Short Poems

Still for your frontier stands
The host that knew no dread,
Your little, stubborn land's
Nameless, immortal dead.

Hayrick some do spell thy name,
And thy verse approves the same;
For 'tis like fresh-scented hay,--
With country lasses in't at play.

Thou gazest on the stars, my star!
Ah! would that I might be
Myself those skies with myriad eyes,
That I might gaze on thee.

Him who begot you as a child you made
Into a beggar; as a child yourself
You then lived everywhere just to support
Your own huge belly; I too am a child.
Oh Child God in that niche! Encountering one
Born after you, is your heart made of stone?
I pray you look at me!

My life's joy and incense: recollection of those hours
when I found and captured pleasure as I wanted it.
My life's joy and incense: that I refused
all indulgence in routine love affairs.

I took a Rosebud from a certain bower,
And by its side placed an Orange flower,
Then with the Speedwell, blended the perfume
And the sweet beauty of an Apple-bloom,
And thus, 't is one of the loveliest feats,
Is spelled a gentle lady's name in sweets.

'Tis not too late to build our young land right,
Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan,
Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers,
Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.

Denial
is the plastic I wrap around my heart
to protect it from freezer-burn.


(Previously published in Thorny Locust, Vol.7, No.3/4)

Din muntre Skjæmt og Sangens raske Toner,
Var' mere værd end mange Førsters Kroner.

Dig Musen gav en Lyre til at spille,
Men Du — Du tier næsten ganske stille.