1-9-2000
Adrienne Rich
(1929 - )
INDEX:
LINKS:
Selected Criticism on Adrienne Rich
The Road Taken: Adrienne Rich in the 1990s – Poem , by Carol Bere
21 Love Poems
The Dream of A Common Language
I
Whenever in this city, screens flicker
with pornography, with science-fiction vampires,
victimized hirelings bending to the lash,
we also have to walk...if simply as we walk
through the rainsoaked garbage, the tabloid cruelties
of our own neighborhoods.
We need to grasp our lives inseparable
from those rancid dreams, that blurt of metal, those disgraces,
and the red begonia perilously flashing
from a tenement still six stories high,
or the long-legged young girls playing ball
in the junior highschool playground.
No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city.
II
I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
You've been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I've been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You've kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone...
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carries the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.
See all 21 Love poems here
|
You're wondering if I'm lonely:
|
CANÇÃO
Se estou só, queres tu saber: Pois bem, sim, estou só, como o avião que voa só e horizontal, fixado no feixe de rádio, e atravessa as Montanhas Rochosas, visando os corredores orlados de azul de um qualquer aeroporto no oceano.
Se estou só, queres perguntar: Bem, é claro, só como uma mulher que atravessa de automóvel o país, dia após dia, deixando atrás de si, milha após milha, cidadezinhas onde podia ter parado e vivido e morrido em solidão.
Se estou só, deve ser a solidão de ser a primeira a despertar, de respirar o primeiro sopro frio da manhã sobre a cidade, de ser a única acordada numa casa envolta em sono.
Se estou só, é com o barco a remos bloqueado na margem pelo gelo na derradeira luz vermelha do ano, e que sabe o que é, que sabe não ser gelo, nem lama, nem luz de Inverno, mas madeira, dotada para arder.
Tradução de João Ferreira Duarte, em "LEITURAS poemas do inglês", Relógio de Água, 1993.
|
|
My three sisters are sitting on rocks of black obsidian. For the first time, in this light, I can see who they are. * My first sister is sewing her costume for the procession. She is going as the Transparent lady and all her nerves will be visible. * My second sister is also sewing, at the seam over her heart which has never healed entirely, At last, she hopes, this tightness in her chest will ease.
My third sister is gazing at a dark-red crust spreading westward far out on the sea. Her stockings are torn but she is beautiful.
1968 |
Donne
Le mie tre sorelle stanno sedute su rocce di nera ossidiana In questa luce, per la prima volta, riesco a vedere chi sono.
La prima sta cucendo il costume per la processione. Si vestirà da Dama Trasparente tutti i nervi allo scoperto.
La seconda sta anche lei cucendo. Quella cucitura sul cuore che non si è mai del tutto cicatrizzata. Cederà alla fine quella tensione nel petto, lei spera.
La terza fissa lo sguardo sulla cresta dell'onda rosso-scura, lontano. Le sue calze sono tutte strappi ma lei è bella. |
|
XVI
The Jews I've felt rooted among are those who were turned to smoke
Reading of the chimneys against the blear air I think I have seen them myself
the fog of northern Europe licking its way along the railroad tracks
to the place where all tracks end You told me not to look there
to become a citizen of the world
bound by no tribe or clan yet dying you followed the Six Day War
with desperate attention and this summer I lie awake at dawn
sweating the Middle Eats through ,y brain wearing the star of David
on a thin chain at me breastbone
|
Gli ebrei che conoscevo
Gli ebrei tra cui avevo radici sono quelli tramutati in fumo
Leggendo nei camini contro la bruma mi sembra di averli visti io stessa
la nebbia del nord Europa si fa strada lambendo i binari della ferrovia
là dove tutti i binari finiscono Mi dicesti di non guardare
di diventare cittadina del mondo
sciolta da clan o da tribù Neppure morente tu seguivi la Guerra dei Sei Giorni
con disperata attenzione e questa estate io sveglia all'alba
trasudo il Medio Oriente dal cervello porto la stella di Davide
ad una catenina sottile sullo sterno. |
|
Tell me something you say Not: What are you working on now, is there anyone special, how is the job do you mind coming back to an empty house what do you do on Sundays Tell me something… Some secret we both know and have never spoken? Some sentence that could flood with light your life, mine? Tell me what daughters tell their mothers everywhere in the world, and I and only I even have to ask… Tell me something. Lately, I hear it: Tell me something true, daughter-in-law before we part, tell me something true before I die And time was when I tried. You married my son, and so strange as you are, you are my daughter Tell me… I’ve been trying to tell you, mother-in-law that I think I’m breaking in two and half doesn’t even want to love I can polish this table to satin because I don’t care I am trying to tell you, I envy the people in mental hospitals their freedom and I can’t live on placebos or Valium, like you A cut lemon scours the smell of fish away You’ll feel better when the children are in school I would try to tell you, mother-in-law but my anger takes fire from yours and in the oven the meal bursts into flames Daughter-in-law, before we part tell me something true I polished the table, mother-in-law and scrubbed the knives with half a lemon the way you showed me to do I wish I could tell you- Tell me They think I’m weak and hold things back from me. I agreed to years ago Daughter-in-law, strange as you are, tell me something true tell me something Your son is dead ten years, I am a lesbian, my children are themselves. Mother-in-law, before we part shall we try again? Strange as I am, strange as you are? What do mothers ask their own daughters, everywhere in the world? Is there a question? Ask me something.
1963 |
Suocera
Dimmi qualcosa Tu dici Non: a che cosa stai lavorando ora, ti interessa qualcuno Come va il lavoro Ti dispiace ritornare in una casa vuota Cosa fai la domenica Dimmi qualcosa.... Un segreto Che entrambe sappiamo e che mai ci siamo dette? Una frase capace di inondare di luce La tua vita, la mia? Dimmi ciò che le figlie dicono alle madri Ovunque nel mondo, e io e solo io Sono costretta a chiedere... Dimmi qualcosa. Da qualche tempo mi sento dire: dimmi qualcosa di vero, nuora cara, prima che ci separiamo, dimmi qualcosa di vero prima che io muoia Ci fù un tempo in cui io tentai. Tu hai sposato mio figlio, e perciò Per quanto strana tu sia, sei mia figlia Dimmi... Ho sempre provato a dirti, suocera cara Che penso che mi sto spezzando in due E metà di me neanche vuole amare più. Posso lucidare questo tavolo come raso perchè non m'importa: Sto provando a dirti, invidio la libertà Di coloro che stanno al manicomino Ma io non posso vivere di placebo E valium, come te Un limone tagliato toglie l'odore del pesce Starai meglio quando i bambini andranno a scuola Volevo provare a dirti, suocera cara Ma la rabbia mi si accende con la tua e nel forno la cena va a fuoco Nuora cara, prima che ci separiamo Dimmi qualcosa di vero Ho lucidato il tavolo suocera cara E strofinato i coltelli con mezzo limone Nel modo in cui mi insegnasti Vorrei potertelo dire Dimmi ! Credono che io sia debole e mi Nascondono le cose. Ho accettato questo anni fa. Nuora cara, per quanto strana tu sia Dimmi qualcosa di vero Dimmi qualcosa Tuo figlio è morto Dieci anni fa, io sono lesbica, i miei figli sono se stessi. Suocera cara, prima di separaci Tenteremo ancora? Per quanto strana io sia, per quanto strana tu sia ? Che cosa chiedono le madri alle figlie, ovunque nel mondo ? C'è una domanda ? Chiedimi qualcosa.
|
PROSPECTIVE
IMMIGRANTS
PLEASE NOTE
Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.
If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.
Things look at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.
If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthily
to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely
but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?
The door itself
makes no promises.
It is only a door.
|
1.
Sex, as they harshly call it,
I fell into this morning
at ten o'clock, a drizzling hour
of traffic and wet newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday
clearly didn't
turn me to a hot field
ready for plowing,
and longing for that young man
pierced me to the roots
bathing every vein, etc.
All day he appears to me
touchingly desirable, a prize one could wreck one's peace for.
I'd call it love if love
didn't take so many years
but lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.
2.
That "old last act"!
And yet sometimes
all seems post coitum triste
and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off,
getting shot to the moon.
Or a moon-race!
Split seconds after
my opposite number lands
I make it--
we lie fainting together
at a crater-edge
heavy as mercury in our moonsuits
till he speaks--
in a different language
yet one I've picked up
through cultural exchanges...
we murmur the first moonwords:
Spasibo. Thanks. O.K.
|
|
She had thought the studio would keep itself; no dust upon the furniture of love. Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal, the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears, a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat stalking the picturesque amusing mouse had risen at his urging. Not that at five each separate star would writhe under the milkman's tramp; that morning light so coldly would delineate the scraps of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles; that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own-- envoy from some village in the moldings... Meanwhile, he, with a yawn, sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard, declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror, rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes; while she, jeered by the minor demons, pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found a towel to dust the table-top, and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove. By evening she was back in love again, though not so wholly but throughout the night she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming like a relentless milkman up the stairs.
|
|
An Unsaid Word
She who has power to call her man From that estranged intensity Where his mind forages alone, Yet keeps her pace and leaves him free, And when his thoughts to her return Stands where he left her, still his own, Knows this the hardest thing to learn.
|
|
Trying to talk with a man
Out in this desert we are testing bombs,
that's why we came here.
Sometimes I feel an underground river forcing its way between deformed cliffs an acute angle of understanding moving itself like a locus of the sun into this condemned scenery.
What we’ve had to give up to get here – whole LP collections, films we starred in playing in the neighborhoods, bakery windows full of dry, chocolate-filled Jewish cookies, the language of love-letters, of suicide notes, afternoons on the riverbank pretending to be children
Coming out to this desert we meant to change the face of driving among dull green succulents walking at noon in the ghost town surrounded by a silence
that sounds like the silence of the place except that it came with us and is familiar and everything we were saying until now was an effort to blot it out – coming out here we are up against it
Out here I feel more helpless with you than without you You mention the danger and list the equipment we talk of people caring for each other in emergencies - laceration, thirst - but you look at me like an emergency
Your dry heat feels like power your eyes are stars of a different magnitude they reflect lights that spell out: EXIT when you get up and pace the floor
talking of the danger as if it were not ourselves as if we were testing anything else.
1971
|
|
Birds and periodic blood. Old recapitulations. The fox, panting, fire-eyed, gone to earth in my chest. How beautiful we are, she and I, with our auburn pelts, our trails of blood, our miracle escapes, our whiplash panic flogging us on the new miracles! They’ve supplied us with pills for bleeding, pills for panic. Wash them down the sink. This is truth, then: dull needle groping in the spinal fluid, weak acid in the bottom of the cup, foreboding, foreboding. No one tells the truth about truth, |