Category Archives: Poem of the Day

Pat Boran, The Guide/La guida

The Guide A dog in my dream.I bend down to pat himon the head, I bend down towhat-my-own-name-ishim on the head, but he stepsforward on what appears to bethe gravel path we’re on and my arm must extend to reach him, and my feet behind me on the ground leave the ground behind.            Below.                                            Just…

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Paul Henry, To the Landlord/ Al padrone di casa

To The Landlord for Oliver Reynolds I should like to complainabout the man in the upstairs flat.He is too quiet.His thoughts are deafening.When he grinds his teethmy windows rattle.The sky darkens when he closes his eyes.He scratches his headand a low-flying jetscrapes across the village.He scratches his ballsand the bulls go wild in their fields.How…

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Paul Henry, Ther dog in the reeds/Il cane tra le canne

The Dog in the Reeds The vagaries of light sustained mewhen I lived in the city for you –the brush-and-go of a sheeton a window, the summer’s last carddealt onto a paving stone, a railing’ssudden alchemy…. It was enough.A warm brick in a terrace was love,a back yard’s chandelier of pears. And when the light…

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Eva Bourke, The Latitude of Naples/La latitudine di Napoli

THE LATITUDE OF NAPLES For Eoin I With this pen as my eidograph
I draw the map,
the ground plan of power
and the street plan of destruction: first the central square
with the ducal palace – or what’s left of it, the fountain doubling as pillory
(the irony of the life-giving well
beside the neck irons of scorn), then the…

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Miguel de Unamuno, Elegia en la morte di un perro/Elegia in morte di un cane

Elegia en la morte di un perro La quietud sujetó con recia mano al pobre perro inquieto, y para siempre fiel se acostó en su madre piadosa tierra.Sus ojos mansosno clavará en los míoscon la tristeza de faltarle el habla;no lamerá mi manoni en mi regazo su cabeza finareposará.Y ahora en qué sueñas?dónde se fue…

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Guy Goffette, À dix ans on a l’éternité sous sa casquette/A dieci anni hai l’eternità sotto il caschetto

À dix ans on a l’éternité sous sa casquetteet la mort est littéraire ni plus ni moinscouchant sous la poussière des bibliothèquesun passé d’infortunes et de cris dérisoirestandis qu’on vole au secours d’une étoilequi nous parle à voix basse au milieu du pommier(ce qu’elle veut nous n’en savons rien il suffitqu’elle soit puisque nous sommes…

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