You can translate this for me

You can translate this for me

All of us meeting like gods on a mountaintop,
thundering laughter echoing in the night

hands sticky with jam,
eyes reddened by the hour and the wine

lines on her face counting these evenings these years
these endless appetites these many many bright ones

the clever map on the wall, the sweet chianti,
the baby pictures, the sleeping widow upstairs,

the fireworks on the rooftop, the glow of paradise around the corner,
the pout in the lips mother shares with her sons,

That hard indomitable core underneath all the singing,

That pride in her skin, that hunger for us all,

I could well believe she had taken
a scandalously younger mate

The very bread was soaked in honey and butter there.

I would give anything to sleep
under those stars again.


La Foi said...

This is a lovely poem, and evokes many thoughts & images for me. I too wish I were back underneath those stars. Well, unless I'm totally misinterpreting this poem, and it's really about gazing up at a starlit sky in Topeka, Kansas. Nothing against Topeka but it wouldn't stir the same emotions for me. O to sing Banke Pusztame (sp?) in the fields again and howl along to Luba's wolf-chorus song. sigh.

paulmonster said...

Well, LeFoi, it's not entirely about that, but yes, your inference is substantially correct. I would say that perhaps 64% of the preceding poem is of Polish derivation (further analysis concludes that 27% is distilled San Francisco, and 19% rendered from failed relationships [various locations]).

La Foi said...

Thanks for the numbers, that's what i need when i read a poem: solid, undeniable DATA.

Seriously- i hope you didn't think i was asking for a justification about what inspired this poem, or interpeting it as a documented event. you're allowed poetic license. As long as you don't set your poems to music and start inflicting them in hippie-guitar-strummed glory upon unsuspecting girls at parties in a misguided attempt to prove how sensitive you are, i'm cool. but you're not that type of person. lucky for you (and girls at parties).

paulmonster said...

No, of course not, LeFoi, my poetic license is in proper order, yes.

I suppose if it weren't, this would be a poetic injustice! Ha!

Now why would I go strumming a guitar when I have to beat off the women with staves these days?

right. okay. uhh...

La Foi said...

I don't know about poetic injustice, I'd just hate to see you charged with a VWOPL (Versifying Without a Poetic License), forced to charge around like a loose cannon writing poetry WITHOUT A LICENSE oh the horror of it, the horror!
You'd have to hang out at Powells and bum a ride off other fully licensed poets to get by. And do community service at accounting firms. right, all those nonprofit accounting firms.

Humor me, I'm bored, I'm grumpy and hours (of work) to go before I sleep.

By the way, I'm intrigued by your work song/alan lomax idea and can't wait to see the power point demonstration.