Ballad of the Despairing Husband

My wife and I lived all alone,

contention was our only bone.

I fought with her, she fought with me,

and things went on right merrily.

But now I live here by myself

with hardly a damn thing on the shelf,

and pass my days with little cheer

since I have parted from my dear.

Oh come home soon, I write to her.

Go fuck yourself, is her answer.

Now what is that, for Christian word?

I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.

But still I love her, yes I do.

I love her and the children too.

I only think it fit that she

should quickly come right back to me.

Ah no, she says, and she is tough,

and smacks me down with her rebuff.

Ah no, she says, I will not come

after the bloody things you've done.

Oh wife, oh wife -- I tell you true,

I never loved no one but you.

I never will, it cannot be

another woman is for me.

That may be right, she will say then,

but as for me, there's other men.

And I will tell you I propose

to catch them firmly by the nose.

And I will wear what dresses I choose!

And I will dance, and what's to lose!

I'm free of you, you little prick,

and I'm the one to make it stick.

Was this the darling I did love?

Was this that mercy from above

did open violets in the spring --

and made my own worn self to sing?

She was. I know. And she is still,

and if I love her? then so I will.

And I will tell, and tell her right...

Oh lovely lady, morning or evening or afternoon.

Oh lovely lady, eating with or without a spoon.

Oh most lovely lady, whether dressed or undressed or partly.

Oh most lovely lady, getting up or going to bed or sitting only.

Oh loveliest of ladies, than whom none is more fair, more gracious, more beautiful.

Oh loveliest of ladies, whether you are just or unjust, merciful, indifferent, or cruel.

Oh most loveliest of ladies, doing whatever, seeing whatever, being whatever.

Oh most loveliest of ladies, in rain, in shine, in any weather.

Oh lady, grant me time,

please, to finish my rhyme.

-Robert Creeley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDKVCwnnavg

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead

I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.

You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,

You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.

And we went on living in the village of Chokan:

Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.

I never laughed, being bashful.

Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.

Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,

I desired my dust to be mingled with yours

Forever and forever and forever.

Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,

You went into far ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,

And you have been gone five months.

The monkeys make a sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.

By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,

Too deep to clear them away!

The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.

The paired butterflies are already yellow with August

Over the grass in the West garden;

They hurt me. I grow older.

If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,

Please let me know beforehand,

And I will come out to meet you

As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

-Rihaku

(Translation/Interpretation -Ezra Pound)

Arbole, Arbole

Tree, tree

dry and green.

The girl with the pretty face

is out picking olives.

The wind, playboy of towers,

grabs her around the waist.

Four riders passed by

on Andalusian ponies,

with blue and green jackets

and big, dark capes.

"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."

The girl won't listen to them.

Three young bullfighters passed,

slender in the waist,

with jackets the color of oranges

and swords of ancient silver.

"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."

The girl won't listen to them.

When the afternoon had turned

dark brown, with scattered light,

a young man passed by, wearing

roses and myrtle of the moon.

"Come to Granada, muchacha."

And the girl with the pretty face

keeps on picking olives

with the grey arm of the wind

wrapped around her waist.

Tree, tree

dry and green.

-Federico Garcia Lorca