David Rowe

David Rowe

Pfeil

WALT WHITMAN IZIBONGO

 

 

Walt Whitman! He who supp’d with the queen & then dumpster-dove for dessert!
Walt Whitman! Irrepressible one who did hard time for humping live oaks!
Walt Whitman! He who slept with both eyes open for fear he’d miss something!
He who knew the business-end of both a horse’s bridle & a bridal party!

 

He who filled his autograph book with names you never heard of!
Walt Whitman! He whose picture still smiles on the cover of my hard-back Leaves of Grass after I inadvertently shellacked it with lawn mower grass!
Walt Whitman! He whose teeth the kids are skipping on the river!
Whose hair is the volcano’s capillary lava!
Whose nose is the sundial’s gnomon!
Whose nose-grease lubricates the gears of every time piece!
Whose neck is the neck of an electric guitar!
Whose words burst inkpens like temple veins!
Whose beard stuffs the seat cushions of convertibles!

 

He who procreated in the back of his ambulance!
He who bar room brawled just to see the Joy run red, Walt Whitman!

 

Damner of torpedoes! Tickler of Hell’s bells! He of the cracker-barrel cosmology, Walt Whitman!

 

Walt Whitman! Hirsute patron of the whorehouse who sat the girls on his lap & asked them what they wanted for Christmas! Walt Whitman! Himself the giver of geological blow jobs!

 

He who sat up front & talked the bus driver’s ear off!
He who emulated the holy dung beetle!
Walt Whitman! Who some critics claim wrote only one poem!
Who I say wrote only one letter: O!

Federico García Lorca

Federico García Lorca

Pfeil

Ode to Walt Whitman

 

 

By the East River and the Bronx
boys were singing, exposing their waists,
with the wheel, with oil, leather, and the hammer.
Ninety thousand miners taking silver from the rocks
and children drawing stairs and perspectives.

 

But none of them could sleep,
none of them wanted to be the river,
none of them loved the huge leaves
or the shoreline’s blue tongue.

 

By the East River and the Queensboro
boys were battling with industry
and the Jews sold to the river faun
the rose of circumcision,
and over bridges and rooftops, the mouth of the sky emptied
herds of bison driven by the wind.

 

But none of them paused,
none of them wanted to be a cloud,
none of them looked for ferns
or the yellow wheel of a tambourine.

 

As soon as the moon rises
the pulleys will spin to upset the sky;
a border of needles will besiege memory
and the hearses will bear away those who don’t work.

 

New York, mire,
New York, wires and death.
What angel is hidden in your cheek?
Whose perfect voice will sing the truths of wheat?
Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

 

Not for a moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs as pure as Apollo’s,
nor your voice like a column of ash;
old man, beautiful as the mist,
you moaned like a bird
with its sex pierced by a needle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine,
and lover of bodies beneath rough cloth…

 

Not for a moment, virile beauty,
who among mountains of coal, billboards, and railroads,
dreamed of becoming a river and sleeping like a river
with that comrade who would place in your breast
the small ache of an ignorant leopard.

 

Not for a moment, Adam of blood, Macho,
man alone at sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
gathered at bars,
emerging in bunches from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs,
or spinning on dance floors wet with absinthe,
the faggots, Walt Whitman, point you out.

 

He’s one, too! That’s right! And they land
on your luminous chaste beard,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
crowds of howls and gestures,
like cats or like snakes,
the faggots, Walt Whitman, the faggots,
clouded with tears, flesh for the whip,
the boot, or the teeth of the lion tamers.

 

He’s one, too! That’s right! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream
when a friend eats your apple
with a slight taste of gasoline
and the sun sings in the navels
of boys who play under bridges.

 

But you didn’t look for scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where someone submerges children,
nor frozen saliva,
nor the curves slit open like a toad’s belly
that the faggots wear in cars and on terraces
while the moon lashes them on the street corners of terror.

 

You looked for a nude like a river.
Bull and dream who would join wheel with seaweed,
father of your agony, camellia of your death,
who would groan in the blaze of your hidden equator.

 

Because it’s all right if a man doesn’t look for his delight
in tomorrow morning’s jungle of blood.
The sky has shores where life can be avoided
and there are bodies that shouldn’t repeat themselves in the dawn.

 

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies decompose beneath the city clocks,
war passes by in tears, followed by a million gray rats,
the rich give their mistresses
small illuminated dying things,
and life is neither noble, nor good, nor sacred.

 

Man is able, if he wishes, to guide his desire
through a vein of coral or a nude as blue as the sky:
Tomorrow, loves will become stones, and Time
a breeze that drowses in the branches.

 

That’s why I don’t raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the little boy who writes
the name of a girl on his pillow,
nor against the boy who dresses as a bride
in the darkness of the wardrobe,
nor against the solitary men in casinos
who drink prostitution’s water with revulsion,
nor against the men with that green look in their eyes
who love other men and burn their lips in silence.

 

But yes against you, urban faggots,
tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Sleepless enemies
of the love that bestows crowns of joy.

 

Always against you, who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Always against you,
Fairies of North America,
Pájaros of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

 

Faggots of the world, murderers of doves!
Slaves of women. Their bedroom bitches.
Opening in public squares like feverish fans
or ambushed in rigid hemlock landscapes.

 

No quarter given! Death
spills from your eyes
and gathers gray flowers at the mire’s edge.
No quarter given! Attention!
Let the confused, the pure,
the classical, the celebrated, the supplicants
close the doors of the bacchanal to you.

 

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, stay asleep on the Hudson’s banks
with your beard toward the pole, openhanded.
Soft clay or snow, your tongue calls for
comrades to keep watch over your unbodied gazelle.

 

Sleep on, nothing remains.
Dancing walls stir the prairies
and America drowns itself in machinery and lament.
I want the powerful air from the deepest night
to blow away flowers and inscriptions from the arch where you sleep,
and a black child to inform the gold-craving whites
that the kingdom of grain has arrived.

Translated by Greg Simon and Steven F. White