I’ve edited a pamphlet anthology of current Scottish poetry for Martin Corless-Smith’s FREE POETRY imprint in Boise, Idaho. The poets included are Dorothy Alexander, Christina Chalmers, Calum Gardner, Katy Hastie, Colin Herd, MacGillivray, nick-e melville, Iain Morrison, Nisha Ramayya and Kathrine Sowerby. The publisher encourages the reproduction of this chapbook and its free distribution, ad infinitum.
Here are electronic copies of the anthology files:
Free Poetry Scotland Anthology (458k pdf) [edited 26 March: some formatting improved]
Free Poetry Scotland Cover (52k pdf) [edited 15 March: the cover link should work now!]
Thanks to Martin, and to Colin Johnson and Tessy Ward for their work on the anthology.
In the storm
from Théophile Gautier
The barque is small and the sea immense,
the wave throws us up to the sky in anger,
the sky, in madness, sends us back to the flood:
let us pray on our knees, next to the broken mast!
Between us and the tomb there is only a single plank:
perhaps this evening, in a bitter bed,
under a cold shroud, made of white foam,
we will go to sleep, our vigil kept by the lightning!
Flower of paradise, Our sainted Lady,
so good to sailors in peril of dying,
becalm the wind, make the waves go quiet,
and push with a finger our skiff towards the port.
We will give you, if you save us,
a beautiful dress made of silver paper,
a painted altar-candle weighing four pounds,
and, for your Jesus, a little Saint John.
from Théophile Gautier
When Michelangelo had finished the Sistine Chapel,
and climbed, sublimely radiant,
down from the scaffold, into the Latin city,
he could lower neither eyes nor arms;
his feet no longer knew how to walk on earth;
in the skies, he had forgotten about the world.
Three long months he maintained this severe attitude;
he might have been taken for an angel in ecstasy before
the sacred golden triangle, in the moment of the mystery.
Brother, that is why poets so often
trip over every step on the world’s way;
with eyes fixed upon the sky they walk on dreaming;
the angels, shaking their blond hair,
bow down and stretch out arms to them,
wanting to kiss them with their rosebud mouths.
They walk without aim and take a thousand false steps;
they bump into passers-by, are crushed by wheels,
or fall into potholes they failed to see.
What are the passers-by, the rocks and the mud to them?
they are searching in the day for their nightly dream,
and the fire of wanting makes their cheek turn crimson.
They understand not a thing of earthly tedium,
and when they have finished their Sistine Chapel,
they emerge resplendent from their dark retreats.
A noble reflection of their divine labour
clings to their person and gilds their brow,
and the heaven they saw can be guessed at from their eyes.
Nights will follow days in long succession,
before their eyes and arms can be lowered,
and their feet, for the longest time, will stand unsteady.
All our palaces darken and decline beneath them;
their soul flies back to the dome, where their work is shining,
and it is only their bodies that are left to us.
Our day to them appears more sombre than night;
their eye always seeks out the blue sky of fresco,
and the painting left behind torments and follows them.
Like Buonarotti, the titanic painter,
they can no longer see except things seen from above,
and the marble sky their forehead almost touches.
Sublime blindness! Magnificent defect!
Stroked by success
and in the narrowest of gloves,
Édouard Dujardin requests
that around nine o’clock, the third
of March, not even your shadow endorsed
by a coat of diverse spitballs!
you visit, eleven, Chausée
D’Antin, his poetry bookshop:
THE REVIEW which is bruited
INDEPENDENT, Sir, is holding
a housewarming golden as
the gas in its elegant premises.
For a baptism
If, subtle one, the little nose
dazzling, drowned in such
candour of guessed-at laughter
as this lace half-opens upon,
the filial instinct grabbed you,
prideful, but the second one
to resemble in her low-key
wit your blonde grandmother,
keep safe, from baptismal fonts,
that it might volatilise
miraculously into words
native and clear as a breeze,
the grain of salt on your tongue.
I have a translation of Victor Hugo’s poem Et Nox Facta Est in the first issue of the pdf journal Erotoplasty, edited from Seoul by Colin Lee Marshall. Many thanks to Colin.