top of page

[Poetry] Poem and Translation by A.Z. Foreman

For the Crew of a Downed U-Boat


Can I rest the heart assured, rewind the world

in scriptured whorls; stride godly on the sea?

see Hitler's corpse hanged lively on dead camps,

pump time's blood judgment, say truth set me free?

            That would be nice: to leave the flags to rave

and me in ease. Does it make me afraid

to duck for calm in hate's deranging gale?

To loathe killed men for killers they obeyed?

            See, these are sailors in a submarine

plunged cruel in the age-cold Atlantic lie

of death told by the living what to mean.

You cannot toll those dead and do not cry

            but can you feel the human choking through?

The crests all armies of the holy wore

are nobles' lies. Say freedom set us true?

Ideas are shellshocked at the fact of gore.

            Salute the sea, then? No. Let Nazis wear

dishonor buried by three thousand high

feet of dark sea. Their buoyant fists of prayer

punch empty. Go and live. This had to die.



Symphony in Gray Major

Translated from the Spanish of Ruben Darío


The sea, a vast quicksilver crystal pane

reflects a rolled zinc sky's sheet metal plate

faraway there are flocks of birds that stain

the glossed background of a pale shade of gray.


The sun, a piece of glass, opaque and round

walks to the zenith at a sick man's pace;

the sea wind takes its rest in shadow, using

black trumpets for a pillow as they play.


The waves that move their bellies made of lead

seem to be moaning underneath the quay.

Sitting upon a cable, his pipe puffing,

there is a mariner musing about beaches

of some country, foggy and faraway.


He's an old man, this sea-dog. Burning beams

of Brazil-sun have toasted his crisp face.

The toughest of the China Sea's typhoons

have seen him sipping gin amid the spray.


The foam suffused with iodine and nitrate

knows his red nose from way back in the day,

his curly hair, too, and his athlete biceps,

his canvas cap, his drill shirt frayed away.


He in the midst of the tobacco smoke-clouds

discerns that country, foggy and faraway,

for which one warm and golden afternoon,

his brigantine weighed anchor and set sail.


Tropical siesta. The sea-dog sleeps,

all wrapped up in a gamut of the gray.

It seems a gentle giant paper-stump

would smudge the curved horizon's edge away.


Tropical siesta. The old cicada

tries out his senile, raucous guitar's strain.

The cricket strikes a solo monotone

on the one-stringed violin it has to play.


Sinfonía en Gris Mayor


El mar como un vasto cristal azogado

refleja la lámina de un cielo de zinc;

lejanas bandadas de pájaros manchan

el fondo bruñido de pálido gris.


El sol como un vidrio redondo y opaco

con paso de enfermo camina al cenit;

el viento marino descansa en la sombra

teniendo de almohada su negro clarín.


Las ondas que mueven su vientre de plomo

debajo del muelle parecen gemir.

Sentado en un cable, fumando su pipa,

está un marinero pensando en las playas

de un vago, lejano, brumoso país.


Es viejo ese lobo. Tostaron su cara

los rayos de fuego del sol del Brasil;

los recios tifones del mar de la China

le han visto bebiendo su frasco de gin.


La espuma impregnada de yodo y salitre

ha tiempo conoce su roja nariz,

sus crespos cabellos, sus biceps de atleta,

su gorra de lona, su blusa de dril.


En medio del humo que forma el tabaco

ve el viejo el lejano, brumoso país,

adonde una tarde caliente y dorada

tendidas las velas partió el bergantín ...


La siesta del trópico. El lobo se duerme.

Ya todo lo envuelve la gama del gris.

Parece que un suave y enorme esfumino

del curvo horizonte borrara el confín.


La siesta del trópico. La vieja cigarra

ensaya su ronca guitarra senil,

y el grillo preludia un solo monótono

en la única cuerda que está en su violín



A. Z. Foreman is a poet and translator pursuing a doctorate in Near Eastern Languages at the Ohio State University. His work has been featured or is forthcoming in the Threepenny Review, the Los Angeles Review, ANMLY, and other journals. He hopes one day to be featured in either the Starfleet Academy Quarterly or the Tatooine Review. In any case, he's most proud of having had his work featured in two people's tattoos. Most importantly, if you have a dog he'd love to pet it.



ree

bottom of page