Author Archives: John MacKenzie

January Moon January’s darkbut, through the evening ice fog,in the eastern sky,see? Lorca has kindly hunghis wax lemon moon for us

Midwinter January soon.An orange flame of larchesburns on the treelinewhile the charcoal wings of crowssmudge the evening sky.

His Lowered Head What do I remember of springbesides the roar of the red Masseysowing barley beyond the fenceand milk tasting slightly grassywith the Holsteins back at pastureafter another winter of mustyhay for their cud, with scarce grain scoopedinto the … Continue reading →

Long Silences When I die, I will not beburied beside youbut we’ll whisperto each other. I’ll listen for your curious mindin the restless movementof frost and stonesunder the winter ground, the way you used to tapyour nails slowlyagainst your teethwhile … Continue reading →

Luna de noviembre Una vez penséque no había ningún lugardonde la luz de la lunano pudiera alcanzarme. Pensaba que ninguna sombrani nube, ninguna oscuridadpodría oponerse a la luzy ocultarte por completo. Pero ahora séque estaba equivocadoporque te has ido y … Continue reading →

Late October now.Trees burn all over the earth.Above tent citiesHumanity’s ashes drift,A haze of grief and hunger.

Somewhere Somewhere, I suppose,there are olive trees unburnedand dust unmixed with bloodon the wind. Somewhere children’s voices echofrom high, unbroken walls,their joy softened bythe warm, green leaves of trees. Somewhere there are norockets, gunshots, or hunger,no screams and groansand memories … Continue reading →

To Che Guevara(A translation of a Julio Cortázar poem) We never metbut it didn’t matter.I had a brotherwho went into the hillswhile I slept.I loved him in my way,I drank his voicefree as water,and walked, now and then,close to his … Continue reading →

If You Wish to Mourn a Fascist If you wish to mourn a fascistDo not mourn his death, Mourn the life he spent in hatred, Mourn the gay and transgender livesHe stole hope and happiness from,Mourn all the children he … Continue reading →

Esta comenzó conmigo tratando de divertirme con la diferencia entre si y sí. Como de costumbre, no pude conformarme con un poco de diversión, tenía que quemar el mundo. ●●● This one started with me trying to be playful with the … Continue reading →

He aquí una revisión de uno de los primeros poemas que intenté escribir en español hace unos años. Hoy hace suficiente calor como para arreglarlo y publicarlo de nuevo. Por favor, viejo sol Hace demasiado calorpara escribir. Viejo sol,¿por qué … Continue reading →

Poplar Leaves (Eat the Rich) August morning. I listen to gullscontemplating prospects at the harbour.I was awake all night long watching the horizon swallow stars.In the trees around methe wind flips poplar leaves, old silver coins. The sun rises, as … Continue reading →

Poem XV, a rough translation of a Pablo Neruda poem I like you when you’re silent because it’s like you’ve gone—you hear me from far away and my voice doesn’t touch you.You look like the light in your eyes has … Continue reading →

The Splatter of Rain Drops, a rough translation of a poem by Julio Cortázar I don’t know—look, it’s terrible how it rains. It rains all the time. It’s thick and grey outside here against the balcony with hard, curdled drops … Continue reading →

The Lovers, a rough translation of a Julio Cortázar poem Who sees them walking through the cityif everyone is blind?They hold hands: something speaksbetween their fingers, sweet tongueslick their sweating palms and run along their fingerbones.The night is full of … Continue reading →

Lindens in Bloom It’s mid-July nowThe air is heavy and sweetWith linden flowers Their scent returns me to youIn Spring, among plum blossoms

Because he was a gardenerSprawling with his love deep in the night Where he raised the autumn hillsOf Andalusia, scented with duende And pruned the old brownstonesOf New York that kept echoing Along paths between topiary whalesUnder pale, limestone moons … Continue reading →

Sunset In the warming nights of May we startTo sleep with bedroom windows openHoping to entice magnolia’s lastThin wafts to entwine with lilac. Yet We wake each morning to a world rifeWith the lies of civilizationAnd start the day exhausted … Continue reading →

Mentes de invierno No soy un Nabokov que escribeEn una segunda lengua con facilidad.No, de donde yo vengoPocos sabemosUn idioma relativamente bien. Aquí, al parecer, la mayoría de la genteEscriben como si fueran bomberosO policías o contables. Imagínese,Un planeta entero, … Continue reading →

In Montreal, now,the magnolias are in bloom;I breathe deep—and, yes,on the west wind I can scenteither their blossoms, or you