A poem translated to Spanish and published in Chile.
Clear Mind
For Aoife
She lies now in slumber’s
ballast, belly full and winded.
Future’s host of expression
that will have changed her
on wakening sifts through
wardrobes of history, her
holed sieve leaking paths
of guidance.
So many aspects she has
become in as many hours,
that adults will dance her
jig and tune so many calls.
Blessed Virgin thoughts
surround her, our impervious
growling pets await her. No
leaking tap, no gust of wind.
Mente cristalina
Para Aoife
Ella yace ahora en el velo del sueño
vientre lleno y sin aliento
el futuro es un conjunto de
expresiones que la habrán
cambiado al despertar
al escarbar en los armarios de la historia
por su tamiz donde se filtrarán
los caminos de la orientación
en tantos aspectos se habrá convertido
en tantas horas en que los adultos bailarán su jig²
en tantas llamadas le harán
los pensamientos de la Santísima Virgen
la rodean, nuestra impenetrables mascotas
gruñendo la esperan
no hay grifos con fugas
ni ráfagas de viento.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Romanian and published in Romania.
Mother
there is a frozen silence
both sides of our window.
Outside, a white sheet steals
the joy of herbs and plants,
decorates the half-worked
green climbing our un-finished fence.
Three electric poles are alive.
Daffodils are popping through
disliked moss greens,
calves entertain electric fences
and woken tractors are feeding fields.
Inside, a voice is echoing your
granddaughter’s telephoned message,
stilling thoughts, and delivering
the cold news that you have passed.
©Gene Barry
Mama
E o liniște înghețată
de ambele părți ale ferestrei.
Afară, o pânză albă le fură
bucuria ierburilor și plantelor,
ornând gardul nostru nefinisat,
acoperit de mucegai.
Trei stâlpi electrici sunt în viață.
Narcisele își scot capul
prin mușchiul cel dezgustător,
vițeii își fac de lucru cu gardurile electrice
și tractoarele trezite devreme hrănesc câmpurile.
Înăuntru, o voce repetă, ca un ecou,
mesajul de la telefon al nepoatei tale,
oprind gândurile în loc și aducând
vestea de gheață cum că tu ai trecut în neființă.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Spanish and published in Mexico.
The Burial
In memory of my niece Clare O’Connor
who was still born
Time’s dose of uninvited turmoil,
engulfed their pre-planned world,
a silent unforgiving hew
within each triggered beat
struck harder as they walked
with their box of future memories.
Cheated,
no beat within.
A broadcast of childish laughter
moored closely,
un-captained.
No stolen spoon of jam.
Their anagram of wounds
quarried into their old-age and
brushing them helplessly adrift
through seas of detached empathy.
A cleft of unseen sorrow
kneading ceaselessly
and successfully.
Hurting.
No chiromantic map,
no dialect, no tell-tales,
the subterranean pedestal
dutifully beckoning.
As the feral child would
we stood and gawked
with unswallowing
lumped throats,
to see her walk
before she stood,
out of the world
she never entered
and like the familiar face
through introductions
I tell myself,
I know you Claire.
©Gene Barry
El entierro
En memoria de mi sobrina Clare O’Connor
La porción de confusión inesperada
envolvió su mundo planeado previamente
un silencioso e implacable golpe dentro
de cada latido, se disparó
golpeó más fuerte mientras
caminaban engañados
con su caja de recuerdos futuros
sin latido adentro
una transmisión de risa infantil
amarrada al muelle, sin capitán
sin cuchara de mermelada robada
sus anagramas de heridas se introdujeron
en la vejez y las acariciaron con impotencia
a la deriva, por mares de empatía
y desapego
una hendidura de tristeza invisible
amasando sin cesar y con éxito
doliendo
sin mapa quiromántico, sin dialecto
sin testigos… Un pedestal subterráneo
haciendo señas en obediencia como lo haría el niño salvaje
nos paramos y miramos boquiabiertos
con las gargantas hinchadas, sin poder tragar
para verla caminar antes de que ella se pare
afuera del mundo en que nunca entró
y como viendo un rostro familiar en las fotografías
me digo a mí mismo
te conozco Claire.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Arabic and published in Egypt
Letter to Hashim
For Huda Ghaliya
I am Huda and I scream
to you in the skies above
me, please do not leave
me alone to mourn for I
have dipped my tiny limbs
beneath the hem of death’s
door and trawled for those
same arms that hugged me,
for the sets of lips that were
mine to kiss, for that parental
safety net woven by my future
and my arms are empty.
I am the only day of our
week that lives on this beach
of trading on the edge of
another bloody empire.
I would trade all spices here
today a world of olibanum
and ostrich feathers, I would
add my name to the menu
of slaves, I would tame a
thousand Buraqs and trek to
our future. But I cannot. For
Israel’s summer rain has lashed
death to my childish frame,
a burden your great grandson
will unleash, a memory I will
undress each day. But my
Boswellian roots I will anchor to
this blood-stained land that
Alexander failed to arid turn,
my tears I will trade for peace.
©Gene Barry.
Letter to Hashim
رسالة من هاشم
لهدى غالية
أنا هدى ، و إنني أصرخ
صرخاتي تتجه نحوك ، في السماوات العالية فوقي
أرجوك لا تتركني
لا تتركني وحيدة لأفجع
فأنا غمست اطرافي
تحت حافة باب الموت
محاولا ان أصطاد نفس الأذرع التي احتضنتني
و تلك الشفتين التين كانتا ملكي كي أقبلهما
لتلك الشبكة من الحنان الأبوي ، والتي حبكها مستقبلي
ذراعاي الآن فارغتان
أنا اليوم الوحيد المتبقي من أسبوعنا و الذي يعيش على هذا الشاطئ
شاطئ المقايضة على شفير امبراطورية دموية أخرى
كنت لأقايض كل الكائنات الحية هنا
هذا اليوم
مقابل عالم من اللبان و ريش النعام
كنت لأضيف اسمي على لائحة العبيد
كنت لأروض الف براق و رحلة مضنية في سبيل مستقبلنا
و لكنني لا استطيع
فمطرهم الصيفي قد ضرب الموت بغزارة على هيكلي الطفولي
عبئ ثقيل سيطلق حفيدك له العنان
ذكرى سأتعرى منها كل يوم
لكن تبقى جذوري البوسويلية التي سأرسخها في هذه الارض الملطخة بالدماء
و التي فشل الكسندر في تجفيفها
دموعي ، سوف أبادلها مقابل السلام
جيني باري
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Spanish and published in Mexico.
Rotterdam
In memory of Jim Barry
You dangled in an Auschwitz frame,
poppy full and gloating,
boastful as a medal earning child
and sniffing Merlin’s approval.
God’s Own Medicine nursed
its way through those same cells
that quenched the torment
Telemachus held for you.
The un-reaching, pock-marked
and useless long arms you wore
were drained of hugs and dying,
they offered not an opportunity.
Your unfortunate messengers,
thieved of instruction,
naked vellum, brimmed
inward with emotions.
You were repeatedly
scruples-free and mission-bound,
deep in this addiction
you refused to own.
Common in us three
tight bound siblings
was a traditional inability,
infant donated.
These airline tickets had
somehow merely flown us
back to our childhood,
contraband inclusive.
I pulled from our family
dictionary and served an ace
each time; my labelled tongue
an unapproved ambassador.
Rotterdam
En memoria de Jim Barry
Te colgaste en un cuadro de Auschwitz
lleno de amapolas, con regodeo
jactancioso como un niño
ganador de medallas
intuyendo la aprobación de Merlín
la propia medicina de Dios
se abrió camino a través de esas
mismas células que aplacaron el suplicio
que Telémaco te reservaba
los inalcanzables, marcados
por la viruela, esos inútiles brazos largos
vacíos de abrazos que, moribundos
no ofrecían oportunidad alguna
tus desafortunados mensajeros
ladrones del saber en pergaminos desnudos
rebosantes de emociones
estabas libre de escrúpulos y comprometido
con la misión de unión
y aferrado a esta adicción te
negaste a poseer
tan común en nosotros, tres hermanos
unidos, era una incapacidad tradicional
estos boletos de avión, de
alguna manera, nos llevaron de vuelta
a nuestra infancia
con el contrabando incluido
saqué nuestro diccionario familiar
y saqué un as cada vez
con la inscripción en mi lengua:
embajador desaprobado.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Albanian and published in Albania.
Aftermath
I sit stand lie walk
Bend carefully and slowly
The breast I need to suck
Within reach and yet too far
I starve for explanations as
My tears pull childhood wounds
Deliver those unappreciated images
That cycle past on three wheelers
The cyclist’s tongues saluting
Our narrow grass-centred road
Dressed in mountain ranges
Has become ugly and uninteresting
Mute birds and silent hedgerows
There is a wound in every vision
Logic is a popular school teacher
The perfect stocked exchange
Correct and right without answers
Reason is unpopular and unedited
And yet…a hug is a thesaurus
That blankets every wound
©Gene Barry
Pasojat Ulem në këmbë gënjeshtër shëtitje Përkuluni me kujdes dhe ngadalë Gjoksin duhet ta thith Brenda mundësive dhe akoma shumë larg Unë vdes nga uria për shpjegime si Lotët e mi tërheqin plagët e fëmijërisë Dorëzoni ato imazhe të pavlerësuara Ai cikël kalon me tre rrota Gjuhët e çiklistit përshëndesin Rruga jonë e ngushtë me në qendër barin Të veshur me vargmale Becomeshtë bërë e shëmtuar dhe jointeresante Zogj të heshtur dhe gardhe të heshtura Ka një plagë në çdo vizion Logjika është një mësuese popullore e shkollës Shkëmbimi perfekt i aksioneve E saktë dhe e drejtë pa përgjigje Arsyeja është jopopullore dhe e pa redaktuar E megjithatë ... një përqafim është një fjalor thesari Kjo batanije çdo plagë © Gene Barry
A poem translated to Dutch and published in Holland.
Apollinaireing
Nine years later you ask
Is this alright, honestly,
as if I was your personal
designer, best female friend.
I want to wolf whistle, to
up my magician’s sleeve
and present you with a
bouquet of your favourites.
I’m pulled instantly to our
wedding day, to those cardiac
moments before I hear the
‘Oh’ and turn, eyes leaking,
Larynx locked and accept
the fact that my world is
about to accept me.
No elephant in our room.
©Gene Barry.
Apollinaire-achtig
Negen jaar later vraag je
Is dit in orde, eerlijk gezegd,
alsof ik je persoonlijke
ontwerper was, je beste vriendin.
Ik wil wolf fluiten, tot aan
mijn tovenaarsmouwen
en je een boeket
van je favorieten geven.
Ik word meteen naar onze trouwdag
toe getrokken, naar die cardiale
momenten vlak voordat ik ‘oh’ hoor
en me omdraai, lekkende ogen,
strottenhoofd vergrendeld en aanvaarden
het feit dat mijn wereld
op het punt staat om me te accepteren.
Geen olifant in onze kamer.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Irish and published in Ireland.
Closed Line
For separated fathers
I would walk to my gallows
once weekly and feed the rope
with single men. And witness
the gawking families
unilaterally waving the many
colours of unity’s insults.
They would do it without
moving or speaking. Without
even knowing the pain they
had infused. Marrow bound.
A line of useless drones out
of sync with family matters.
“Us” was parked in every garden
that wasn’t ours, dancing all
day in wind that ceased to live
in what seemed to be the only
lifeless garden. Rainbows of
stories sticking out their tongues.
“We” never did the feeding of
the nylon, nor the retrieving
of the cleansed. Eyes set down
from conversations at both
boundaries that were lent to
what we now knew as a family.
Everybody beyond our ditches
seemed to gel with the laughter
of coal bunkers and barbeques,
to continue the unfinished over
the flapping icons that waved
them inside their castles.
©Gene Barry
Líne Iata
do na fir scartha
Shiúlainn go dtí crann mo chrochta
uair sa tseachtain agus chothaínn an téad
le súgán fear singil. Agus romham amach
teaghlaigh ag gliúcaíocht le drochmheas,
ceirteacha a gcuid maslaí á gcroitheadh
acu orm le gach dath faoin spéir.
Gan ghíocs gan ghuth dheintí é,
gan chor, gan chaint.
i ngan fhios don arraing péine a
chuir siad tríom. Go smior na smúsach.
Gamail gan rath amuigh leo féin
gan beann ar chúram clainne.
“Sinne” ina staic i ngach gairdín
nár linn, ag rince go fiata
i rith an lae sa ghaoith sin a
múchadh ina lios gan síóg.
Bogha ceatha a gcuid scéalta
ar ghob geabach a dteanga.
Níor dheineamarna na héadaí
a bheathú, ná an glantachán a
theasargan ón bpoll. Súile a
d’fhoghlaim teorainneacha na
cainte ón dtuiscint chúng a bhí acu
don teach, don teaghlach, don mhuintir.
Dhlúthaigh gach aon duine eile le chéile
lena ngáirí barbíciú, lena gcabaireacht
theolaí cois tine. Lasmuigh dár gcuid
clathacha lean siad orthu ag sméideadh
lena gcuid meirgí gan chrích
laistigh d’fhallaí a ndúnphort féin.
©Eoghan de Barra.
A poem translated to Dutch and published in Holland.
Fishing
They cycle the farmyard
the ready to fly crows
above hollowing out
bunkers of the dead
while he recycles
cows vegetables sheep fruits
digs holes for traffic lights
becomes a life detective
from over the barrier
their memories get speeding fines
his broken head inking out
dead bodies decorating
and she barricaded
inside the curtained window
her harvested thoughts
gowned in his misery
the music of
useless half moons
holed buckets
the unadopted
dead animals
harmonising
©Gene Barry
Vissen
Ze fietsen op het erf
de kraaien, hoog, die willen opvliegen
hollen bunkers uit voor de doden
terwjl hij recycled
koeien groentes schapen vruchten
graaft gaten voor verkeerslichten
wordt een levens detective
van over de hindernis
hun herinneringen krijgen boetes voor te snel rijden
zyn gebroken hoofd vervend
dode lichamen versierend
en ze barricades opwerpt
binnen de ramen met gordijnen
haar geoogste gedachten
gekleed in zijn ellende
de muziek van
zinloze halve manen
einmers met gaten
de afgewezenen
dode dieren
harmoniserend
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Spanish and published in Chile.
Sanctity
for Charlie Vella
When I am older my love
and Zurrieq is sleeping
hoarsely, I will go to her
and ease her tiring larynx.
My skein of love
I will take and plant
each hank in a house
Barocci failed to influence.
A set of arms from each one
I will invite and let it hold me
and seduce a pair of loving
lips to steal a moment, or two.
I will waltz her medieval
streets with Ptolemy and at
the temple I will listen
to his Sunday Miscellany.
I will be a Vella for a day,
drink with Victoria and
sway my youthful arms at
A La Veneziana,
and when the pick is
whispering to be harvested
I will bend all day and sleep
in the safety of their Għorfa.
Santidad
para Charlie Vella
Cuando sea mayor, mi amor
y Zurrieq esté roncando
mientras duerme
me acercaré a ella
aliviaré su fatigada laringe
tomaré mi madeja de amor
y la plantaré en una casa
que Barocci no logró influir
los brazos de cada uno invitaré
dejaré que me abracen
seduciré a un par de labios enamorados
para robarles un momento, o dos
bailaré por sus calles medievales
con Tolomeo y en
el templo escucharé
su miscelánea dominical
seré un Vella por un día
beberé por la Victoria y
columpiaré mis brazos juveniles
a la Veneciana
y cuando la cúspide susurre
para ser cosechada
me postergaré todo el día
dormiré en la certeza
de su Għorfa¹.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Romanian and published in Romania.
Chewing her Cud
Without asking, he told me
that the old boat had tugged her
out to a place where the religious
fill their dreams, to where an audience
of repaired grandparents play.
I begged him to dismount from
the saddle of remorse he was riding,
to polish the parlour and dress each
room with favourites of flowers
and long ago visited photographs.
Dine with dreams I told him,
unpack the contraband,
swim in glorious memories and
reap the unseen sown by forefathers,
tend to memories borrowed from the future.
Standing for his first time he exhaled,
‘she was the bull’s red rag’,
he swallowed,
‘a Dante inferno and I
loved the bones of her’.
Cufundarea în gânduri
Fără să-l întreb, mi-a spus
că barca cea veche a dus-o
în locul cu care credincioșii
își umplu visurile, acolo unde strămoșii
sunt tămăduiți și se joacă
L-am implorat să coboare
de pe spinarea căinței, pe care călărea
să dea lustru casei și să îmbrace
fiecare cameră cu florile ei preferate
și cu fotografii ce n-au mai fost privite de mult timp
Ia cina împreună cu visurile, i-am spus
despachetează sentimentele de contrabandă
scufundă-te în amintirile minunate și
culege cele nevăzute, sădite de străbuni
ai grijă de amintirile luate cu împrumut din viitor
Ridicându-se în picioare pentru prima oară, a dat drumul la cuvinte
”ea a fost capa roșie din fața taurului”
a înghițit
”un infern al lui Dante
dar am iubit-o dincolo de oase”.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Italian and published in Italy.
Letter to Hashim
For Huda Ghaliya
I am Huda and I scream
to you in the skies above
me, please do not leave
me alone to mourn for I
have dipped my tiny limbs
beneath the hem of death’s
door and trawled for those
same arms that hugged me,
for the sets of lips that were
mine to kiss, for that parental
safety net woven by my future
and my arms are empty.
I am the only day of our
week that lives on this beach
of trading on the edge of
another bloody empire.
I would trade all spices here
today a world of olibanum
and ostrich feathers, I would
add my name to the menu
of slaves, I would tame a
thousand Buraqs and trek to
our future. But I cannot. For
Israel’s summer rain has lashed
death to my childish frame,
a burden your great grandson
will unleash, a memory I will
undress each day. But my
Boswellian roots I will anchor to
this blood-stained land that
Alexander failed to arid turn,
my tears I will trade for peace.
©Gene Barry
Lettera ad Hashim
per Huda Ghaliya
Sono Huda e grido a te
nei cieli lassù
… no, per favore, non lasciarmi
sola a piangere perché
ho immerso le mie piccole membra
sotto l’orlo della porta
della morte e ho gettato le reti
per pescare le braccia che mi stringevano
le labbra che erano
per me, da baciare, la rete
di sicurezza genitoriale intessuta
dal mio futuro
e le mie braccia sono vuote.
Sono l’unico giorno della nostra
settimana che vive su questa spiaggia
di commercio sull’orlo di
un altro impero sanguinoso.
Venderei tutte le spezie qui
oggi un mondo di incenso
e di piume d’ostrica, aggiungerei
il mio nome al menu
degli schiavi. Addomesticherei
mille Buraq e viaggerei verso
il nostro futuro. Ma non posso. Perché
la loro pioggia estiva ha frustato
morte nel mio corpo di bambina,
un fardello che il vostro pronipote
scioglierà, un ricordo
che svesitrò ogni giorno. Ma le mie
radici boswelliane getterò come ancore
in questa terra macchiata di sangue che
Alessandro non riuscì a rendere arida,
scambierò le mie lacrime con la pace.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Spanish and published in Mexico.
Mining
Who, being loved, is poor? Oscar Wilde
There is an un-mined treasure pit
where Hammurabi’s scribes bend hourly
to tablet-etch the lush of their oneness;
it has no gates, just bridges.
Where he surfs every heart-filled wish
he dares to daily permit himself to dream
and she is a Picasso paintbrush
he lovingly paints his world with.
Where she is a Freudian archaeologist
delicately digging in the aftermath
of every unspoken mote her lover
has yet to broadcast.
Where they are a team of pit horses,
unselfishly delivering cargo after cargo
they willingly shovel out
to stoke this world they love.
There is a precision in their loving
that requires no maintenance.
©Gene Barry
Minería
Quién, siendo amado, es pobre?
Oscar Wilde
Hay una cueva del tesoro sin minas
donde los escribas de Hammurabi
se inclinan cada hora para grabar la
exuberancia de su unidad:
no tiene puertas, solo puentes
donde él surfea cada anhelo colmado de sinceridad
donde se permite soñar a diario
y ella es un pincel de Picasso
con que pinta de amor su mundo
donde es una arqueóloga freudiana
que profundiza con delicadeza en las secuelas
de cada mota tácita que su amante
todavía no emana
donde son un equipo de caballos de trinchera
y, desinteresados, entregan carga tras carga
con el fuego de la voluntad cavan para resucitar
ese mundo que aman
hay una precisión en su amor que
no requiere mantenimiento.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Romanian and published in Romania.
Aftermath
I sit stand lie walk
Bend carefully and slowly
The breast I need to suck
Within reach and yet too far
I starve for explanations as
My tears pull childhood wounds
Deliver those unappreciated images
That cycle past on three wheelers
The cyclist’s tongues saluting
Our narrow grass-centred road
Dressed in mountain ranges
Has become ugly and uninteresting
Mute birds and silent hedgerows
There is a wound in every vision
Logic is a popular school teacher
The perfect stocked exchange
Correct and right without answers
Reason is unpopular and unedited
And yet…a hug is a thesaurus
That blankets every wound
©Gene Barry
Consecința
Stau jos stau în picioare stau întins merg
Mă aplec încet și cu grijă
Sânul de la care am nevoie să sug
e aproape și totuși atât de departe
Tânjesc după niște explicații, în timp ce
lacrimile mele trag după ele răni din copilărie,
scot la iveală imagini fără valoare
care trec pe lângă mine pe triciclete
cu cei care pedalează scoțând limba la mine
Drumul nostru îngust, cu iarbă pe mijloc
împodobit cu mai multe șiruri de munți
a devenit urât și neinteresant
cu păsări fără glas și garduri vii tăcute
fiecare priveliște poartă în ea o rană
Logica e un profesor îndrăgit
bursa de valori perfectă
corectă și adevărată fără să ofere niciun răspuns
Bunul-simț e neîndrăgit și îndepărtat
Și totuși… o îmbrățișare e o enciclopedie
care acoperă orice rană.
©Gene Barry.
A poem reflecting the aftermath of a mastectomy translated to Spanish and published in Mexico.
Redundant
These nights, his right hand
rests behind him longing for
that dedicated perch he
affectionately used while spooning.
She no longer jadedly manages
night, love you too
concentrates on the tears
filling the pillow’s pool.
Makes another note to
change it when he is at work,
where he will cry many
times in the deaf toilet.
In her dreams she will be
younger than 13 again;
in her wedding dress,
hugging her adult children,
climbing the Sydney Bridge,
leading her Pilates class,
with mam and dad in Rome,
captaining her basketball team,
swimming at their new villa,
losing herself to the anaesthetic.
She is awkwardly lighter there now,
a new weight resting on her shoulders
toppling her into an unfamiliar world.
When the doctor spoke of reconstruction
she ran into bricks and mortar;
their shed that had been flattened in that storm,
her father’s unfinished coal bunker,
her favourite brother’s patio,
the pouring of their first foundation,
their holiday home in Sardinia,
built a wall around her unexplainable pain.
©Gene Barry
Redundante
Estas noches, su mano derecha
descansa detrás de él, anhela
esa percha que usaba
mientras la acariciaba cariñosamente
pero ella no sobrelleva el hastío
buenas noches, también te amo
se concentra en llenar con sus lágrimas
la piscina de las almohadas
agenda cambiarlas , cuando está
en el trabajo, donde él llora
a escondidas en el baño para sordos
en sus sueños ella tendrá 13 de nuevo
llevará su vestido de novia
abrazará a sus hijos adultos
andará por el puente de Sídney
liderará su clase de Pilates
estará con mamá y papá en Roma
dirigirá su equipo de baloncesto
nadará en su nueva villa
se perderá a sí misma en la anestesia
ella yace más ligera ahora
un nuevo peso descansa en sus hombros
la hunde en un mundo desconocido
cuando el doctor habló de reconstrucción
se topó con ladrillos y mortero
con el cobertizo que había sido aplastado en la tormenta
la carbonera inacabada de su padre
el patio de su hermano favorito
el vertido de sus primeros cimientos
la casa de vacaciones en Cerdeña…
su memoria construyó un muro
alrededor del dolor.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Romanian and published in Romania.
Call me Granny
She was a holed ark
lying in that grave not yet dug for her.
A readable Ulysses.
Her own black and white parents
had been childhooded in a courtroom,
sisters ate guilt for supper.
I often cried for her begging lips
-when I lived in my small frame-
and watched a pedestrian of excuses
daily march from that mouth.
A finger-wagging hand
holding her still and she living in
the moment of a graveside kneel.
In between the misunderstood prayers
she subpoenaed deaf relatives who were
useless as a liar’s excuse.
Once, let us not nanny dance around the particulars
she screamed at no audience;
another new testament I asked myself.
So when dirty, not tired
she bathed in a bath of punishment.
After all,
families are only for photographs.
©Gene Barry
Spune-mi mamaie
Ea era o arcă găurită
așezată într-un mormânt care nu fusese încă săpat pentru ea.
Un Ulise pe care puteai să-l citești.
Cu părinții ei în alb-negru
care-și petrecuseră copilăria într-o continuă judecată,
cu surorile ei care serveau vinovăție la cină.
De multe ori am plâns pentru buzele ei care mereu cerșeau aprobare
– când eram mic –
și am observat cum un șir de scuze ieșeau din gura ei,
ca niște pietoni mergând în marș, zi de zi.
O mână cu degetul arătător ridicat
o ținea nemișcată, iar ea trăia
ca îngenuncheată pe marginea mormântului.
Între rugăciunile înțelese greșit
își chema în ajutor rudele surde, care erau
nefolositoare, ca scuzele unui mincinos.
Odată, hai să nu ne mai împiedicăm în detalii precise
a strigat ea la un public absent;
un alt nou testament, m-am întrebat.
Așa că atunci când se simțea vinovată, nu obosită,
ea se scufunda într-o baie de pedepse.
La urma urmelor,
familiile sunt doar pentru fotografii.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Spanish and published in Chile.
I Am
I am art in Amsterdam
A Picasso paintbrush
A child’s empty pocket
Compassion at a funeral
I am pithy in your emotions
Second wind at extra time
Confidence at an interview
An appropriate spare button
I am rain over Africa
An ENT resident in Bhopal
A kitchen apron
An antidote at hand
I am steadfast in loyalty
Hope in the OR
Acceptance in a family
A blank canvas
I am clunky in expression
A recently found memento
A broadcast of good news
When you love me.
Yo soy
Soy arte de Ámsterdam
pincel de Picasso
bolsillo vacío de un niño
compasión en funeral
soy tu fiel sentir
nuevo aliento en la oportunidad
repuesto de botón capaz
confianza en la entrevista
soy lluvia en África
residente de la ORL en Bhopal
delantal para cocinar
antídoto a la mano
soy un ancla en la lealtad
ilusión en el quirófano
lienzo en blanco
unidad familiar
soy torpeza en la expresión
memoria recién evocada
emisión de buenas noticias
…Cuando me amas.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Japanese and published in Japan.
Circumnavigating
Kazumi familiarises herself
with words with new meanings
too big for her little mind to reason,
– nano-sieverts – caesium – irreversible –
asks honest questions about
unfamiliar shaped vegetables
and queer fish with familiar names.
Since Fumio lost himself to suicide
her sickening mother dresses
Inari with luck-bringers,
frequently pulls her family back the
102 years to his birth;
hides the emotions they daily discuss,
leaks tears for his wasteland.
In dreams her grandfather visits upturned
boats where he trawls though
memories of catches and colleagues lost,
loses himself to small-boy memories
played in child-friendly fields.
On Monday he will lose himself
to another unwelcomed anaesthetic.
Meanwhile the masters strategically
seat themselves in the furniture of denial,
where decency is an unused noun
begging to be honestly served.
They sing press-conference tautologies
and blanket each other in minimize,
their verbal guns loaded with excuses.
©Gene Barry.
世界一周 かずみはなじみます 新しい意味の言葉で 彼女の小さな心が推論するには大きすぎる、 -ナノシーベルト–セシウム–不可逆的- について正直な質問をする なじみのない形の野菜 おなじみの名前のクィアフィッシュ。 フミオが自殺したので 彼女の病気の母親のドレス 幸運をもたらす稲荷、 頻繁に彼女の家族を引き戻します 彼の誕生まで102年。 彼らが毎日話し合う感情を隠し、 彼の荒れ地のために涙を漏らします。 夢の中で彼女の祖父の訪問はひっくり返った 彼がトロールするボート 漁獲量や同僚の記憶が失われ、 小さな男の子の思い出に身を任せます 子供に優しい分野で遊んだ。 月曜日に彼は自分自身を失うでしょう 別の歓迎されない麻酔薬に。 一方、マスターは戦略的に 否定の家具に身を置く、 ここで、品位は未使用の名詞です 正直に仕えられるように懇願する。 彼らは記者会見のトートロジーを歌います 最小化でお互いを覆い、 言い訳を積んだ彼らの口頭の銃。 ©ジーンバリー
A poem translated to Romanian and published in Romania.
Working Days
In the warm hospital car park,
under the high sun that was
oblivious to the occupants of
the discharging belt of taxis,
cars with shiny blue permits
newly perched on their
dashboards and the special
transporters and ambulances,
I sat filling out my most-important
paperwork I believed would
shortly will be cast aside as one
would a useless cigarette end?
I watched them arrive
mostly in pairs,
just the odd loner
strutting like a hired gun.
Defiant.
Others left me wondering
if there was a corral of
redundant friends and families
working, sitting, sleeping
in ignorance.
The automatic mouth of the
clinic swallowed repeatedly,
spitting out the lucky ones
like distasteful kernels.
Eating from the topped up
feedbag of mixtures;
bargaining and fear mostly,
the odd acceptance a tasty bite,
denial a regular
and all wrapped carefully
in a variety of medical appliances.
The patens who guided, lifted
pushed and poked wore
their new faces, repeatedly
administering encouragement
to a posse of deaf ears.
They came wrapped mostly
in quickly purchased ill-fitting
PJs, nighties and dressing gowns,
all lost in their new undersized
frames and in the importance
of the moment.
Nine weeks later, the days
shortening and the sun kissing
the horizon a few hours earlier
I was back again
carefully nursing him along
the conveyor of inevitability,
my mask a perfect fit.
A bag of irrelevant fashion
hanging from my left
shoulder and he who
gave me life
leaning on the other.
The two of us
babbling, babbling, babbling.
©Gene Barry
Zile lucrătoare
În parcarea fierbinte a spitalului,
sub soarele înălțat sus pe cer,
inexistent pentru ocupanții
taxiurilor din șirul care descărca pacienți,
pentru cei ai mașinilor cu permise albastre, strălucitoare,
fixate recent pe tablourile de bord,
și pentru șoferii de la transporturile
speciale și de la ambulanțe,
eu stăteam și completam cele mai importante
hârtii, care eram convins că urmau
să fie imediat aruncate într-un colț,
ca niște mucuri de țigară.
Mă uitam cum sosesc,
cei mai mulți în perechi,
doar câte unul singur, ciudat,
mergând țanțoș ca un pistolar.
Sfidător.
Ceilalți mă făceau să mă întreb
dacă nu cumva exista undeva un țarc plin
cu prieteni și cu membri ai familiei, toți de prisos,
care stăteau, dormeau, își vedeau de treabă,
în ignoranță.
Gura automatizată a clinicii
îi înghițea pe toți regulat,
scuipându-i afară pe cei norocoși,
ca pe niște sâmburi amari.
Rumegau, fiecare din traista legată la gât,
plină cu amestecuri:
cel mai adesea negociere și teamă,
acceptarea cea rară, o îmbucătură hrănitoare,
negarea, ceva obișnuit –
și cu toții erau bine ambalați
în dispozitive medicale.
Cei care le aduceau patenele și împărtășania îi îndrumau,
îi ridicau, îi împingeau și îi așezau, purtându-și
figurile cele noi, oferind
încurajări în mod repetat,
la o grămadă de urechi surde.
Ei soseau, de cele mai multe ori, înfășurați
în pijamale, cămăși de noapte sau halaturi
cumpărate în grabă și de mărimi nepotrivite,
cu toții pierduți în corpurile lor noi,
micșorate, și în importanța
momentului.
Nouă săptămâni mai târziu, când zilele
se scurtaseră, iar soarele săruta orizontul
cu câteva ore mai devreme,
am revenit,
conducându-l cu grijă,
și duceam pe roți inevitabilul,
cu masca mea, care se potrivea de minune.
O geantă de-un model oarecare
îmi atârna pe umărul
stâng și el,
care mi-a dat viață,
se sprijinea de celălalt.
Amândoi
vorbind fleacuri, fleacuri, fleacuri.
©Gene Barry.
A poem translated to Hindi and published in India.
Love’s Diastole
We strolled the beach repeatedly
omnipotent in our unity,
promising to keep promises.
There was no drain to
ease the falling rush
from our un-sluiced silence,
just terraces of breaking
aches rushing clean and
easy over the Minoan earth.
Your eyes a team of plough horses
tugging at the roots of joy
bedded in absence
and I plump with confidence
jirbled rough unsteady words;
a quell I thought.
A swell of history fought
our falling tide as love’s vice
held us firmly;
plans and dreams of children
flying themselves into
a fourth dimension.
©Gene Barry.
लव का डायस्टोल हम बार-बार समुद्र तट पर टहलते रहे हमारी एकता में सर्वशक्तिमान, वादे निभाने का वादा किया। कोई नाला नहीं था गिरती भीड़ को कम करो हमारी संयुक्त राष्ट्र की चुप्पी से, बस टूटने की छतों स्वच्छ और दर्द मिनोआन पृथ्वी पर आसान। आपकी आँखें हल के घोड़ों की एक टीम है खुशी की जड़ों में tugging अनुपस्थिति में बिस्तर पर और मैं आत्मविश्वास से लबरेज jirbled असभ्य अस्थिर शब्द; मैं सोचता था। इतिहास की एक तलवार लड़ी प्रेम के कुल के रूप में हमारा गिरता हुआ ज्वार हमें मजबूती से पकड़े रखा; योजनाओं और बच्चों के सपने खुद में उड़ रहा है एक चौथा आयाम। © जीन बैरी
A poem translated to Spanish and published in Mexico.
Bonelocked
For Pasha Chernobyl 1999
No one has seen the walls
that hover around you,
shields that only land
occasionally in polluted
fields of adulthood.
Birthed by deaf ears and
confused and troubled as
your country’s barriers.
Your birth year blew you
you a second violation,
nuclear, a shock to torture your
family now summoned to
live a querulous-free life.
Is there a poet of gratitude
lurking in your twisted frame
burying volumes of antiquity;
those beasts that
bite you after binding?
Is there an Olympian caged
within, breaking ribbon after
ribbon? A podium tenant
riding heroic cantatas.
A screamer without an
audience. Are your trips
as grey as a funeral
procession or as pleasing
as a lap of honour.
Bloqueo de huesos
Para Pasha, Chernóbil 1999
Nadie ha visto las paredes
que se ciernen a tu alrededor
escudos que, a veces
tan sólo aterrizan
en contaminados campos
de la tercera edad
— sordo de nacimiento y
confundido, atribulado como
las barreras de su país
tu año de nacimiento fue
volado por una bomba nuclear
un shock que torturó a tu familia
ahora convocada a vivir una
vida libre de quejidos
¿hay allí un poeta de la gratitud
que acecha tu armazón arqueado
y entierra volúmenes antiguos,
bestias que te muerden
luego de tu cuerpo atar?
¿hay un deportista olímpico
enjaulado adentro
rompiendo cinta tras cinta?
tal vez un inquilino del podio
montando cantatas heroicas
o un gritón sin público
son tus viajes
tan grises como un funeral
tan amenos como la honra.
©Gene Barry.
Gene Barry Poet 