Poem
Kirmen Uribe
ESPETXEKO HAIKUAK/JAILHOUSE HAIKUS
6.In the library
hunting around in the shelves.
The morning flies by.
I’m strolling around
in that woodlot of Thoreau’s.
Disobedience.
Poster on the wall.
It’s Cravan vs. Johnson.
The heavyweight bout.
Later a chess game
vs. the fishing captain.
He flat out sinks me.
A love letter one
prisoner dictates to me.
Gloriousness.
Though he never learned
either reading or writing,
the man’s a poet.
© Translation: 2020, Elizbeth Macklin
ESPETXEKO HAIKUAK/JAILHOUSE HAIKUS
6.
Bibliotekako
apal sailetan bila.
Ihesi goiza.
Promenatzen naiz
Thoreauren basoetan.
Desobedientzia.
Horman afixa.
Cravan, Johnsonen aurka.
Boxeo lehia.
Xake partida
marinelaren aurka.
Hondoratu nau.
Maitasun karta
diktatu dit presoak.
Edertasuna.
Ez jakin arren
leitzen eta idazten,
bada poeta.
Bibliotekako
apal sailetan bila.
Ihesi goiza.
Promenatzen naiz
Thoreauren basoetan.
Desobedientzia.
Horman afixa.
Cravan, Johnsonen aurka.
Boxeo lehia.
Xake partida
marinelaren aurka.
Hondoratu nau.
Maitasun karta
diktatu dit presoak.
Edertasuna.
Ez jakin arren
leitzen eta idazten,
bada poeta.
© 2019, Kirmen Uribe
From: 17 Segundo
Publisher: Susa, Zarautz
From: 17 Segundo
Publisher: Susa, Zarautz
Poems
Poems of Kirmen Uribe
Close
ESPETXEKO HAIKUAK/JAILHOUSE HAIKUS
6.In the library
hunting around in the shelves.
The morning flies by.
I’m strolling around
in that woodlot of Thoreau’s.
Disobedience.
Poster on the wall.
It’s Cravan vs. Johnson.
The heavyweight bout.
Later a chess game
vs. the fishing captain.
He flat out sinks me.
A love letter one
prisoner dictates to me.
Gloriousness.
Though he never learned
either reading or writing,
the man’s a poet.
© 2020, Elizbeth Macklin
From: 17 Segundo
From: 17 Segundo
ESPETXEKO HAIKUAK/JAILHOUSE HAIKUS
6.In the library
hunting around in the shelves.
The morning flies by.
I’m strolling around
in that woodlot of Thoreau’s.
Disobedience.
Poster on the wall.
It’s Cravan vs. Johnson.
The heavyweight bout.
Later a chess game
vs. the fishing captain.
He flat out sinks me.
A love letter one
prisoner dictates to me.
Gloriousness.
Though he never learned
either reading or writing,
the man’s a poet.
© 2020, Elizbeth Macklin
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