Another world and then all of a sudden
You can’t take it
The one before it had sand that
Could be counted
Unfathomable in the next
Love falls up and can see behind its own head
Like a grey hound
In the next world, snap! Just like that!
It’s lost to a better, newer you
The outlier
Bending to his own will
Not the whims of one jump that
Can take him to a place
Thought better for the effort
Stop running
Other worlds open up in stillness 


                                                                     ------ Lord Bison

I have heard, from a very reliable source,
That in Italy, stealing fruit is a cherished pastime.
But what I want to know is this: if the grapes
Have already been pressed into the wine bottle,
Is it still an acceptable form of theft?
Because I would much rather steal
A swallow of wine from the bottom of the bottle
Than a greenhouse full of ripe raw green grapes.
But I would prefer, even more than that,
To steal a single sip of wine
From off your lips.
But is that the kind of theft that would get me slapped
In jail? Let’s say, on another note,
If I visit the hillside where your fruit trees
Are swaying in the wind, and I drink in
The sight of them,
Is that theft by looking? Am I stealing
Away beauty that does not belong to me?
And even if the answer is yes,
What else can I do with my dreams?
Put them in cupboards and forget them?
Fruit that goes unpicked is soon forgotten.
I would rather take what lovely things
I can get my hands on. Oh, the ways
by which I live to cheat the world!

Isaiah Pittman

Translation into Italian by Rosalind Resnick

Ho sentito parlare, da una persona molto affidabile,
Che in Italia rubare la frutta e’ un passatempo preferito.
Ma io vorrei sapere questo: Se le uve
Sono state premute
Nella bottiglia di vino,
Sarebbe ancora una forma legittima di furto?
Perché io preferirei rubare
Un sorso di vino dal fondo della bottiglia
Che da una serra pieno di uve verdi, crude e mature.
Ma io preferirei anche più di questo
Rubare un solo sorso di vino
Dalle tue labbra.
Ma è questo il tipo di furto che mi manderà in prigione?
Diciamo in un'altra nota
Se io visitassi la collina dove i tuoi alberi da frutta stanno ondeggiando nel vento
E io bevessi la loro vista,
Sarebbe il furto da guardare?
Vuol dire che io sto rubando la bellezza che non è la mia?
Anche se la risposta sia "si,"
Che altro potrei fare con i miei sogni?
Metterli nei cassetti e dimenticarli?
La frutta non raccolta e’ presto dimenticata.
Io vorrei prendere le cose belle
Sulle quale potrei mettere le mani.
O, tutti i modi
In cui io vivo per imbrogliare il mondo!

Violet. 

Indigo. 

Blue. 

Green. 

Yellow. 

Orange. 

Red. 

VIBGYOR. 

 

When you first awaken

yourself off that deep, black life 

Notice a white light 

That passes through you,

Making a spectrum of you. 

So make a rainbow. 

Pick up a color and start

From the start

Or start from the end,

Try to see which way they bend 

Because light is a line

That travels straight 

And straight it will go

From earth to heaven 

The band of seven colors

Through seven layers 

To the seventh most step 

Which is your destination. 

So begin 

With Violet, the other blue 

Just not really its true hue 

Indigo has a similar story to tell

A little towards left or right

Don't surmise, be precise.

It'll all be amiss otherwise. 

Then green, like the eyes of that fish

Which swims away when you're out fishing

But it is so beautiful, that you let it go

Green, Like the water which is blue

But green, like aquamarine.

Then call yellow, that silly fellow 

Who's your best friend 

The brightest one 

in the middle of all that colorful mess

Sitting next to that darker version 

Of himself 

Who is blazing brightly

Like a hot black coal piece;

Estranged, strange. 

Orange. 

Embrace him to burn you down

And burn you do 

Again with another blue 

Suffocate to another shade 

It's only real

For only the toughest are moulded 

By that fiery orange. 

Then you turn red,

With anger

With rage

To quench

The thirst for revenge. 

At this stage, it's all red.

And red it will be then,

The color that gets you through, 

Which In its correct wavelength 

Becomes the red of the blood,

Red of the heart. 

Maybe that's why 

you see it from afar,

maybe our ruddy hearts

 need to feel,

That Crimson burn

Estranged, strange, 

From Blue to orange. 

To climb 

The last stair to heaven,

Through the red

Of the heart.

 
Rudra Joshi