNDUS ARTIUM a Journal of International Literature and the Arts 1972, Volume V, Number 3 STAFF Editor-In-Chief, Rainer Schulte Associate Editor, Roma A

MlJNDUS ARTIUM Cover: "Let Your Fingers do the Walking," 1970 60" high without base polyester resin and mixed media Fernandes Arman Courtesy Sonnabend Gallery, N. Y., Paris Photography by Geoffrey Clements MUNDUS ARTIUM A Journal of International Literature and the Arts 1972, Volume V, Number 3 STAFF Editor-in-Chief, Rainer Schulte Associate Editor, Roma A. King, Jr. Assistant Editor, Thomas J. Hoeksema Assistant to the Editor, Donald Ringnalda

ADVISORY BOARD Willis Barnstone, Ben Belitt, Michael Bullock, Glauco Cam• bon, Wallace Fowlie, Otto Graf, Walter Hollerer, Hans Egon Holthusen, Jack Morrison, Morse Peckham, Fritz Joachim von Rintelen, Austin Warren, Arvin Wells, J. Michael Yates.

Mundus Artium is a journal of international literature and the arts, published three times a year by the Department of English, Ohio University. Annual subscription $6.00; single copies $2.50 for United States, Canada, and Mexico. All other countries: $6.50 a year, and $2.75 for single copies, obtainable by writing to The Editors, Mundus Artium, Ellis Hall, Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, U.S.A. 45701.

Manuscripts should be sent to the editors and should be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope with the appropriate return postage. Mundus Artium will consider for publication poetry, fiction, short drama, essays on literature and the arts, photography, and photographic reproductions of paintings and sculpture.

Design by Don F. Stout Director, Office of Ohio University Publications.

Richardson Printing Corp.-Marietta, Ohio

2 CONTENTS

JOSE GOROSTIZA Del Poema Frustrado ...... 6 tr. LAURA VILLASENOR From the Thwarted Poem Adan Adam Espejo No Mirror No

ANDRE RESZLER Delp hes ...... ····· ... 14 tr. WILLIS BARNSTONE Delphi GAJANAN MADHAV MUKTIBODH At Every Step 18 tr. ARVIND KRrsHNA MEHROTRA

MICHAELS. HARPER America Calls! 20 Dreams: American Kansas and America The Music of Broadswords "Rescue Work": Dues

GEORG TRAKL V erwandlung des Bosen ...... 24 tr. Lucrx GETSI Metamorphosis of Evil Anif Anif Verklarung Radiance

3 FORREST INGRAM No Moon No Sun No Shadow .. 32 Statued Antinomies

The Duel 34 HORST BIENEK tr. MICHAEL }3ULLOCK

EIGHT PAINTINGS BY JORGE CASTILLO ...... 40

NIKOS ENGONOPOULOS Sinbad the Sailor ...... 48 tr. YANNIS GoUMAS Morning Song News of the Death of the Spanish Poet Federico Garcia Lorca on August 19, 1936, in a Ditch at Camino de la Fuente Early in the Morning

CARLOS DRUMMOND Nosso Tempo 56 DEANDRADE Our Time tr. DuANE ACKERSON AND Luar Em Qualquer Cidade RICARDO DA SILVEIRA Loso Moonlight in any City STERNBERG Politico Literaria Literary Politics

4 MARCO ANTONIO A Nivel del Mar ...... 60 MONTES DE OCA At Sea Level tr. LAURA VILLASENOR Luz en Ristre Light in Readiness

JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE Domingo ...... 64 tr. DoRA PETTINELLA Sunday Vida del Grillo Life of the Cricket Columna en Memoria de las Rojas Pillar in Memory of Leaves

ALEXANDROS BARAS The Cleopatra, The Semiramis, tr. YANNIS GoUMAS and The Theodora 70 Insomnia

STANLEY COOPERMAN Homage to Sarnrnler 75

MARGUERITE HUNTER Snow Spider 78

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS ...... 83

5 Jose Gorostiza

DEL POEMA FRUSTRADO

Preludio

Esa palabra que jamas asoma a tu idioma cantado de preguntas, esa, desfalleciente, que se hiela en el aire de tu voz, si, como una respiracion de flautas contra un aire de vidrio evaporada, jMirala, ay, t6cala! [mirala ahora! en esta exangiie bruma de magnolias, en esta nimia floracion de vaho que-ensombrecido en luz el ojo agonico y a funestos pestillos anclado el tenue ruido de las alas• guarda un angel de suefio en la ventana.

jQue muros de cristal, amor, que muros! Ay ipara que silencios de agua?

Esa pala bra, si, esa pala bra que se coagula en la garganta como un grito de ambar [Mirala, ay, tocala! [mirala ahora!

Mira que, noche a noche, decantada en el filtro de un aspero silencio, qued6se a tanto enmudecer desnuda,

6 Jose Gorostiza tr. LAURA VILLASENOR

FROM THE THWARTED POEM

Prelude

That word which never turns up in your chanted language of questions, the fainting one that freezes in the air of your voice, yes, like a breath of flutes condensed against an atmosphere of glass -look at it, touch it! look at it now!- in this bled mist of magnolias, in this tiny flowering of vapor which -the eye dying, darkened by light, and the soft rustle of wings anchored to sinister bolts- an angel of sleep guards on the window.

What crystal walls, love, what walls! to hold what silences of water?

That word, yes, the word that curdles in the throat like a cry of amber -look eat it, touch it! look at it now!

Look how, night by night, decanted through the filter of a harsh silence, such long hushing left it naked,

1 hiriente e inequivoca -asi en la entraiia de un reloj la muerte, asi la claridad en una cifra- para gestar este lenguaje nuestro, inaudible, que se abre al tacto insomne en la arena, en el pajaro, en la nube, cuando negro de oraculos retruena el panorama de la profecia.

Quien, si ella no, pudo fraguar este universo insigne que nace como un heroe en tu boca? [Mirala, ay, tocala, mirala ahora, incendiada en un eco de nenufares! iNo aqui su angustia asume la inocencia de una hueca ret6rica de lianas? Aqui, entre liquenes de orfebreria que arrancan de minuscules canales (nO echo a tafier al aire sus candidas mariposas de escarcha?

Que, en lugar de esa fe que la consume hasta la transparencia del destino lno aqui-escapada al dardo tenaz de la estatura- se remonta insensata una palmera para estallar en su ficci6n de cielo, maestra en fuegos no, mas en puros deleites de artificio?

Esa palabra, si, esa palabra, esa, desfalleciente, que se ahoga en el humo de una sombra, esa que gira-como un soplo--cauta sobre bisagras de secreta lama, esa en que el aura de la voz se astilla, desalentada, como si rebotara en una bella ulcera de plata,

8 harmful and unequivocal -like the death in the heart of a clock, like the clarity in a number- to engender, inaudible, this language of ours, that opens at the sleepless touch in sand, in the bird, in the cloud, when, black with oracles, the panorama of prophecy thunders.

What, if not that word, could forge this prodigious universe born like a hero in your mouth? Look at it, touch it, look at it now, kindled in an echo of white lilies! Does not here its anguish take on the innocence of an empty rhetoric of vines? Here, among lichens of the jeweler's art that issue from tiniest channels, did it not cast its white hoarfrost butterflies to thrum the air?

Isn't it here, rather than in that faith spending it into the clarity of destiny, that a palm tree=-escaped from the stubborn dart of stature-- soars madly to explode in its fiction of sky, not a master in fireworks, but in their sheer delights?

That word, yes, that word, the fainting one that smothers in the smoke of a shadow, the one that turns warily-like a puff of wind• on hinges of secret slime, the one on which the voice's breeze splinters, winded, as if it rebounded on an exquisite silver ulcer,

9 esa que baiia sus vocales acidas en la espuma de las palomas sacrificadas, esa que se congela hasta la fiebre cuando no, ensimismada, se calcina en la brusca intemperie de una lagrima, [mirala, ay, t6cala! [mirala ahora! [mirala, ausente toda de palabra, sin voz, sin eco, sin idioma, exacta, mirala como traza en muros de cristal amores de agua!

Jose Gorostiza I ADAN

Jardin de otoiio en mi ventana, claro. jOSmo esta haciendo nubes por todas partes ! Roto, deshecho en el prisma de esa lluvia, ay, Jardin el Marino, que recuento, que flaca suma resta de tu precioso cargamento: Maestro de la pergola, un Apolo en actitud de repetir el aria; seiiora de su edad, la fuente con el rostro anifiado de neblina; a la que banca fuera confidente espesa lama de silencio lame ... c:Que mas para un catalogo de ruina? Acaso, a la distancia de dos voces, desnudos, pero dignos, los castaiios; desnudo, pero infame, el caminito que todo alegre se cubre de hojarasca para dejar el hello paraiso,

10 the one that bathes its acid vowels in the foam of sacrificed doves, the one that freezes into fever when, bemused, it does not char in the abrupt inclemency of a tear -look at it, touch it! look at it now!- look at it, all word-bare, voiceless, echoless, languageless, exact, look how it traces amours of water on crystal walls!

Jose Gorostiza ADAM

Autumn garden at my window, full of light. What clouds it ships on every side! Disjoint, undone in the prism of that rain, alas, Garden the Sailor, what a reckoning, what a meager sum is left of your precious cargo: Master of the pergola, an Apollo posing to repeat the aria; lady of a certain age, the fountain, with her childish face of mist; and her confidential bench licked by a thick ooze of silence ... What more for a catalog of ruin? Perhaps, at a distance of two voices, naked, but decent, the chestnut trees; naked, but disgraceful, the little path, happy as can be, that covers itself with dead leaves to be off from its beautiful paradise.

11 Jose Gorostiza ESPEJO NO

Espejo no: marea luminosa, marea blanca.

Conforme en todo al movimiento con que respira el agua

[como se inflama en su delgada prisa, marea alta y alumbra=-que pureza de contornos, que piel de flor-la distancia, desnuda ya de peso, ya de eminente claridad helada!

Conforme en todo a la molicie con que reposa el agua,

[como se vuelve hondura, hondura, marea baja, y mas Cristal que luz, mas ojo, intenta una mirada en la que----espectros de color-las formas, las claras, bellas, mal heridas, sangran!

12 Josi Gorostiza MIRROR NO

Mirror no: shining tide, silver tide.

Yielding wholly to the motion in which the water breathes, how it flames in its slender hurry at the crest and lights up-in what purity of contours, what flower-like skin-the distance, naked now of weight, already chill with lofty clarity!

Yielding wholly to the tenderness in which the water falls to rest,

how it turns into deeps, deeps, surging low,

and more crystal than light, more eye, ventures a look

in which forms-phantoms of color- the bright, beautiful, sore-wounded ones bleed!

13 Andre Reszler

DELP HES

Lumiere, naissance au theatre du jour!

LA MER C'est vers la rners que je suis monte jusqu'au stade, toucher ses algues blondes et ses plantes de pierre. C'est vers sa legende cachee qu'un kouros tourne ses cils verdis et l'ecume de son visage. Son temps est devenu pierre, ses yeux, une hyacinthe. Sa voix est vent. Mes yeux s'emplissent de sel.

LE POISSON J'ai oublie le nom des arbres, le jeu des pierres en fleurs sur les sentiers du soir, J'ai oublie l'ombre du poirier sur les visages aimes. J'ai vecu, comme un poisson, dans les flots incessants du reel.

LE TEMPLE D'APOLLON Le printemps dedie son temple a I'absence, son nombril a l'infini. Ses colonnes brisees aux reves de la Pythie. Deux aigles croisent leurs ombres. Le sol boit les paysages humides de leurs ailes.

L'ORACLE DIT Reste a Delphes. Remonte lentement les allees de son ciel, les dalles de marbre et de miel. Eveille l'astre enfoui des pierres, l'echo de tes desirs sous leurs

14 Andre Reszler tr. WILLIS BARNSTONE

DELPHI

Light, birth for the theater of day

SEA To find the sea I climbed up to the stadium,-to touch its blond seaweed and its stone plants. To find its hidden legend a kouros turns its greened eyelashes and the foam on its face. Its time became stone, its eyes a hyacinth. Its voice is wind. My eyes fill with salt.

FISH I forgot the name of trees, the play of flowers on the evening paths. I forgot the shadow of the pear tree on the faces I loved. Like a fish, I lived in the incessant floods of the real.

TEMPLE OF APOLLO Spring assigns its temple to absence, its navel to the infinite. Its shattered columns to the dreams of the Pythia. Two eagles cross their shadows. The earth drinks the damp landscapes of their wings.

THE ORACLE SAYS Stay at Delphi! Climb slowly the paths of its sky, the flagstones of marble and honey. Waken the stars concealed in the stones, the echo of your desires

15 paupieres. Ecoute le cri de l'aigle au-dessus de la vigne des cimes. Tu retrouveras la joie loin de la joie, l'amour de l'ombre-dans l'ombre de mes bras.

LA FONTAINE CASTALIE 11 ya une fontaine dans le creux de la main ou viennent boire les lezards du souvenir. 11 ya une fontaine dans la ramure des chemins ou se mirent le regard et le reve,

FATHER J e te cherche dans la cendre des pas qu'a eteint le vent, je te cherche dans l'ombre des cypres lointains. Je cherche ie scintillement bleu de ton front, ton sommeil de jeune marin moule dans le gel de la haie. On m'a cache ton visage. Dans le vent des peupliers, j'ai longtemps entendu ta voix.

DIOTIMA Voici les musiques-longues nattes de beaute.c-eaux dorees, le bonsoir somnolent des merles, un bosquet mouvant au coeur de ma solitude, le minerai de l'espoir dans la roche parente, le vide. * * * Une hirondelle vient boire sous nos paupieres, Nos coeurs glissent dans l'ombre de la terre. Tes mains, glaives blancs comme la neige, ruissellent sur ma nuque.

DEPART Sans pesanteur, I'apres-midi incline sa vallee vers la mer. Le marais des oliviers sombre dans la baie, I'eternel soir d'un matin. L'etranger part. L'ami reste, vit, comme les cygnes, dans le temps.

16 under their eyes. Hear the cry of the eagle over the vines of the peaks. You will recapture joy far from joy, love of shadow-in the shadow of my arms.

KASTALIA FOUNTAIN There is a fountain in the hollow of a hand where lizards of memory come to drink. There is a fountain in the branching of roads where glance and dreams see each other.

FATHER I look for you in the ashes of steps the wind erased, I look for you in the shadow of remote cypresses. I look for the blue sparkle of your forehead, your sleep of the young sailor merging with the frost on the hedge. They have hidden your face from me. In the poplar wind, I have for a long time heard your voice.

DIOTIMA The music-long braids of beauty-gold waters, the sleepy calling of blackbirds, a grove moving into the heart of my solitude, the ore of hope in the parent rock, the emptiness. * * * A swallow comes drinking under our eye• lids. Our hearts slip into the shadow of the earth. Your hands, white swords like snow, pour over my neck.

DEPARTURE Weightless, the afternoon tips its valley toward the sea. The march of olive trees descends into the bay, the unending evening of morning. The stranger leaves. The friend stays, lives, like swans, in time.

------~----- Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh tr. ARVIND KRISHNA MEHROTRA

AT EVERY STEP

Crossroads arms outstretched meet me at every step leap a hundred directions I want to explore their experiences and dreams seem so real; I want to go deeper a restless curiosity within me I don't know what I'll discover.

I imagine in every stone a burning diamond, in every breast an impatient soul, the transparent river in gentle faces, it's my hallucination that every voice has an epic-angst. I wish to embark upon every journey and swim through every heart this is how I give myself away; fragment. It's much too strange. I keep wandering am often deceived, I delight in seeing myself swindled. Even in me

18 sits one happy fool drunk upon sadness and mad laughter the world is its own nemesis.

These advancing crossroads where I stand and gossip take away my stories give me others ...... I find a novel tales of distress, grievances, ego-analysis, yarns, I hear the living verses and psalms of my times. Poems make love vie with one another, are sacrificed upon the fire-steps of life and death. When I return carrying frightened symbols grinning images metaphors tell me "You have to live another hundred years."

Even at home crossroads at every corner a hundred directions with outstretched arms alleys, lanes, thoroughfares branching; every day I encounter a hundred untravelled experiences and I think that now the writer's predicament is not having too little but too much to say, his anxiety, the choice he must make.

19 Michael S. Harper AMERICA CALLS!

Called out of Egypt, mother and ewe lamb dead, the woods sunken red men speckled, their tongues chained to a tree, songs of black oak key to scrotum: what to survey with my tools: round limbs of woman, six sons, one daughter, fevered insanities of woman and child, dead, on the mountain is my path.

Tending our newborn, I walk the uneven woodpile singing to child, wife, through the day, my step charmed by light of woodshed. I carry her three nights 'til she died. Both died in their cradled arms.

One marries a girl five years older than my oldest as fate and promise of death grow like trees burning, my family these leaves

20 edged on two new-made graves: action, one life to live: spirits of my first woman make me do under Allegheny sky.

Though England kills my wool as I sell it, farm, racehorse, tannery, surveyor: 1837: embargoes kill: war kills my woolens, love surveyed Oberlin for black schools.

I raised six hundred Saxony lambs for my English masters, saw it sold to my American neighbor-friend-middleman: quality wool for cheap factories; cheap religion gone business beats the slave with an iron shovel.

I was born May Day; my father stuttered. In September, 1800, Gabriel was born; my father stuttered.

Clear songs of the Indian, a chained blackened piglet roasts on its chain, I stutter at my own color-caste.

21 Michael S. Harper DREAMS: AMERICAN

At the rifle factory: telegraph wires curl in a one-horse wagon taken where rivers of blood wilt near the armory gate- 60 rods more to the railroad bridge towpath, making bullets• my Lafayette sword, wet powder, men climbing into hillsides of hostages we didn't kill; screens of people we made at the engine house we didn't use: dead in the trestle-work in a moonless sky, conspired in madness to steal myself and steal away, the mountaintop looks out, its face the light• heartblow, a sword upon the Golden Rule.

A sealp wound in a head rag I pray out forty days at the symbolic pallet: put the insane in this pit, dig to a subway pass: the world is my family, my brothers insane: "insanity is like a very pleasant dream to me."

22 Michael S. Harper KANSAS AND AMERICA

Some hated slavery Some hated blacks Some hated slaves All loved land

Michael S. Harper THE MUSIC OF BROADSWORDS

We hacked them with broadswords: our liquor dealer whose dive was the US court; his brother-free-state-woman-baiter-bully; our postmaster with no spit on his stamps; our probate judge of warrants; three slave-chasers who suckled their bloodhounds in our muddy saloon: Kansas.

Michael S. Harper "RESCUE WORK": DUES

Crowns from the south: black gold in a red box marked "spleened"; black bottom hands locked to riverboats at the wrists; a Mexican serape staked to a cottonplant with bowie knife; patroller near Lawrence, Swamp of the Swans: long-necked birds in an eagle snare, their feet, paddling, in cotton.

23 Georg Trakl

VERW AND LUNG DES BOSEN

Herbst: schwarzes Schreiten am W aldsaum; Minute stummer Zerstorung; auflauscht die Stirne des Aussatzigen unter dem kahlen Baum. Langvergangener Abend, der nun uber die Stufen von Moos sinkt; November. Eine Glocke lautet und der Hirt fiihrt eine Hertle von schwarzen und roten Pferden ins Dorf. Unter dem Haselgebiisch weidet der griine Jager ein Wild aus. Seine Hande rauchen von Blut und der Schatten des Tiers seufzt im Laub uber den Augen des Mannes, braun und schweigsam; der Wald. Krahen, die sich zerstreuen; drei. 1hr Flug gleicht einer Sonate, voll verblichener Akkorde und mann• licher Schwermut; leise lost sich eine goldene Wolke auf. Bei der Muhle ziinden Knaben ein Feuer an. Flamme ist des Bleichsten Bruder und jener lacht vergraben in sein purpurnes Haar; oder es ist ein Ort des Mordes, an dem ein steiniger W eg vorbeifiihrt. Die Berberitzen sind verschwunden, jahrlang traumt es in bleierner Luft unter den Fohren, Angst, griines Dunkel, das Gurgeln eines Ertrinkenden: aus dem Stern• enweiher zieht der Fischer einen grossen, schwarzen Fisch, Antlitz voll Grausamkeit und Irrsinn. Die Stimmen des Rohrs, hadernder Manner im Riicken schaukelt jener auf rotem Kahn iiber frierende Herbstwasser, lebend in dunklen Sagen seines Geschlechts und die Augen steinern iiber Nachte und jungfrauliche Schrecken aufgetan. Bose. Was zwingt dich still zu stehen auf der verfallenen Stiege, im Haus deiner Vater? Bleierne Schwarze. Was hebst du mit silberner Hand an die Augen; und die Lider sinken wie trunken von Mohn? Aber durch die Mauer von Stein siehst du den Sternenhimmel, die Milchstrasse, den Saturn; rot. Rasend an die Mauer von Stein klopft der kahle Baum. Du auf verfallenen Stufen: Baum, Stern, Stein! Du, ein blaues Tier, das leise zittert; du, der bleiche Priester, der es hinschlachtet am schwar• zen Altar. 0 dein Lacheln im Dunkel, traurig und hose, dass ein Kind im Schlaf erbleicht. Eine rote Flamme sprang aus deiner Hand und ein Nachtfalter verbrannte daran. 0 die Flota des Lichts; o die Flote des Tods. Was zwang dich still zu stehen au£ verfallener Stiege, im Haus deiner Vater? Drunten ans Tor klopft ein Engel mit kristallnem Finger.

24 Georg Trakl tr. LucIA GETSI

METAMORPHOSIS OF EVIL

Autumn: black footsteps by the forest edge; moment of speechless destruction; foreheads of lepers eavesdrop beneath the bared tree. Long bygone evening now sinking over steps of moss; November. A bell rings out and the shepherd leads a herd of black and red horses into the village. Under the hazelbush the green hunter disembowels a deer. His hands smoke of blood, and in the leaves above the man's eyes the deer's shadow sighs in brown silence; the forest. Three crows scatter, their flight a sonata resonant with faded chords and the sorrow of man; softly a golden cloud dissolves. Boys light a fire by the mill. Flame is the brother of the most pale, and buried in his purple hair he laughs; or it is a place of murder beside a stony path. The barberries are gone, all year long dreams lie in leaden air under pines; fear, green darkness, gurgling sounds of a man drowning. From the starry pond the fisher• man draws a great, black fish, face of horror and madness. Voices of reeds, behind quarreling men the man sways in a red boat across icy waters of autumn, living in the dark legends of his race and his eyes open like stone over nights and virgin terrors. Evil. What compels you to stand quietly on the rotted staircase in the house of your fathers? Leaden blackness. What do you lift with silver hand to your eyes; and your eyelids sink as if drunk with poppy? Yet through the wall of stone you see the starry sky, the Milky Way, and Saturn; red. The bare tree frantically pounds the stone wall. You upon decayed stairs: tree, star, stone! You, a blue deer gently trembling; you, the pale priest who murders the deer on a black altar. 0 your smile in the darkness, so mournfully evil that a child turns pale in his sleep. A red flame leaped from your hand and a moth burned in it. O flute of light; o flute of death. What made you stand still on the crumbled steps in the house of your fathers? Below, an angel taps the gate with crystal finger.

25 0 die Holle des Schlafs; dunkle Gasse, braunes Gartchen. Leise lautet im blauen Abend der Toten Gestalt. Griine Bliimchen umgaukeln sie und ihr Antlitz hat sie verlassen. Oder es neigt sich verblichen iiber die kalte Stirne des Morders im Dunkel des Hausflurs; Anbetung, pur• purne Flamme der Wollust; hinsterbend stiirzte uber schwarze Stufen der Schlater ins Dunkel. Jemand verliess dich am Kreuzweg und du schaust lange zuriick. Silberner Schritt im Schatten verkriippelter Apfelbaumchen, Purpurn leuchtet die Frucht im schwarzen Geast und im Gras hautet sich die Schlange. O! das Dunkel; der Schweiss, der auf die eisige Stirne tritt und die traurigen Traume im Wein, in der Dorfschenke unter schwarz• verrauchtem Gebalk. Du, noch Wildnis, die rosige Inseln zaubert aus dem braunen Tabaksgewolk und aus dem lnnern den wilden Schrei eines Greifen holt, wenn er um schwarze K.lippen jagt in Meer, Sturm und Eis. Du, ein griines Metall und innen ein feuriges Gesicht, das hingehen will und singen vom Beinerhiigel finstere Zeiten und den flammenden Sturz des Engels. O! Verzweiflung, die mit stummem Schrei ins Knie bricht. Ein Toter besucht dich. Aus dem Herzen rinnt das selbstver• gossene Blut und in schwarzer Braue nistet unsaglicher Augenblick; dunkel Begegnung. Du-ein purpurner Mond, da jener im griinen Schatten des Olbaums erscheint. Dem folgt unvergiingliche Nacht.

26 0 you hell of sleep; dark lane, small brown garden. Softly through the blue evening the shape of the dead resounds; about them flutter green flowers and their face has abandoned them; or ashen it bows over the murderer's cold temples in the darkened hallway. Adoration, purple flame of lust; dying, the sleeper plunged over black steps into darkness. Someone left you at the crossroads and for a long time you gaze back. Silver footstep in the shadows of small and crippled appletrees. The fruit glows purple in the black branches and the snake sheds its skin in the grass. 0 the darkness; the sweat shed by the icy brow, and sorrowful dreams from the wine of the village tavern, beneath smoke• blackened beams. You, still a wilderness that conjures rose-tinged islands from the brown tobacco cloud, and draws from its core the wild cry of a griffin as he forages black crags in sea, storm and ice. You, a face of fire within green metal, wanting to go there and from the hill of bones sing of dark ages and the flaming fall of the angel. 0 despair, falling on its knees in a soundless scream. A dead man attends you. Self-spilled blood flows from his heart and in that black brow nests an unspeakable moment; dark encounter. You-a purple moon, as he appears in the olive tree's green shadow. Everlasting night follows him.

27 Georg Trakl ANIF

Erinnerung: Moven, gleitend uber den dunklen Himmel Mannlicher Schwermut. Stille wohnst du im Schatten der herbstlichen Esche, Versunken in des Hugels gerechtes Mass;

Immer gehst du den grunen Fluss hinab, Wenn es Abend geworden, Tonende Liebe; friedlich begegnet das dunkle Wild,

Ein rosiger Mensch. Trunken von blaulicher Witterung Riihrt die Stirne das sterbende Laub Und denkt das emste Antlitz der Mutter; 0, wie alles ins Dunkel hinsinkt;

Die gestrengen Zimmer und das alte Gerst Der Vater, Dieses erschiittert die Brust des Fremdlings. 0, ihr Zeichen und Sterne.

Gross ist die Schuld des Geborenen. W eh, ihr goldenen Schauer Des Todes, Da die Seele kiihlere Bliiten traumt,

Immer schreit im kahlen Gezweig der nachtliche Vogel Uber des Mondenen Schritt, Tont ein eisiger Wind an den Mauem des Dorfs.

28 Georg Trakl ANIF

Memory: gulls, gliding over the dark sky Of man's sorrow. You live quietly in the shade of autumnal ash trees, Sunk down in the hill's just measure.

Always you walk down the green river When evening has come, My singing love; peacefully the dark deer encounters

A rosy man. Drunk with the pale blue scent The brow grazes the dying leaf And the earnest face of the mother ponders; 0 how all things sink into darkness.

Austere chamber and ancient goods Of the fathers. These things convulse the stranger's breast. 0 you signs and stars.

Huge is the guilt of one who is born. Woe, you golden shudders Of death When the soul dreams of cooler flowers.

In the bare branch always the night bird cries Above the step of the moon-bright man, An icy wind moans at the village wall.

29 Georg Trakl VERKLARUNG

Wenn es Abend wird, Verlasst dich leise ein blaues Antlitz. Ein kleiner Vogel singt im Tamarindenbaum.

Ein sanfter Mench Faltet die erstorbenen Hande. Ein weisser Engel sucht Marien heim.

Ein nachtiger Kranz Von Veilchen, Korn· und purpurnen Trauben Ist das Jahr des Schauenden.

Zu deinen Fiissen Offnen sich die Graber der Toten, W enn du die Stirne in die silbernen Hande legst.

Stille wohnt An deinem Mund der herbstliche Mond, Trunken von Mohnsaft dunkler Gesang;

Blaue Blume, Die leise tont in vergilbtem Gestein.

30 Georg Trakl RADIANCE

When evening descends, A blue face softly leaves you. A small bird sings in the tamarind tree.

A gentle monk Folds dead hands. A white angel haunts Maria.

A nocturnal wreath Of violets, grain and purple grapes Is the year of the guardian.

The graves of the dead open At your feet When you lay your brow in your silver hands.

Quietly the autumn moon Lives upon your mouth, Drunk from the dark song of poppy wine;

Blue flower, That softly sounds in the yellowed stone.

31 Forrest Ingram NO MOON NO SUN NO SHADOW

Butterflies still flutter on the flowers of my spine. I hear the harsh moon whisper through my waveless brain forecasting violent fluctuations for our heaving shores. Skies promise no tomorrow for sand castles. Are we a dream cocooned on flexing branches? Will we break against seastones before we hatch? You, less bold, and I, less beautiful, stroll like shadows on the sand. Only the moon by dying can erase us from this place. Only the sun by setting can kill our tomorrow.

32 Forrest Ingram STATUED ANTINOMIES he comes he does not come I see him I do not he speaks to me he says nothing I understand I understand nothing his eyes tell me he tells me nothing his hands reach out his hands stay still I see his muscles I see only skin I hear him breathing I cannot hear him breathe his mouth moves his lips are still his tongue rattles his tongue is buried like a corpse his fingers are stiff his fingers bend toward me his feet move forward his feet are planted firmly his skin is smooth his skin is raging his hairs rise up his hairs lie flat his thumbnail lives his thumb is dead as ice his lifeline runs deep it is cut short

33 THE DUEL HORST BIENEK

tr. MICHAEL BuLLOCK

It wasn't a sudden fright that came over Gordon as he felt the door open, it was only a cold, bewildering pain in the chest; he imagined a door had opened in his body laying bare his heart and his blood vessels and exposing them to the cold night air. He was feeling with outspread fingers over his sweat-soaked shirt as the door clicked shut; the draught was gone and a slight quiver ran over his skin. Someone had come in, someone had just entered the room, he felt it quite clearly, there was someone else with him in this room, he smelled his clothes ( a sweetish, musty smell like rotting fruit), he heard his irregular breathing, but he couldn't see anything, because this night was perfect in its darkness. Nothing else in this damned country was perfect, only the darkness, it walled him in, it buried him, it was trying to suffocate him. He opened his mouth and hurriedly sucked in the air, the air that the hostile Others also breathed with him, and a low whistle was audible as he did so. He knew that he was thereby giving himself away, that he was delivering himself up to reality, to the alien figure that had entered almost soundlessly like a piece of this accursed lightless night, which was dark enough to protect him, but also dark enough to conceal his murderer. But they hadn't come yet ... No, they wouldn't get him that easily. If they came, they wouldn't creep into the room soundlessly,

34 almost timidly-they would march into the yard in hundreds, surround the house, the butts of their guns would batter down the door, and then ... But this man here can only be Ham, no one else knows about this hideout. It must be Ham, it's got to be Ham! "Ham," he yelled, and he noticed with dismay that at full strength his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. Is it possible I'm scared? A feeling I've never known till now, but if this feeling of cold pain in my chest is fear, then at this moment I'm afraid, thought Gordon. "Yes, it's me," someone said from the far end of the darkness. Gordon heard the familiar voice of his friend, and suddenly the darkness was no longer quite so dark, and he actually thought he could see Ham · sitting in an old armchair, in the opposite corner of the room, facing him, four paces away, his hair hanging wet and tangled over his face, his clothes soaked with sweat and torn, in places incrusted with blood. When Gordon looked more closely there was nothing there but the foam• ing darkness, and a slight pain in his left thigh reminded him of his injury. So long as it doesn't get infected everything will be all right, he thought. "Don't ... don't switch the light on," said Ham from the other corner, his voice trembling slightly. Is he afraid I shall stand up and put the light on, thought Gordon, he's sitting closer to the switch than I am. And besides, I know just as well as he does how dangerous it would be to switch the light on now. We should give ourselves away im• mediately, because the house has been unoccupied for ages, they know that. Gordon leaned back, the back of the chair creaked faintly. He has no idea about my injury, that's just as well. Now that his fearful an• ticipation was receding, he clearly felt the pain in his thigh again. Damnation, fancy getting hit at the very last minute. Now, when it's all up anyway. The injury is going to hinder my escape. He stared in the direction in which he guessed Ham to be and he listened for the other's every movement. He felt the saliva, viscous and sticky in his mouth, and he was overcome by an agonizing desire for a cigarette. "Haven't you anything to smoke?" he asked. "No, I've none left," came the answer out of the darkness. "Any• how it's better not to strike a match here. They may be lying in wait outside already. They're lying in wait. .. " Gordon interrupted him. It suddenly occurred to him that the Others might have followed Ham and so discovered the hideout. "What happened, did they follow you?" he asked hurriedly. " .. they're lying in wait everywhere tonight," Ham slowly and

35 emphatically completed his sentence. "I don't think anyone saw me; the streets are empty and deathly quiet. Before I turned off into Upper Street I was pulled up by a patrol. I showed my doctor's pass and told them I had to visit a very sick patient. They let me go unhindered." He stopped. Gordon thought: Why did he come here? And then: It's a good thing he came here. He may help me to get away. He's intelligent and always finds a way out. And then he has that doctor's pass; that may save us. He asked: "Where are the rest?" Ham let this question stand unanswered for a while in the room, growing larger and larger and more and more challenging, then he finally said in a low, rather resigned voice: "Dead, captured or fled. .. I don't know, I came alone." Gordon didn't ask any more questions. At bottom he knew how everything had happened. When it was known the uprising had mis• carried most of them went back to their families; the rest fled later, after the first shots were fired. We started too soon, thought Gordon. He involuntarily shrugged his shoulders, because once again a thought had forced its way into his mind that had already struck him while he was still alone in this room. He quickly thought of something else. We shall get out of here, he thought. Next time I shan't rely on reports, I shall check everything for myself. . . And out loud he said: "If only this night were past! Tomorrow by daylight we may be able to get out of here. Once we're in the Northern District we'll be all right." "Do you really think, Gordon, that we ... I mean, do you really believe we shall get away?" asked Ham shyly. Gordon immediately heard the uncertainty in Ham's voice, the slight vibration of the consonants, that betrayed doubt. He felt the old distrust of Ham rising up in him again. He's giving up. He's a coward. I shouldn't have put so much confidence in him. All trace of fear left him. He felt a weaker man beside him and that gave him courage. He said more loudly than usual, almost triumphantly: "Once daylight comes, if they haven't caught us by then, because I assume they'll comb the whole district, we shall be able to get other clothes and slip through into the Northern District. We shall be safe there for the time being. From there we can get to the frontier somehow ... " "And what then?" asked Ham hurriedly, with a searching under• tone. Gordon involuntarily tossed his head. "Then we shall be in safety. And then we shall start all over again from the beginning, we shall form new cells and" (he raised his voice to provoke the other, who was

36 still his friend even if, as it now seemed to him, a cowardly friend) "perhaps we shall succeed next time ... " Gordon stopped, he listened for the reply, but from the opposite corner there came nothing but regular breathing. And after a while, very low, but clearly accentuated: "We're lost, we'd better give up ... " Gordon sat there and didn't know what to say. He pretended not to have understood, although he could distinctly feel his heart beating more violently. "Do you want to surrender?" The hint of a threat, which he wanted to ring through his words, turned into a hoarse hiss. "I'm not surrendering, but I think it's senseless." The last word remained for a long time in the room, and it seemed to Gordon as though it was multiplied a hundredfold; he wanted to say something, really only to destroy the silence that was once again crawling towards him, paralyzing him, he was about to begin when Ham continued in a very resolute tone: "During the last few hours, when I had to hide from my pursuers in a stinking vegetable cellar, I thought a great deal, perhaps too much for a man of my stamp, but I had time and you know, when you're waiting for them to come and get you and send you where you can never think again, you suddenly have damn good thoughts. And all at once it became clear to me that we were bound to lose and will be bound to lose again. We're asking too much. We're running against a door that is locked from inside, and however hard we push it scarcely rocks on its hinges. But with time its lock will get looser, and gradually, bit by bit, it will open, and then we shall be able to go through this door to the inside. It may take longer, but it will be less bloody. And I can't stand the sight of blood any more, believe me, Gordon, when I saw them dying today-someone fired from a roof-I had suddenly had enough, and at bottom I wished they would hit me too... I know, you will be staring across at me now indignant and dismayed, I'm sure you think I'm a traitor, a renegade, a windbag. No, my dear Gordon" (Ham's voice grew bitter) "you can't deal with me as easily as that. I shan't betray anyone, not anyone; nothing will change between us-only I'm not taking part any more. I can't bear to see anyone else die in the street, I don't want them to perish senselessly, you see, that's it, at least I think that's it; and even if people preach to me that they're dying for freedom and for the future and all the rest of it, I don't want to see anyone else lying in the street with a hole in his head." Ham's voice became urgent, almost imploring. It dawned on him that he had been speaking for rather a long time, but he wanted to rid

37 himself of everything that had accumulated inside him. "Now you think I'm getting sentimental and soft-hearted about the body of a dead child" (and Gordon really did think so), "but I'm not a coward, I only want this business to come to a stop... " Ham suddenly became a bit uncer• tain, he felt the cold sweat under his shirt. He scratched the left side of his chest and this gesture brought back to his consciousness the fact that he was still there and that he had a right to speak like this, because he didn't want to sacrifice his own life senselessly either. Gordon had listened to Ham's words in silence. He thrust his right hand into his jacket pocket. It was bound to happen. I always sensed it. And yet at the time they had all been for Ham. They valued his in• telligence, his eloquence, his uncritical enthusiasm. He had gained great sympathy among the younger ones. And then finally I chose him as my closest collaborator, as my friend. I didn't want to be pushed aside one day. What did they care for all my experience, my perseverance, my tough resistance, my craft and cunning, my unshakable faith? Ham was a newcomer, but he had made them promises, he didn't only attack the methods of the Others, he also told them what it would be like when they were the Others. That was the trick with which Ham caught the people, because they didn't want only to have an enemy, but also a home, and by the time I realized that it was almost too late for me. The leaders wanted to remove me, to push me out, and then I started the uprising. If it had come off, the people at the top would have seen what they owed to me. How right I was then. Now I can see it again, and the others will notice it too: Ham is a coward, he fears for his life, he's afraid ... He thought this; but all he said after a while was: "Coward... " He said it in a low voice, almost gently, as though the other were no longer there, as though he were speaking of a dead man, who hadn't died a particularly meritorious death. He didn't count on him any more either. When he thought that Ham might refuse to help him escape, that he might even frustrate his escape, he suddenly felt rage-but at the same time the helplessness of his situation. He hissed "Swine!" and felt Ham wince, felt him lean forward as though to spring. Gordon repeated once more in a low voice: "Swine!" "And you're a murderer, Gordon! You sacrificed our people sense• lessly, or are you going to tell me you didn't know perfectly well it was too soon for the uprising? You started because you realized that your influence was declining, because more and more people spoke up in warning against this adventure, and naturally you didn't want to 38 wait until they outnumbered you ... And we all saw through the whole thing too late." Ham's voice was growing more and more excited and loud. Gordon hissed: "You're a weakling, get out ... you traitor ... " Ham felt these words stir up turmoil within him. If he says that once more I shall fire, he thought, and he whipped his hand out of his pocket. "You can swear at me, but that won't save a single one of those who died tonight or are now being tortured somewhere or other. At least I want to save those whom you are ready to sacrifice all over again in one or two years' time ... " Gordon remained quite calm. He hadn't overlooked Ham's violent movement, he had heard the rustle of his clothes. But he couldn't imagine what had happened. The darkness seemed to him to have grown darker still, now that he knew that an enemy had come in here to him. Ham has to be disposed of, he reflected coldly. A man who suddenly gets scruples and blathers sentimental rubbish, simply because he has seen a few dead bodies, will betray everything ... And suddenly he couldn't bear this smell of rotting fruit any longer, it made him feel sick and he thought he was going to suffocate. There was no room in his brain for anything but the one thought: Ham must be rendered harmless. Both were silent. Time breathed inaudibly in arid out. Time turned to stone. Time in its helplessness. And all around nothing but darkness, lurking and dangerous, impenetrable and like a thousand gun barrels. And in this fortress of darkness, which expanded the room into infinity,. two men sitting facing one another four paces apart, both of them thinking: I must stop him! Perhaps there's no other way. Perhaps it is bound to happen like that. Each one listened to the other's movements. Their sense organs were so intently focused on the sounds in the room, that they failed to hear the low creaking in the yard. Suddenly a voice roared outside, a searchlight blazed out, and a cold flood of light poured in through the window. Gordon and Ham, dazzled, had to shut their eyes, and when the night passed away from their eyes each discovered the other sitting in a chair, leaning forward from the waist, and each was holding a pistol in his hand, a black, dully gleaming army pistol-the barrel pointing at the other.

39 . . ------_ Photography by Ingeborg Lomrnatzsch

40 "Personajes" 1964 Jorge Castillo Photography by Raymond Asseo

"Jardin almesiense" 1968 150 centimeters by 150 centimeters Jorge Castillo

41 Photography by Claude Mercier

"Soldat" 1970 180 centimeters by 160 centimeters Jorge Castillo

42 Photography by Raymond Asseo

"Mediterraneo" 1967 Jorge Castillo

43 ------

Photography by Ingeborg Lommatzsch:

"Frutas y Garrote" 1969 120 centimeters by 120 centimeters Jorge Castillo

44 Photography by Ingeborg Lommatzscli

"Biornbo" 1969 150 centimeters by 200 centimeters Jorge Castillo

45 Photography by Claude Mercier

"Petit Dejeuner Sur L'Herbe" 1970 150 centimeters by 300 centimeters Jorge Castillo Photography by Raymond Asseo

"Triptyque" 1967 600 centimeters by 300 centimeters Jorge Castillo Nikos Engonopoulos tr. from the Greek by YANNIS GouMAS

SINBAD THE SAILOR

Tu autem eras interior intimo meo et superior summo meo. SAINT AUGUSTINE, Confessions III, VI, ii my soul is often a narrow path on Mykonos as dusk begins to fall and the women take to placing down amorously on the street in monotonous geometrical patterns fragments of blue glass -blue vases blue bottles blue desires pebbles flowers violins all made of blue glass• away from the sun over the earth on the street where once trailed the sunlight and will not

48 -as it happens• ever pass again this is precise!y when i pass my hand gently over the base of my skull then with a sudden jerk plunge it --deep down- inside my head and take out my brain and calmly squeeze the gray matter through my fingers and when all the fluids fall -soundless• to the ground only a little flower remains -and blossoms- in the palm of my hand which i yearned for since childhood and which fondles my brow with its white hands which speaks to me lovingly and tells me about the dreams that whistle in the night so gently so compassionately -like fingers• like tears-

49 among the ruins of Palmyra and the destitute palaces of Babylon

which tells me forever about the life that i am living quietly and in solitude in the large empty house -made entirely of blue glass• inhabited only by the birds i alone motionless in the electrophorous wmng of Her belly

and though a violent storm rages about me and angry waves cover the decks of my derelict ship i climb barefooted on the highest mast and hold tightly in my hands a vase made of blue glass

-these hands my brow not seared by lightning

50 and the eagles• and this vase of blue glass where i have placed both my hands the fluids that dripped from my fingers the tiny white flower and also a long long piece of glass blue or rose -i cannot remember• is simply where She is

* * * * * and the voices disturb the night like voices like a harsh monody of wailing women to the accompaniment --of course- of a piano a violin or even a flute

51 Nikos Engonopoulos MORNING SONG i asked once why it is that the tragic and modest virgin named Poulheria on the eve of her marriage washed the floors of her house very carefully and the next day died? since she cleaned up and did the household chores why did she not live to enjoy the long white lace fabrics the white intricate frills and the large multicolored feathers of matrimony?

why did she place down quietly on the wooden boards the large yellow butterfly

52 and the paper flowers that were inside her head? the stuffed bird that was inside the cage of her breast why? because -my father said perhaps• because the soldier must have his cigarette the small child his cradle and the poet his mushrooms because the soldier must have his machination the small child his grave the poet his rattle because the soldier must have his adze the small child his glance and the poet his carpenter's plane

53 Nikos Engonopoulos NEWS OF THE DEATH OF THE SPANISH POET FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA ON AUGUST 19, 1936, IN A DITCH AT CAMINO DE LA FUENTE art and poetry do not help us to live: art and poetry help us to die all that noise and investigations and endless talk around the mysterious and shameful circumstances of the execution of the hapless Lorca by the Fascists which every so often idle and conceited pen-pushers impose on us are worthy of contempt let's face it everyone knows that for a long time now -especially in our own wretched day and age• it has been the custom to murder poets

54 Nikos Engonopoulos EARLY IN THE MORNING that in me which moved -and still moves• people IS my astonishing likeness to A.braham Lincoln

in fact when they raised a bronze statue to me in no particular square at Piraeus they placed at my feet solemnly something which looked like -i couldn't quite make it out from the pedestal• a corpse like a copper brazier with burning coals

i waited for night to fall and when i leaned over to look i realized -with what joy• that it was nothing else but the black eyes of the woman i love which shone in the dark

55 Carlos Drummond de Andrade

NOSSO TEMPO a Osvaldo Alves

Este e tempo de divisas, tempo de gente cortada. De mao~ viajando sem braces, obscenos gestos avulsos. Mudou-se a rua da infancia, E o vestido vermelho vermelho cobre a nudez do amor, ao relento, no vale.

Simbolos obscuros se multiplicam. Guerra, verdade, flores.? Dos laboratories platonicos mobilizados vem um sopro que cresta as faces e dissipa, na praia, as palavras.

A escuridao estende-se mas nao elimina 0 sucedaneo, da estrela nas maos, Certas partes de nos como brilham! Sao unhas, aneis, perolas, cigarros, lanternas, sao partes mais intimas, a pulsacao, 0 ofego, e oar da noite e oestritamente necessario para continuar, e continuamos.

56 Carlos Drummond de Andrade tr. DuANE ACKERSON AND RICARDO DA SILVEIRA LOBO STERNBERG

OUR TIME

to Osvaldo Alves

This is a time of emblems, time of dismembered people. Hands travelling without arms, detached obscene gestures. The childhood street is changed. And the red dress Red Covers the nakedness of love In the dew on the valley.

Obscure symbols multiply themselves. War, truth, flowers? From mobilized platonic laboratories comes a breath that singes the face and destroys, on the beach, all the words.

Darkness extends itself but does not eliminate The surrogate stars in the hands. Certain parts of us, how they shine! They are nails, rings, pearls, cigarettes, flashlights, they are the more intimate parts; the pulse, the lack of breath, and the night air, only what is strictly necessary to continue; and we continue.

57 Carlos Drummond de Andrade LUAR EM QUALQUER CIDADE

0 luar deixava as coisas mais brancas. As estrelas desapareciam. As casas, as moitas: impregnadas nao de sereno, de luar, Caminhavamos irrterminavelmente, sem ofego, sem pressa. Caminhavamos atravez da lua. E eramos dois seres habituais e dois fantasmas ao mesmo tempo. La longe era o mundo aquela hora coberto de sol. Mas haveria sol? Boiavamos em luar. 0 ceu uma difusa claridade. A terra, menos que o reflexo dessa claridade. Tao claros! Tao calmos! Estavamos mortos e nao sabiamos, sepultados, andando, nas criptas do luar.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade I POLITICA LITERARIA

a Manuel Bandeira

0 poeta municipal discute com o poeta estadual qual deles e capaz de bater O poeta federal.

Enquanto isso o poeta federal tira ouro do nariz.

58 Carlos Drummond de Andrade MOONLIGHT IN ANY CITY ..

Moonlight left things very white. The stars disappeared. The houses, silenced, impregnated not by dew, but by moonlight. We walked endlessly, not anxious not hurried. We walked through the moon. And we were two normal beings and two ghosts at the same time. Far away, the world at that time covered by sun. But would there be a sun? We floated in moonlight. The sky a diffuse brightness. The earth less than the reflection of that glow. We felt so clear! So calm! We were dead and did not know it, buried, walking the crypts of moonlight.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade LITERARY POLITICS

to Manuel Bandeira

The municipal poet Argues with the State poet Over who is better than The federal poet.

Meanwhile the federal poet Picks his nose.

59 Marco Antonio Montes de Oca

A NIVEL DEL MAR

Claridades, milagros, Animaciones subitas en las oficinas del aire, Campanas que se ablandan hasta mudarse en cabezas de pulpo En este universo donde nada cambia Y al que le da lo mismo si tu lloras o yo canto, Le da lo mismo romper o no romper manteles de hojas que el acebo ha llorado Y que la calma extiende sobre arrugas de la frente Ocultando el nadir de la fabula plena, El nadir de todo cuanto canta o hace guifios Entre visiones aplacadas y rocas negras que se desprenden Dispersando racimos de oraculos, albumes de niebla donde tosen fotografias que nunca debieron perderse. [Perdamonos ahora con ellas! Perdamonos a semejanza del que busca orbita propia En la torrencial basura de los astros Y solo encuentra ventriculos llenos de alas Y auriculas que alojan otras alas de mayor poder. El himno ya vacio requiere nuevas transfusiones, Mas clorofila sagrada, esperma incandescente Para que vuelva a ser el hombre un minimo planeta aventajado, Gusano con luz propia, instante con los dias contados, Arma insultada por la quietud de las panoplias Y cuya descendencia no dobla sus hombros bajo el Niagara. iOh espiritus que no aceptan vivir a nivel del mar! Tenemos el gozo y la erupcion y la nostalgia. Tenemos, solo tenemos. Tenemos la rueda que captura su propio movimiento Y un condor bajo cada brazo, Horrorizados ambos porque nada satisface nuestro deseo de altura.

60 Marco Antonio Montes de Oca tr. LAURA VILLASENOR

AT SEA LEVEL

Radiances, miracles, sudden busyness in the officesof air, bells that soften into silence in octopus heads in this universe where nothing changes and where it's all the same if you cry or I sing, all the same to rip or not the napery of leaves the holly weeps and calm spreads over the forehead's furrows, hiding the nadir of the consummate fable, the nadir of all that sings or slyly winks among placated visions and avalanching black rocks that scatter roots of oracles, albums of fog where photographs cough that never should be lost. Let's lose ourselves with them! Let's lose ourselves like what seeks its own orbit in the torrential garbage of the stars and finds only ventricles full of wings and auricles sheltering other wings of greater power. The half-dreamed hymn needs new transfusions, more of the holy chlorophyll, incandescent sperm, so that man can be again a minimal planet infinitely achieved, an instant of numbered days, a firefly glowing with its own light, a weapon incensed by peace in the hall of arms and whose progeny does not bow under Niagara. 0 spirits who will not live at sea level! We have, we only have. We have the delight and the rage and the longing. We have the wheel that seizes its own motion and a condor under each arm, both aghast that nothing sates our desire for height.

------Perdarnonos entonces como un amuleto de ozono Entre profundas bolsas nocturnas, Entre respiraderos por donde una gota de agua Asoma la irisada testa. Perdamonos para acaso resurgir Cuando el verde fruto joven y virgen se nos suba a la cabeza, Cuando el rostro feroz de la hermosura Al fin nos de la cara Y los remados afios, los insomnios ejemplares, Apacienten visiones azotadas por f1ores de cuero Y manos sucias de tanto acariciar estatuas.

Marco Antonio Montes de Oca LUZ EN RISTRE

La creacion esta en pie, su espiritu surge entre blancas dunas y bafia con hisopos inagotables los huertos oprimidos por la bota pedernal o la fria insolencia de la noche. Los colores celestes, firmemente posados en los vitrales, esponjan siluetas de santos; un resorte de yeso alza sobre el piso miserable sombras que bracean con angustioso denuedo. Y llama el cuerno magico a las creaturas gastadas en el dolor, para que el vertigo maravilloso instaure su hora de resarcimiento y la ceniza despierte animada en grises borbotones. La unica, esplendida, irresistible creacion esta de pie como una osamenta enardecida y sobrepasa todas las esclusas, toca en cada llama la puerta del incendio y ensilla galaxias que un gran mago ha de montar, cuando el espiritu patrulle el alba hasta encontrar los pilares del tiempo vivo.

62 Let's lose ourselves, then, like an amulet of ozone among deep nocturnal pockets, among air holes where a drop of water rears its iridescent crown. Let's lose ourselves, perhaps to rise again when the green young virgin fruit goes to our head, when the fierce countenance of beauty finally turns to us and the plied years, the incomparable insomnias pasture visions lashed by rawhide flowers and hands soiled from long caressing of statues.

Marco Antonio Montes de Oca LIGHT IN READINESS

Creation is on foot, its spirit arises among white dunes and sprays from inexhaustible aspersoria the orchards crushed by flint foot or by the cold insolence of night. The heavenly colors locked in the windows widen the silhouettes of saints. Above the wretched floor a plaster spring rears shadows that wave their arms in anguished daring. And the magic horn summons the creatures wasted with pain for the marvelous vertigo to install their hour of redress and for ash to awake leaping in bubbling gushes of grays. The unique, splendid, irresistible creation is on foot like an impassioned skeleton and overflows all the sluices, touches in every flame the door of raging fire, and saddles galaxies that a great wizard must mount, when spirit patrols the dawn until it comes to the pillars of living time.

63 Jorge Carrera Andrade

DOMINGO

Iglesia frutera sentada en una esquina de la vida: naranjas de cristal de las ventanas. Organo de cafias de azucar.

Angeles: polluelos de la Madre Maria.

La campanilla de ojos azules sale con los pies descalzos a corretear por el campo.

Reloj de Sol; burro angelical con su sexo inocente; vien to buen mozo del domingo que trae noticias del cerro; indias con su carga de legumbres abrazada a la frente.

El cielo pone los ojos en blanco cuando sale corriendo de la iglesia la campanilla de los pies descalzos.

64 Jorge Carrera Andrade tr. DORA PETTINELLA

SUNDAY

The church, a fruit vendor, that sits at the corner of life, its windows of crystal oranges the organ of sugar canes.

Angels: Mother Mary's baby chicks.

The little blue-eyed bell comes out in bare feet to run around the field.

Sun-clock: angelical donkey with its innocent sex; the wind, Sunday's good boy bringing news from the hill; Indian girls with baskets of vegetables on their heads.

The sky wears a blank look when the little barefoot bell comes running from the church.

65 Jorge Carrera Andrade VIDA DEL GRILLO

Invalido desde siempre, ambula por el campo con sus muletas verdes.

Desde las cinco el chorro de la estrella llena el pequeii.o cantaro del grillo.

Trabajador, con las antenas hace cada dia su pesca en los rios del aire.

Por la noche, misantropo, cuelga en su casa de hierba la lucecita de su canto. jHoja enrollada y viva, la musica del mundo conserva dentro escrita!

66 Jorge Carrera Andrade LIFE OF THE CRICKET

Forever an invalid, ambling through fields with his green crutches ..

Since five o'clock the beam of a star fills the cricket's small um.

At work with his antennae he hauls fish all day from rivers of air.

At night a misanthrope, his grass house gleams with the torch of his song.

A coiled living leaf that conceals within the music of the world.

67 Jorge Carrera Andrade

COLUMNA EN MEMORIA DE LAS ROJAS lQue leccion insimias en las rocas oh pino de tus hojas desvestido? Todo raiz y altura, galas pocas, en la lumbre del cielo confundido.

Absorbiste el espacio por mil bocas, a cuervos y palomas diste nido: Hoy, con tu pie de espectro solo toca la region del gusano y del olvido.

Mendigo del azul, rey del poniente, es tu estacion final tan encendida que la luz se levanta de tu frente.

Insensible al verdor, perfecta vida ya columna de paz unicamente en memoria a las hojas erigida.

68 Jorge Carrera Andrade PILLAR IN MEMORY OF LEAVES

What lesson can you teach the rocks without your leaves, 0 pine tree? All root and height, few charms, confused in luminosity of sky.

Absorbing space through a thousand mouths you offered a nest to crow and dove: your ghostly foot can now only touch the region of the worm and oblivion.

Beggar of azure skies, king of the west, your terminal site in such flames that from your crest the light breaks out

Insensitive to green, a perfect life, already a pillar of peace built solely in memory of leaves.

69 Alexandros Baras tr. from the Greek by YANNIS GouMAS

THE CLEOPATRA, THE SEMIRAMIS, AND THE THEODORA

Once every week, on a given day, and always at the same hour, three handsome ships, the Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora, leave their berth at nine o'clock for Piraeus always, for Brindisi and for Trieste always.

Without maneuvers or fuss or hesitation or unnecessary blowing on the whistle, they put out to sea, the Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora, like certain well-bred people who take leave of their hosts without uncouth and superfluous handshaking.

They leave their berth at nine o'clock, for Piraeus always,

70 for Brindisi and for Trieste always-rain or shine.

They sail to daub the blue waters of the Aegean and the Mediterranean with smoke. They sail to cast their lights like topazes on the sea at night. They sail laden with passengers and luggage ...

The Cleopatra, the Semiramis, and the Theodora, for years now on the same route, arriving on the same day sailing at the same hour.

They resemble white collar workers who have become such time machines that an officedoor might come tumbling down if they were to miss work even for a single day.

(If the route is always the same what if it is across an entire Mediterranean or from one house to another neighborhood?) The Cleopatra, the Semiramis, the Theodora for a long time now and for many years have felt the tyranny of boredom, plowing always the same route, mooring always at the same ports.

If I were a Captain, yes-si j' etais roil• if I were a Captain on the Cleopatra, the Semiramis, the Theodora, if I were a Captain

71 with four gold stripes, abandoned on this same route year after year, on a moonlit night, in the middle of the sea, I would climb to the bridge deck and while the music from the first class saloon played on, with my best uniform, my gold stripes and shiny decorations, I would trace a most perfect curve from the bridge deck into the water, gold braid and all, like a shooting star, like a hero of inexplicable death.

Alexandros Baras INSOMNIA

A stairway. A large, reverberating wooden stairway in the dense nether-darkness of Erebus ... And I climb it, holding a small light in one hand. The light is like an insect's eye, the yellow eye of a poisonous insect. (What an absurd and weak phosphorescence! Darkness is so thirsty that such a droplet of light for its burning negroid lips seems a mockery!)

72 A stairway; and I climb it. And I lower this light as though relying on its slender help, I almost bring it to rest on every step, crouching low to see where I am going -where to and how high I've climbed I cannot say.

A stairway. Not that I see it: I anticipate it with every move I make. I cannot see how many steps I've climbed nor how many there are left. Such that are gone lie in the depths of darkness, a depth horrid and abysmal; and such that remain again abide in the darkness of a chaotic, inaccessible vault -the sky is so fierce when not lit by stars.

A stairway; and I climb it. At times I think of sitting down to wait- wait for something (besides, all that crouching has worn me out), but certain indecipherable whispers are heard from the steps below; they reach me, are amplified, and their fear benumbs me ...

And so I go on climbing the stairs (my knees ache), but for how much longer? Sooner or later I shall have to rest.

------' My light -the yellow eye of a poisonous insect- I'll blow out. On a fatal step

(somewhere the wretched thing awaits me joyfully), on a fatal step I'll come to rest and wait for the oncoming whispers.

And what are these whispers? Why, all the Others. Those who sat down. Their anguish. Their final moment of terror on the stairway, wandering and rising ...

74 Stanley Cooperman HOMAGE TO SAMMLER

Erosion: the wind Through the stump of an evergreen. Walk quietly on the edge of your mind Or you will fall Into the deep landscape, A silence of wings Heavier than light.

A void stones. Avoid words. Touch only when necessary. Before you sleep Imagine a thin wave Curving toward your face, Imagine a cliff over the sea.

Let each gesture of your hand Measure the space In which it moves. Remember That the air is filled With force. If you must celebrate the nature Of animals, be scaled And silent.

75 2.

The beautiful diaper-flag .Of gods Risen from their foam, A pure refusal Outside the yeast of reason Calculation love ... They move toward each other Like baboons, The gut apotheosis Of the gut.

Speak to me of arithmetic, Balance, The sequence Of harmonious forms, Fire Made necessary By the holy combustion Of human skin: Whisper to me of history ...

( in the naked room a figure less than ape stuffs a hairy arm into its eye the eye closes the figure rests and is content)

Under my hand a woman Tells me Everything of distance Blue paint Smeared on space

76 There are no lines In this definition only The fear of being left behind w~ talk We arrange matters We fumble with our flesh: Sometimes Between headlines I can hear the nails of my father Growing long and ready In the earth ...

Sometimes Before the sun rises I walk in my garden And leave unsigned notes Under the roots Of trees

77 SNOW SPIDER MARGUERITE HUNTER

High in the mountains, close to timberline, the snow fell steadily for many nights and days, so that when it finally ceased, the old hermit who lived there found himself snowbound. But there was more: the wind stopped, and in the silence that followed all motion seemed suspended. Not a twig snapped; not a needle dropped from a pine; and where before small wildlife had foraged, only emptiness lingered; nor did a single bird disturb the air with flight or the quiet with song. Even the shadows cast by the watery sun seemed insubstantial as if shed by ghosts so that the turn of the earth seemed to affect them not at all. At night the sky held no stars, no moon. Colors vanished, and in the sharp crispness no scent remained. The old man had never known such absolute negation, and for the first time his isolation pressed upon him and he felt strangely, frighteningly alone. And as he hobbled within his cramped cabin or stood outside rubbing his hands against the chill, old half-buried disavowals surfaced and coalesced until they seemed a piercing shaft of frozen mockery. He had come to this remoteness seeking refuge from

78 a world that had disillusioned and betrayed, had lived his exile gladly, never once regretting his solitary self-sufficiency. Now in retrospect, however, it seemed that all the hurts once inflicted upon him were in• finitely kinder than this total nothingness. By day his eyes pleaded with the stillness, and through the long sleepless nights his ears groped for respite from the silence. All his actions, all his thoughts, all his dreams were a prayer, but absolution did not come. It was as if creation itself had died, leaving him behind, discarded--a bearded white-haired husk of no consequence. Then suddenly one morning when desperation had honed him close to breaking, he saw a change on the snow. Along the ridge that circled his cabin a pinprick ribbon, almost invisible, marred the smooth• ness, and as he stood wondering before it, his eyes caught movement. From the base of a twisted pine a spider, the color of a shadow, detached herself and traced a filigree. She was a very small spider-nothing much in the scale of values -yet at her presence a lightness flashed through the old man as if in• side him a tight knot had all at once been severed. In the miracle of her aliveness he felt his own life quicken, his existence lifted and transformed, his senses raised to an acuteness that almost pained. The spider moved slowly, haltingly, as if newly-hatched and still wary of the cold beneath her legs. Yet in the surrounding vastness of quietude the old man's ears transformed each weightless step to sound, as it displaced a snow crystal. And bit by bit the sounds swelled, consumed his mind and shook the earth, so that entire blocks of ice appeared to split and crash. The bitter impotence of the sun seemed fused into a blaze that laughed on the back of the frail tiny being and sent laughter echoing back from the naked cliffs. The spider's presence suddenly overflowed the world, colored sky and cliff and tree, and breathed dimension into what had looked flat, stripped of perspective. All morning he watched her, played with her in his mind, imagined her caress on his thick-veined hands, or her light scurrying across the folds of his faded coat. But when he reached out to make known his desire, she was gone. With the quickness of a gasp she was gone--and the old man knew only that her home was somewhere in the snow that draped the weatherbeaten pine. He remained standing a long while, watching the spot where she had disappeared, scarcely blinking for fear that in one shuttered in• stant he might miss a token of her presence. Even when stiffness at last prodded him to move about, his eyes kept their vigil, and as he

79 paced, his lips occasionally quivered, as though struggling to shape a plea, a call, even the audacity of a summons. All afternoon he waited, but the spider did not return until al• most evening-a faint, barely perceptible disturbance in the trance• like equanimity of dusk. She hovered nearly motionless. She hovered as if her emergence were purely tentative, full of questions and wari• ness, her future action dependent upon many things, the nature of which she had yet to ponder. For the full span of dusk she hovered, swaying a bit now and then, testing the stretch of one, then the other, of her legs, all the while merging deeper and deeper into the gather• ing dark. Then quickly, as before, she vanished-yet in the total blackness that followed, there seemed to linger the presence of a promise. That night sleep returned to the old man, a deep restful, dream• less sleep. And when he woke, it was as if the sun had slipped a single ray past the void so that his room expanded with the glow. The silence palpitated like the hush before a revelation, and everywhere he felt a tremor as of hidden life returning. Outside, the first strands of a web already spanned the dawn, and the spider, like a master weaver sure of her craft, shuttled back and forth, laying a pattern according to the age-old dictates of her species. Breaching the distance from the pine to the low overhang of the cabin, the viscid gossamer unfurled from her body in a miracle of abundance, an endless manifestation of creative glory. The old man eased his bones into the wooden hardness of a bench, leaned his head against the wall and stretched his legs out before him. One hand he clasped in the hollow of the other. And so he sat, without thought of time, and watched-watched as the slight agile body threaded away, deftly joining link upon link of lacy tapestry. Her movement verged on the flamboyant as if, sensing herself to be sole actress on that stage, she felt freed of all constraints upon her style. The old man luxuriated in her plenitude, leaped recklessly with her across chasms, clung with her in precarious balance from ever-new heights. And when finally she curled back into the depths of the pine (with a fine pulse on her completed handiwork), his own limbs slack• ened, and his breathing calmed. Now the two of them watched and waited, and in the muteness of waiting the old man sensed as though it were his own the other's desire, the tensed expectancy, the almost hypnotic concentration of will as she crouched concealed, while her artistry beckoned its delicate deceit.

80 Yet as the day waned the web caught nothing-not the faintest mirage, but hung slack, an empty redundancy. The next day it was the same--and the next. In her lair the spider moved hardly at all, merging so subtly into the shadows that the old man wondered at times if indeed she were still there. But against fleeting doubts that nudged his mind, the terrible urgency of his need moulded an in• tuition of her presence, so that in the end he required no eyes to give him hope. Wrapped thus in the mantle of his conviction, he sat the whole turn of time, waiting-and felt neither the chill that bit by bit crept beneath his clothes and into his marrow, nor the hunger that racked his stomach nor the thirst that tore at his throat-nor did he sense the slow turning of his blood to fever, his mind into illusion. Only once-towards the close of the third day-did he rise. Hoping to coax the spider's return, he touched the center of her web (gently, he imagined), but against the coarseness of his finger it only tore like a rotted shroud. That night dreams tossed his body by turns deep into ice-packed crevices, then high into a white-hot sun; and in the morning weakness chained him so that it took all his will to rise and stumble to the door. The snow seemed hard and thick with the texture of opaque glass. The pine looked infinitely distant and small as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, while the fragments of web hung like an outworn dirty rag from some forgotten past. Nothing in the gaping grin of day augured the faintest resurgence of life, and the promise so recently dangled before him lay stagnant in the stillness. Yet the old man's hope would not let him go. Despite the bleak• ness, the unwavering sameness, the brittle air sucked barren, his hope clung to him like the strands of a fresh-spun web. He reeled to his bench, sank back, and let the chills and fever chase each other as they pleased. Only his eyes retained some slight strength as they searched and probed. Powerful flames burned in their caverns and leaped to• wards his brain. Once, twice, several times, his mind formed vague apparitions that recurring sanity, however, still had power to dissolve. But by evening both sanity and madness raced along the twisted ropes of the web together so that he no longer knew which was which• nor cared. Still, he waited. Shadows crept along the slopes and into the trees, bruising the pallid drifts with purple, gray and black, while the faint remnants of sun focused their rays as if on a lens to pry open his skull. Now the

81 flames seared his lids, coursed under his skin and into wasted muscles, licked the last bit of spittle from his mouth and sucked the remaining moisture from his flesh. And still he waited. Against the darkness sounds, lights, shapes played: shapes that mimicked long-suppressed loves and hates, shapes whose voices cried, taunted, probed, but in response to his mumbling only faded to laugh• ter. Then an undulating, many-tongued brilliance engulfed him, like a dying ember vaunting its final display-a brilliance that spun and wove as if guided by an invisible hand, and that with each completing strand closed tighter around his heart. Yet still he waited. Suddenly the fire went out and the ice melted to blackness• and the wind that sprang finally to life stole its first returning breath from his ...

* * * * * *

The snow that year melted quickly for the thin mountain air had not the power to hold back the sudden outpouring of the sun. But the old man neither felt nor heard as he sat staring ahead with vacant eyes, and could not know that around him the birds again shattered the air with song and brushed his face with their wings, or that all man• ner of returning wildlife once more foraged unafraid at his feet. Nor could he feel the gossamer that draped his body, holding intact the tatters of his coat; or sense that from time to time a small spider-nothing much in the scale of values-scuttled over his face, across his lips and along one arm, paused the briefest of moments on his desiccated hands (as if bestowing a passing caress), then raced with• out stopping into the shadowed crevice of the ancient weatherbeaten pine.

82 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

DUANE ACKERSON is a young American poet whose work has appeared in many journals including Apple, Hearse, Wisconsin Review and Cafe Solo. Mr. Ackerson is a co-editor of The Dragonfly, a journal of poetry and reviews published at Idaho State University.

ALEXANDROS BARAS was born in Constantinople in 1906, and served in the Greek Diplomatic Service until his retirement in 1966. To date he has published three volumes of verse. His collected Poems appeared in 1954. He has translated widely among French poets, and especially Baudelaire and Rimbaud. A number of his essays and short stories have appeared in lead• ing Greek literary reviews. Since 1949 he has been a member of the Na• tional Association of Greek Writers.

WILLIS BARNSTONE is a poet, critic, editor, and translator. He is Pro• fessor of Comparative Literature at Indiana University. He has edited and introduced an anthology titled Modern European Poetry. He recently pub• lished a critical anthology with Oxford University Press, Spanish Poetry. In addition, a new book of his own poetry, A Day in the Country, was published by Harper-Row in 1971, and an anthology of translations, Greek Lyric Poetry, by Schocken in 1972.

HORST BIENEK is a German poet and novelist who was born in 1930. He studied with Brecht in 1951 before being sentenced to hard labor in the Soviet Union for political reasons. He returned to West Germany in 1955 where he has published two collections of poetry and prose: Traumbuch eines Gefangenen (1957), was war was ist (19p6), and a novel, Die Zelle which was just published in English by Unicorn Press. It received the Rudolf Alexander Schroder Foundation prize.

MICHAEL BULLOCK is a British poet, playwright, short-story writer and translator. He is the author of several books of poetry including Zwei Stimmen in meinem Mund, a bilingual volume published in Germany. He has published a collection of surreal fictions called Sixteen Stories as they Happened, and is the translator of two volumes of poems by Karl Krolow. In 1971 he published a book of fables, Green Beginning, Black Ending, with the Sono Nis Press. Mr. Bullock teaches in the Creative Writing De• partment at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver.

83 JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE was born in 1903 in Quito, Ecuador. His major volumes of poetry include: El estanque inefable (1922), La guirn• alda del silencio (1926), Boletines de mar y tierra (1930), Rol de la manzana (1935), La hora de las ventanas iluminadas (1937), Registro del mundo (1940), Edades poeticas (1958), and Hombre planetario (1960). In recent years he has served Ecuador as a diplomat to several countries.

JORGE CASTILLO is a Spanish painter and engraver. Born in Pontevedra in 1933, immigrated and enrolled in the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Buenos Aires at the age of 8, Castillo later returned to Spain in 1955 where he worked 5 years until he was invited to participate in the Sao Paulo Bein• nale. In 1968 and for 3 years thereafter, he was invited to work at the Center for Contemporary Engraving in Geneva where he produced 200 engravings and lithographs for his first one-man exhibition at the Museum of Art, Geneva, 1971. In 1969 Castillo was awarded a stipendium from the DAAD, Berlin, where he is presently living. He has since had exhibitions at the New National Galerie, Berlin, Darmstadt, and the Galeries Krugier & Cie, Geneva, and Pels-Leusden, Berlin.

STANLEY COOPERMAN is a poet and critic who is teaching at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver, British Columbia. Author of World War I and the American Novel, Mr. Cooperman has written articles for Modern Language Quarterly, Yale Review, College English and many others. His fiction and poetry have been widely published in the United States and Canada. His two most recent poetry collections are The Owl Behind the Door (1968), and Cappelbaum's Dance (1970).

CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE belongs to the second generation of modernists in Brazilian poetry. His volumes of poetry include Alguma Poesia (1930), Brejo das Almos (1934), Sentimento do Mundo (1940), and Liciio de Coisas ( 1962).

NIKOS ENGONOPOULOS was born in Athens in 1910, and is now teaching art in the School of Architecture at the Athens Technical University. Rank• ing as one of the most prominent contemporary Greek painters he has held many exhibitions in his country and abroad. His volumes of poetry include The Clavichords of Silence (1939), The Return of the Birds (1946), The Atlantic (1950), and In a Flamboyant Greek Style (1956).

84 LUCIA GETSI is a doctoral candidate in the Comparative Literature Pro• gram at Ohio University. She has published original poems in English as well as translations from modern German poets. The poems included in this issue are taken from her translation of the complete poems of Georg Trakl to be published at the end of 1972. These poems appear here in English for the first time.

JOSEI GOROSTIZA is a Mexican poet and diplomat. He has taught in the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico as Professor of Mexican Litera• ture, and as head of the Department of Fine Arts. He was one of the group of young Mexican poets, "los Contemporaneos," who founded the literary review Contempordneos in 1928. He was awarded El Premio Nacional de Letras in 1968 for his poetry. At present he is President of the National Commission of Atomic Energy.

YANNIS GOUMAS was born in Athens, Greece in 1940. He was educated in Switzerland, England, and the United States. He is the author of one novel, one volume of verse, and has published two anthologies of Greek poets translated into English and French. In addition, he is a composer, actor, and a popular television personality in Athens. His poems and translations have appeared in many journals throughout the world.

MICHAEL HARPER is a poet currently teaching at Brown University. Recent books of poetry include Dear John, Dear Coltrane (1970) and His• tory is Your Own Heartbeat (1971). His latest collection, Debridement, will be published by Doubleday in 1973.

MARGUERITE HUNTER has published poetry, fiction and articles. One of her stories recently appeared in Literary Review. She is the biblio• grapher for Music and Oriental Studies at the University of California, Santa Cruz.

FORREST INGRAM is an associate professor of English at Loyola Uni• versity, New Orleans, and the editor of the New Orleans Review. His translations of the Dutch poet Huub Oosterhuis have appeared in several books. He has published fiction, poetry, criticism, and articles on education and religion. His poetry has appeared in Latitudes, Toward Winter, Missis• sippi Review, and the National Anthology of Teachers of English. 85 MARCO ANTONIO MONTES DE OCA is a Mexican poet who is the author of eight books of poetry including Delante de la Luz cantan Los pdiaros (1959), and Cantos al sol que no se alcanza (1961). His most re• cent volume of poetry, Pedir el fuego, appeared in 1968. Montes de Oca was the recipient of the Xavier Villaurrutia Prize for Poetry in 1959.

DORA PETTINELLA is an American poet and translator whose work has appeared in many English and Italian publications including Chicago Review, Hudson Review, Nation, Malahat Review, Cenobio, Fiera Letteraria, Ponte and others. She has translated numerous works from the Spanish, Portuguese, Italian and French.

ANDRE RESZLER is an Associate Professor of Comparative Literature at Indiana University. His poetry has been published in several French and Swiss reviews including La Nouvelle Revue Francaise, Europe, and La Gazette Litteraire.

GEORG TRAKL was born in Salzburg in 1887. He served as a dispensing pharmacist for most of his short adult life, travelling with an ambulance column during World War I. Having easy access to drugs, he became a confirmed addict and died of an overdose of cocaine in 1914 in the mental ward of a garrison hospital. His best poems were written during the last two years of his life. The poems appearing in this issue are taken from the definitive edition of his works: Trakl, Georg. Dichtungen und Briefe. Z Vols. Historisch-kritische Ausgabe herausgegeben von Szklenar, Hans and Killy, Walther. Salzburg: Otto Muller Verlag, 1969.

LAURA VILLASENOR is a poet and translator whose work has appeared in many journals. Her translation of Octavio Paz' Piedra de Sol (Sun Stone) was published in the autumn 1970 issue of The Texas Quarterly. She has also published a translation of Jose- Gorostiza's Muerte sin fi.n (Death Without End) with the Humanities Research Center of the Uni• versity of Texas. Mrs. Villasenor currently resides in Mexico City.

86 announcing the publication of the first six volumes in the Edinburgh Bilingual Library The languages represented in the Library will be those most studied in American schools and universities: French (with Provencal), German, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish ( with Catalan), and Russian. The method. is that of facing text and transla• tion, prefaced by original critical assessments and followed by appropriate annotation. Titles in the Library will be published in both clothbound and paperback editions. Alexander A. Parker, professor of Spanish and Portuguese, The University of Texas at Austin, is general editor of the series. The Library is published by the Edinburgh University Press and the University of Texas Press. Texas editions are for sale in the Western Hemisphere only.

LE CIMETIERE MARIN Camoens. His work has been translated into French, German, Italian, and Spanish. Yet he is virtually un• (The Graveyard by the Sea) known in the Anglo-Saxon world. This selection of By PAUL VALERY seventy poems and a substantial study of the man and Edited and translated by Grahrtm Dunstan Martin his work remedies this gap. In addition to the bilingual text and extensive com• No. 4. Cloth, $5.75; paper, $2.25 mentary, this volume includes the text and translation of Valery's own description of the conception and ANTHOLOGY OF structure of the poem. No. I. Cloth, $5.75; paper, $2.25 CONTEMPORARY FRENCH POETRY Edited and translated by Graham Dunstan Martin This anthology presents the most interesting new fig• PHEDRE ures in French poetry of the 1950's and 1960's. The By JEAN RACINE selections from thirty-six poets reveal the considerable Edited and translated by R. C. Knight variety and richness in the present French poetic scene. No. 5. Cloth, $9.50; paper, $3.95 In this new edition, Professor Knight provides an accurate and graceful English translation, with intro• duction and notes; he also sustains the tone, rhythm, DIE NACHTWACHEN and continuity of what Dryden called .. the main design." No. 2. Cloth, $5.75; paper, $2.25 DES BONA VENTURA (The Nightwatches of Bonaventura) Edited and translated by Gerald Gillespie ANTHOLOGY OF This bitter and bizzare fictional biography appeared TROUBADOUR LYRIC POETRY in 1804 under the pseudonym Bonaventura. It is a Edited and translated by Alan R. Press mark of the book's unusual power that it eventually This anthology in~ludes a major selection of eighty• entered the German literary canon of our century four examples of cansO and sirventes, extending two when, as the unknown Bonaventura predicted, there centuries, from the work of William IX (b. 1071) would be a general turning to the grotesque and ab• to that of Guiraut Riquier. (Translations in prose.) surd out of the logic of our cultural development. No. 3. Cloth, $9.50; paper, $3.95 No. 6. Cloth, $9.50; paper, $3.95

FERNANDO PESSOA SELECTED POEMS Edited and translated by Peter Rickard Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) is now considered to be the greatest poet in the Portuguese language since

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