KEVIN MAYNARD studied at Exeter University and the Warburg Institute before becoming a teacher. His poems, translations and photography have appeared in several small UK literary magazines (Agenda,The Rialto, The SHOp, The Interpreter’s House, the online magazine Littoral etc.), and his book of Chinese war poems, The Iron Flute, appeared from Arc Publications in September 2019, and is still available from all good bookshops and online outlets, or directly from Arc. See:
https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/blog/the-iron-flute-an-interview-with-kevin-maynard-285
AN ASCENT OF MOUNT LU
travel outfits dangling down
you traverse wetlands
traipse through tangled chaparrals
until you reach your mountain lodge
sheer bluffs, a thousand of them
piled up peaks that block your way
a mighty myriad of ravines
that ring you round and round
towering precipitous
ancient and primordial
scattered so randomly
you muddle up their names
deep caverns
where you catch a glimpse
of subterranean springs
lofty trees that lean up
to the pathways in the sky
pines that cluster, cling together
on high mountain ledges
cloud-filled caves
encountered here and there
shaded ice-pools
that still freeze in summer
southern trees
that thrive throughout the winter
strident honking of crane-birds
to greet the yearned-for dawn
clarion howls and hoots
of gibbons late at night
canyons within whose plunging depths
the spirits are concealed
sharply chiselled summits
where divinities are hidden
you are one
who loves these mountain heights
who deeply feels this wanderlust
so up you climb
to where the winged ones go
to merge forever
with the mountain mists
Bao Zhao (414?–566)
Gongora’s Letrilla 8
(2025)
Lady Luck doles out good stuff —
doles out the bad stuff too:
for some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
She leads us here and there:
in so many directions —
the monstrous and the fair;
both beggars and well-to-do.
Lettres de cachet for some;
for others billets-doux.
For some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
Sometimes it rains in torrents;
sometimes the sun breaks through.
Your grapes will either sweeten
or wither on the vine.
Your crops may ripen and grow tall
or be blighted by mildew.
For some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
A witness thinks she knows the face
of this homeless John Doe —
and if his face is dark enough
he’ll end up on Death Row.
While crooked bankers everywhere
more riches still accrue.
For some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
Luis de Gongora (1561–1627)
Letrilla 8
(1581)
Da bienes Fortuna
que no están escritos:
cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
¡Cuán diversas sendas
se suelen seguir
en el repartir
honras y haciendas!
A unos da encomiendas,
a otros, sambenitos.
Cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
A veces despoja
de choza y apero
al mayor cabrero;
y a quien se le antoja,
la cabra más coja
parió dos cabritos.
Cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
Porque en una aldea
un pobre mancebo
hurtó solo un huevo,
al sol bambolea,
y otro se pasea
con cien mil delitos.
Cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
TWO POEMS BY LEOPARDI
INFINITY
Ever dear to me
this solitary hill —
this hedgerow, too,
that quite cuts off
the far horizon
from my view . . .
But when I sit
and meditate awhile,
such boundless distances
are conjured by imagination —
such a superhuman silence —
and such deep stillness,
that the heart feels
not a little fear.
And when I hear the wind
rush through this foliage,
I start comparing its voice
with all that silence;
and then are brought to mind
eternity, the seasons dead and gone,
this so vivid present . . .
and the sound it makes.
And in the midst of such immensity
all thought’s annulled —
how sweet it seems to me
to drown in such a sea!
Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837)
L’INFINITO
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,
e questa siepe, che da tanta parte
dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati
spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani
silenzi, e profondissima quïete
io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
infinito silenzio a questa voce
vo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno,
e le morte stagioni, e la presente
e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa
immensità s’annega il pensier mio:
e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare.
Canto XIII: The Holiday Is Over
Bright, mild, windless lies the night—
and, by holy moonshine is distilled
silence among the roofs and gardens, lifting
the far peaks near—austere, implacable,
serene. O lady, now a deep hush settles
upon each empty path, while seldom gleams
from shadowed balconies lamplight . . .
At ease you slumber—for with welcome ease
does Sleep into your chamber steal: and free
from care you rest, entirely unaware
of all wounds dealt, or of how deep you slid
into my breast . . . You slumber, while I scan
these skies (so kindly-seeming); and I greet
primeval and almighty Nature, who
fashioned me from infancy for grief.
Hope I withhold, she whispers, even hope . . .
May your eyes shine, if shine they must, with tears,
or else shine not at all. And so we end
the day’s solemnities—from its delights
you drowse now, and perhaps in sleep you dream
of all you pleased, of all who gave you pleasure . . .
but not of me: I’d never dare to think
you dreamed of me . . . Meanwhile I ask how much
of life remains, and fling my carcass down
and shout in pain, and shudder: dreadful days,
and in so green a time! Ah, now along
the road there drifts the solitary song
of some sad labourer returning late
from revelry to his poor dwelling-place;
and frenziedly my heart contracts to know
how this world fades away, leaving behind
barely a trace: behold this festival
itself has fled, and to this festival
succeeds, tomorrow, one more working day.
Time snatches from our mortal hands each human
incident. That huge hubbub raised
by peoples of the ancient world: gone where?
That cry, to rend the sky, of our forebears,
and all their mighty Roman realms: gone where?
The clangour of their arms on land and sea?
The world lies quiet, and is at peace again,
and now we barely speak of them at all.
When I was still a child, how hot my heart
then hungered for each holiday! Recall
when one such day was done: I lay distraught—
awake and grieving on my bed of down—
there died away upon the paths that night
little by little, one such song as now
clutches my heart with sorrow yet again.
After Giacomo Leopardi
Canto XIII: La sera del dì di festa
Dolce e chiara è la notte e senza vento,
e queta sovra i tetti e in mezzo agli orti
posa la luna, e di lontan rivela
serena ogni montagna. O donna mia,
già tace ogni sentiero, e pei balconi
rara traluce la notturna lampa.
Tu dormi, ché t’accolse agevol sonno
nelle tue chete stanze, e non ti morde
cura nessuna; e già non sai né pensi
quanta piaga m’apristi in mezzo al petto.
Tu dormi: io questo ciel, che sì benigno
appare in vista, a salutar m’affaccio,
e l’antica natura onnipossente,
che mi fece all’affanno. A te la speme
nego, mi disse, anche la speme, e d’altro
non brillin gli occhi tuoi se non di pianto.
Questo dì fu solenne: or da’ trastulli
prendi riposo; e forse ti rimembra
in sogno a quanti oggi piacesti, e quanti
piacquero a te: non io, non già, ch’io speri,
al pensier ti ricorro. Intanto io chieggo
quanto a viver mi resti, e qui per terra
mi getto, e grido, e fremo. Oh giorni orrendi
in così verde etate!
Ahi, per la via
odo non lunge il solitario canto
dell’artigian, che riede a tarda notte,
dopo i sollazzi, al suo povero ostello—
e fieramente mi si stringe il core,
a pensar come tutto al mondo passa,
e quasi orma non lascia. Ecco è fuggito
il dì festivo, ed al festivo il giorno
volgar succede, e se ne porta il tempo
ogni umano accidente.
Or dov’è il suono
di que’ popoli antichi? or dov’è il grido
de’ nostri avi famosi, e il grande impero
di quella Roma, e l’armi, e il fragorio
che n’andò per la terra e l’oceano?
Tutto è pace e silenzio, e tutto posa
il mondo, e più di lor non si ragiona.
Nella mia prima età, quando s’aspetta
bramosamente il dì festivo, or poscia
ch’egli era spento, io doloroso, in veglia,
premea le piume; ed alla tarda notte
un canto che s’udia per li sentieri
lontanando morire a poco a poco,
già similmente mi stringeva il core.
KEVIN MAYNARD studied at Exeter University and the Warburg Institute before becoming a teacher.
His poems, translations and photography have appeared in several small UK literary magazines (Agenda,The Rialto, The SHOp, The Interpreter’s House, the online magazine Littoral etc.), and his book of Chinese war poems, The Iron Flute, appeared from Arc Publications in September 2019, and is still available from all good bookshops and online outlets, as well as directly from Arc Publications. See:
https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/blog/the-iron-flute-an-interview-with-kevin-maynard-285