planet trouble

I post a lot of queer poetry, which should really come as no surprise to anyone. I also buy a lot of poetry books, especially in and around the month of April; when we were in New York last year, I bought Stephanie Burt's 2025 anthology Super Gay Poems, which is really fantastic and highly recommended for both the brilliant essays about each poem and the poems themselves. It also gives me a lot of personal joy because it doesn't have a single poem in it that I've already posted (in 19 years!!), which is so cool and exciting—although there are a handful of poems I've read in the anthology, and several poets I've heard of (or posted other work by), I really love the part of doing this each year where I get to learn and discover new-to-me poems and poets.

Since I skipped yesterday, I am going to indulgently post two poems from the anthology which are completely unrelated, except that they both haunt me (and also both have great enjambment).

Having caught me, neither fish nor flesh,
you slip me back into the sea.
But I, with the feel of your hands fresh
on my wet skin, follow you under
water. Slowly, I learn to breathe in
the alien air of your being, to walk
on glass, to swallow my words and sing
unheard. Your kindness is everything.
I am the slave of the lamp you light.
You wish me to stand on my feet.
I forget to swim,
choose, free as the wave that brought me
ashore, to abandon home,
to become foam.

—Ruth Vanita, "Mermaid," from A Play of Light: Selected Poems, first published by Penguin New Delhi (1994) and reprinted in an updated edition by QueerInk (2021), and Stephanie Burt, Super Gay Poems: LGBTQIA+ Poetry after Stonewall (Harvard University Press, 2025). In the essay following this poem, Burt writes, "This sonnet appears here instead, because it belongs among the strongest, most elegant poems ever written in English about mermaids, and mermaids are queer through and through" (86). Abso-fucking-lutely.

*

I don't want to hurt a man, but I like to hear one beg.
Two people touch twice a month in ten hotels, and
We call it long distance. He holds down one coast.
I wander the other like any African American, Africa
With its condition and America with its condition
And black folk born in this nation content to carry
Half of each. I shoulder my share. My man flies
To touch me. Sky on our side. Sky above his world
I wish to write. Which is where I go wrong. Words
Are a sense of sound. I get smart. My mother shakes
Her head. My grandmother sighs: He ain't got no
Sense. My grandmother is dead. She lives with me.
I hear my mother shake her head over the phone.
Somebody cut the cord. We have a long distance
Relationship. I lost half of her to a stroke. God gives
To each a body. God gives every body its pains.
When pain mounts in my body, I try thinking
Of my white forefathers who hurt their black bastards
Quite legally. I hate to say it, but one pain can ease
Another. Doctors rather I take pills. My man wants me
To see a doctor. What are you when you leave your man
Wanting? What am I now that I think so fondly
Of airplanes? What's my name, whose is it, while we
Make love. My lover leaves me with words I wish
To write. Flies from one side of a nation to the outside
Of our world. I don't want the world. I only want
African sense of American sound. Him. Touching.
This body. Aware of its pains. Greetings, Earthlings.
My name is Slow And Stumbling. I come from planet
Trouble. I am here to love you uncomfortable.

—Jericho Brown, "Heart Condition," from The New Testament (Copper Canyon Press, 2014) and, of course, Stephanie Burt, Super Gay Poems: LGBTQIA+ Poetry after Stonewall (Harvard University Press, 2025). I somehow had never read any Jericho Brown before? I am now obsessed.

give me fire

A little Audre Lorde for a gloomy Saturday, and for my wife.

Give me fire and I will sing you morning
Finding you heart
And a birth of fruit
For you, a flame that will stay beauty
Song will take us by by the hand
And lead us back to light.

Give me fire and I will sing you evening
Asking you water
And quick breath
No farewell winds like a willow switch
Against my body
But a voice to speak
In a dark room.

—Audre Lorde (1934-1992), "A Lover's Song," from The First Cities (1968), and in this case from The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde (Norton, 1997).

the improbable lady

I'm slightly more organized this year than I have been for the last few years of National Poetry Month, which means I have some real bangers coming up in the last week of the month. But I'm starting this week here, with Saeed Jones; I saw someone describe this poem as "heartbreakingly lovely," and it really is—I've had it on my list since I first read it at poetryisnotaluxury in 2023.

In this field of thistle, I am the improbable
lady. How I wear the word: sequined weight
snagging my saunter into overgrown grass, blonde
split-end blades. I waltz in an acre of bad wigs.

Sir who is no one, sir who is yet to come, I need you
to undo this zipped back, trace the chiffon
body I've borrowed. See how I switch my hips

for you, dry grass cracking under my pretend
high heels? Call me and I'm at your side,
one wildflower behind my ear. Ask me
and I'll slip out of this softness, the dress

a black cloud at my feet. I could be the boy
wearing nothing, a negligee of gnats.

—Saeed Jones, "Boy in a Stolen Evening Gown," from Prelude to Bruise (Coffee House Press, 2014).

here in the midst of it

A little Jay Hulme for Good Friday, don't you think? I love this one.

He's here in the midst of it -
right at the centre of the dance floor,
robes hitched up to His knees
to make it easy to spin.

At some point in the evening
a boy will touch the hem of His robe
and beg to be healed, beg to be
anything other than this;

and He will reach His arms out,
sweat-damp, and weary from dance.
He'll cup this boy's face in His hand
and say,

                my beautiful child
there is nothing in this heart of yours
that ever needs to be healed.

—Jay Hulme, "Jesus at the Gay Bar," from The Backwater Sermons (Canterbury Press, 2021). Jay Hulme has some great notes on this poem's theology on his website.

a thousand windows and a thousand doors

I was thinking about going back to Auden for today, my 40th birthday, even though I changed the birthday rules in 2020. It's my 40th birthday! Also, I make the rules and can do what I want! I haven't posted any Auden in a couple of years, but I've been thinking about him—and, honestly, he was so prolific that I could just post Auden poems for a few hundred years—and then we went to the New York Public Library today and spent a while walking through the New Yorker Exhibit. And look, I really tried not to post this poem, because it's fucking depressing; it's also incredibly relevant, and also they have a draft manuscript that Auden sent to Benjamin Britten in 1939 in the exhibit at NYPL, so like. Here we are. Warnings for Nazis, etc.

Say this city has ten million souls;
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes,
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair;
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there.
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew;
Every spring it flowers anew.
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The Consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport, you're officially dead."
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a Committee; they offered me a chair,
Asked me politely to return next year.
But where shall we go today, my dear, where shall we go today?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker stood up and said,
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread."
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder, rumbling in the sky.
It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die."
O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle wearing a jacket, fastened with a pin;
Saw a door open and a cat let in.
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

Went down to the harbor and stood upon the quay;
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free,
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked into a wood; saw the birds in the trees,
They had no politicians and sang at their ease.
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

Dreamt I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows, and a thousand doors.
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Ran down to the station to catch the express;
Asked for two tickets to Happiness,
But every coach was full, my dear, but every coach was full.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

—W. H. Auden (1907-1973). This is the poem as it was originally published, as "Song," in the April 15, 1939 issue of The New Yorker, but it's more widely known as "Refugee Blues." In the manuscript draft that Auden sent to Britten in March of 1939, it's just called "Blues"—and as the exhibit notes, the poem is set in a meter borrowed from blues music. The poem often appears with some alterations when it's published as "Refugee Blues" (as it is in my edition of Auden); Auden frequently edited after publication, and sometimes went on editing basically forever, so textual consistency with his poems is always very fun. Anyway, thanks for this one, Wystan. I sure do not love that it still hits so hard 86 years later, but I am very grateful that we had poetry then, and still have poetry now.

we'll go winging

I woke up feeling like absolute garbage and it's going to be a very long day—our flight to New York for a week of theater and seeing friends (yay!) leaves Houston at 7pm and arrives at LGA a little before midnight. On the plus side, I also woke up thinking about this poem. So here's a little aspirational James Baldwin for today. I am hoping that the migraine meds work and the weather stays gorgeous and our travel is easy and painless, and I am also hoping for good things to come for all of us.

Let this be my summertime
Of azure sky and rolling sea,
And smiling clouds, and wind-kissed laughter,
And just myself entranced with thee.
And children playing in the glory
Of a carefree, youthful day,
And sunshine shining from the heavens,
And tears and sighing fled away.
Let this be my happiness
'Midst the earth's swift-flowing woe.
Let this be my only solace—
Just to know you love me so.
Just to know that we'll go winging,
Far above this earthy clime,
Hand in hand through laughing meadows.
Let this be my summertime.

—James Baldwin (1924-1987), "Paradise," from Magpie (Winter 1941).

forget the epitaph

When we were in New York, I went to see Suffs on Broadway with my mom. It was great—I have notes, of course, but overall I really enjoyed it, and I'm really glad I got to see it—and when I got home (or rather, back to the hotel) I obviously ended up reading up on the historical figures I didn't know as much about. This is how I learned that after Inez Milholland died, her husband married Edna St. Vincent Millay, who then WROTE A POEM about her husband's dead wife. Because, like, obviously. So this is the poem I would have posted on April 19, if I hadn't already been in bed and half-asleep when I learned of its existence.

                        Read in Washington, November eighteenth, 1923, at the unveiling of a statue
                        of three leaders in the cause of Equal Rights for Women

Upon this marble bust that is not I
Lay the round, formal wreath that is not fame;
But in the forum of my silenced cry
Root ye the living tree whose sap is flame.
I, that was proud and valiant, am no more;—
Save as a dream that wanders wide and late,
Save as a wind that rattles the stout door,
Troubling the ashes in the sheltered grate.
The stone will perish; I shall be twice dust.
Only my standard on a taken hill
Can cheat the mildew and the red-brown rust
And make immortal my adventurous will.
Even now the silk is tugging at the staff:
Take up the song; forget the epitaph.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "To Inez Milholland," 1923. I wouldn't say it's Edna's best work, but there's still something about it that really does land.

on the moon

Yesterday, Lucy and I drove to Austin and back, not to see the eclipse, but to see two wonderful friends of mine who happened to be there! They're in town for a couple of weeks, but we leave for New York and Boston on Friday and they leave Texas the same day we get back, so this was the only weekend we could manage. But we made it work, and I am so, so glad we did. Friends are so good!!

It was a long day, though, and by the time we got home I was way too tired to post a poem, even though we did go to Book People in Austin and I did buy like five new poetry books. I'll post a poem for yesterday at some point, but here is a poem for today, total solar eclipse day:

not back, let's not come back, let's go by the speed of
queer zest & stay up
there & get ourselves a little
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden

with lots of moon veggies (so healthy), i mean
i was already moonlighting
as an online moonologist
most weekends, so this is the immensely

logical next step, are you
packing your bags yet, don't forget your
sailor moon jean jacket, let's wear
our sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter,

queerer moon gravity, let's love each other
(so good) on the moon, let's love
the moon
on the moon

—Chen Chen, "i love you to the moon &," originally published in the Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day on May 31, 2021 and just an absolute and utter delight. Is it too cloudy to see the eclipse here? Yes. Do I care? No. It's still eclipse day! Let's love each other on the moon.

ponytails

I stand corrected: there are good poems about soccer. eccentric_hat (who has exceptional taste in poetry) shared this one with me and it is so good that I need to post it today! But since it is quite short, and because I feel like it, I am posting a second poem, which is also short (and gay) and packs a punch.

girls' soccer practice:
they are running so hard
and shouting so strong with
ponytails ponytails ponytails
backlit and leaping
they are not afraid of you

—Jenna Jaco, "11/8/16," published in the Sweet Tree Review (Summer 2017, Volume 2, Issue III).

*

And if I cannot speak of my love—
if I do not speak about your hair, your lips, your eyes;
yet your face that I keep within my soul,
the sound of your voice that I keep within my brain,
the days of September that dawn in my dreams,
mold and color my words and phrases,
in whatever theme I get into, whatever idea I utter.

—C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933), "December 1903," translated by Rae Dalven; this is one of Cavafy's unpublished poems.

what belongs to the day

Hey so how about that episode of Ted Lasso, like, holy shit, am I right? WHEW. Unfortunately there are no good poems about soccer, but here is some Walt Whitman.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

—Walt Whitman (1819-1892), "I Hear America Singing" from the 1867 edition of Leaves of Grass; the original version appeared as number 20 in the section titled "Chants Democratic" in the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass.

a god as my accomplice

I missed yesterday due to having a bunch of student meetings and then a migraine, but I did have a poem picked out, so: Happy (day after) Easter, here is some queer devotional poetry.

I want a god
as my accomplice
who spends nights
in houses
of ill repute
and gets up late
on Saturdays

a god
who whistles
through the streets
and trembles
before the lips
of his lover

a god
who waits in line
at the entrance
of movie houses
and likes to drink
café au lait

a god
who spits
blood from
tuberculosis and
doesn't even have
enough for bus fare

a god
knocked
unconscious
by the billy club
of a policeman
at a demonstration

a god
who pisses
out of fear
before the flaring
electrodes
of torture

a god
who hurts
to the last
bone and
bites the air
in pain

a jobless god
a striking god
a hungry god
a fugitive god
an exiled god
an enraged god

a god
who longs
from jail
for a change
in the order
of things

I want a
more godlike
god

—Francisco X. Alarcón (1954-2016), "Prayer," ("Oracion"), translated by Francisco Aragón, from From the Other Side of Night (Del otro lado de la noche), 2002.

on this night

I did a mini-seder with friends tonight—we didn't do an actual seder, but we did have homemade matzo ball soup and matzo brei and other classic Passover delicacies (so many macaroons), and we briefly recited the ten plagues for N, our (beloved) token goy. So in the spirit of my evening, here is a poem for Passover.

On this night
            I remember Nachshon
            who was not Moses who
                        walked into the Red Sea
                        and called for God
                                                    to meet him there
On this night
            I am only a body and you
                                                    are only a body
On this night
                        nothing is hidden
                        only the afikomen
On this night
                        God was here and I
                                                                I knew it

—Bev Yockelson, "The Trans Haggadah Companion," originally published in Poetry, February 2019.

perhaps spring is here

Extra poem time! This poem is for April 17, which was the other day I missed this month. I actually had this poem on my spreadsheet the whole time, but between missing a couple of days and moving some things around, it ended up getting bumped off, and I love it, so I'm posting it now. There are no rules to National Poetry Month.

Even though it’s May & the ice cream truck
parked outside my apartment is somehow certain,
I have a hard time believing winter is somehow,
all of a sudden, over — the worst one of my life,
the woman at the bank tells me. Though I’d like to be,
it’s impossible to be prepared for everything.
Even the mundane hum of my phone catches me
off guard today. Every voice that says my name
is a voice I don’t think I could possibly leave
(it’s unfair to not ask for the things you need)
even though I think about it often, even though
leaving is a train headed somewhere I’d probably hate.
Crossing Lyndale to meet a friend for coffee
I have to maneuver around a hearse that pulled too far
into the crosswalk. It’s empty. Perhaps spring is here.
Perhaps it will all be worth it. Even though I knew
even then it was worth it, staying, I mean.
Even now, there is someone, somehow, waiting for me.

—Hieu Minh Nguyen, "Uptown, Minneapolis, Minnesota," Poetry, 2018.

just call it horizon

I'm posting two poems today: one for today (April 26), and one for one of the days I missed earlier in the month (this past Sunday, the 24th). My original plan was to post one poem this morning and one this evening, but obviously that didn't happen, so I'm going to post this one and then the other one. They're both really wonderful poems—the kind where I wonder how I haven't already posted them. I may sneak in one more extra poem this week, since I also missed April 17, and any excuse to post another poem, am I right? I have also somehow managed to save a lot of my heavy hitters for the end of the month, so...sorry not sorry about that, too.

        After Frank O’Hara / After Roger Reeves

Ocean, don’t be afraid.
The end of the road is so far ahead
it is already behind us.
Don't worry. Your father is only your father
until one of you forgets. Like how the spine
won't remember its wings
no matter how many times our knees
kiss the pavement. Ocean,
are you listening? The most beautiful part
of your body is wherever
your mother's shadow falls.
Here's the house with childhood
whittled down to a single red tripwire.
Don't worry. Just call it horizon
& you'll never reach it.
Here’s today. Jump. I promise it's not
a lifeboat. Here's the man
whose arms are wide enough to gather
your leaving. & here the moment,
just after the lights go out, when you can still see
the faint torch between his legs.
How you use it again & again
to find your own hands.
You asked for a second chance
& are given a mouth to empty into.
Don't be afraid, the gunfire
is only the sound of people
trying to live a little longer. Ocean. Ocean,
get up. The most beautiful part of your body
is where it's headed. & remember,
loneliness is still time spent
with the world. Here's
the room with everyone in it.
Your dead friends passing
through you like wind
through a wind chime. Here's a desk
with the gimp leg & a brick
to make it last. Yes, here's a room
so warm & blood-close,
I swear, you will wake—
& mistake these walls
for skin.

—Ocean Vuong, "Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong," from Night Sky With Exit Wounds (2016), but originally published in The New Yorker, April 27, 2015.

the fire we gather between us

Okay, look. The thing is, I absolutely cannot go through the whole month of April here in 2022, year of the gay pirates (although if I had my way, every year would be the year of the gay pirates), without posting a poem with the literal title, "Love Pirates." Had I read this poem before I searched the Poetry Foundation archive for "pirates"? I had not. Am I into it anyway? I am. Love pirates, love love pirates.

I follow with my mouth the small wing of muscle
under your shoulder, lean over your back, breathing
into your hair and thinking of nothing. I want
to lie down with you under the sails of a wooden sloop
and drift away from all of it, our two cars rusting
in the parking lot, our families whining like tame geese
at feeding time, and all the bosses of the earth
cursing the traffic in the morning haze.

They will telephone each other from their sofas
and glass desks, with no idea where we could be,
unable to picture the dark throat
of the saxophone playing upriver, or the fire
we gather between us on this fantail of dusty light,
having stolen a truckload of roses
and thrown them into the sea.

—Joseph Millar, "Love Pirates," from Overtime, 2001. Who is more likely to throw a truckload of roses into the sea, do you think, Ed or Stede?

my good knife

Sometimes I read incredible poems and think, "this poem is too heavy-hitting for me today, I need to save it for later," and then later comes along and I'm like, "you know what? Yeah." Warnings for themes of abuse and violence, and also this poem fucking slays.

I know better than to leave the house
            without my good dress, my good knife

like Excalibur between my stone breasts.
            Mother would have me whipped,

would have me kneeling on rice until
            I shrilled so loud I rang the church

bells. Didn’t I tell you that elegance is our revenge,
            that there are neither victims nor victors

but the bitch we envy in the end? I am that bitch.
            I am dogged. I am so damned

not even Death wanted me. He sent me back
            after you sacked my body

the way your armies sacked my village, stacked
            our headless idols in the river

where our children impaled themselves
            on rocks. I exit night and enter your tent

gilded in a bolt of stubborn sunlight. My sleeves
            already rolled up. I know they will say

I am a slut for showing this much skin, this
            irreverence for what is seen

when I ask to be seen. Look at me now: my thighs
            lift from your thighs, my mouth

spits poison into your mouth. You nasty beauty.
            I am no beast, but my blade

sliding clean through your thick neck
            while my maid keeps your blood off

me and my good dress will be a song
        the parish sings for centuries. Tell Mary.

Tell Eve. Tell Salome and David about me.
        Watch their faces, like yours, turn green.

—Paul Tran, "Like Judith Slaying Holofernes," Poetry, 2018.

like the garden

A poem for the last night of vacation, and also, because it is Amy Lowell, for lesbians everywhere.

A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snow ball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies’ delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.

—Amy Lowell (1874-1925), "The Garden by Moonlight," from Pictures of the Floating World, 1919. (Also, I miss my black cats.) 

blessed ground

I don't think there has been enough queer poetry yet this month, but obviously I am going to change that. I first encountered Danez Smith through an entirely different poem—"Tonight, in Oakland," which is wonderful—and then I tracked down some more of their poetry, as one does, and totally fell for this one.

this gin-heavy heaven, blessed ground to think gay & mean we.
bless the fake id & the bouncer who knew
this need to be needed, to belong, to know how
a man taste full on vodka & free of sin. i know not which god to pray to.
i look to christ, i look to every mouth on the dance floor, i order
a whiskey coke, name it the blood of my new savior. he is just.
he begs me to dance, to marvel men with the
                                                                                    dash
of hips i brought, he deems my mouth in some stranger’s mouth necessary.
bless that man’s mouth, the song we sway sloppy to, the beat, the bridge, the length
of his hand on my thigh & back & i know not which country i am of.
i want to live on his tongue, build a home of gospel & gayety
i want to raise a city behind his teeth for all boys of choirs & closets to refuge in.
i want my new god to look at the mecca i built him & call it damn good
or maybe i’m just tipsy & free for the first time, willing to worship anything i can taste.

—Danez Smith, "The 17-Year-Old & the Gay Bar," Poetry magazine, 2017.

a source of water

Yesterday was my last full day of vacation, and it ended up being very busy—very fun, but also busy—and by the end I was so tired that I went straight to bed. We're going out to breakfast in a little bit, and then I head back to the airport. So here is one last love sonnet in Spanish, for the road.

para este amor nunca ha habido sol,
como loca flor, en lo oscuro brota,
es, a la vez, corona de espinas y
guirnalda de primavera en la sien

fuego, herida y amarguísimo fruto,
pero también brisa y manantial,
una mordida al alma: tu aliento,
un tronco en la corriente: tu pecho

hazme caminar sobre el agua turbia,
sé el hacha que rompa este candado,
el rocío que haga llorar los árboles

si mudo quedo al besar tus muslos
es que mi corazón con afán busca
entre tu carne un nuevo amanecer


there has never been sunlight for this love,
like a crazed flower it buds in the dark,
is at once a crown of thorns and
a spring garland around the temples

a fire, a wound, the bitterest of fruit,
but a breeze as well, a source of water,
your breath—a bite to the soul,
your chest—a tree trunk in the current

make me walk on the turbid waters,
be the ax that breaks this lock,
the dew that weeps from trees

if I become mute kissing your thighs,
it’s that my heart eagerly
searches your flesh for a new dawn

—Francisco X. Alarcón (1954-2016), I from "Of Dark Love," from From the Other Side of Night/Del otro lado de la noche, translated by Francisco Aragón, 2002. Not only is this gorgeous, it is also very queer.

rendido el corazón

Is it love sonnet time yet? Okay, let's be honest, it's always love sonnet time. I like a sonnet in the very classical tradition of "love fucks me up but I'm into it."

Con el dolor de la mortal herida,
de un agravio de amor me lamentaba;
y por ver si la muerte se llegaba,
procuraba que fuese más crecida.

Toda en el mal el alma divertida,
pena por pena su dolor sumaba,
y en cada circunstancia ponderaba
quesobrabanmil muertes a una vida.

Y cuando, al golpe de uno y otro tiro,
rendido el corazón daba penoso
señas de dar el último suspiro,

no sé con qué destino prodigioso
volví en mi acuerdo y dije:—¿Qué me admiro?
¿Quién en amor ha sido más dichoso?


Love opened a mortal wound.
In agony, I worked the blade
to make it deeper. Please,
I begged, let death come quick.

Wild, distracted, sick,
I counted, counted
all the ways love hurt me.
One life, I thought—a thousand deaths.

Blow after blow, my heart
couldn't survive this beating.
Then—how can I explain it?

I came to my senses. I said,
Why do I suffer? What lover
ever had so much pleasure?

—Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651-1695), "Love Opened a Mortal Wound," or "Con el Dolor de la Mortal Herida," translated by Joan Larkin and Jaime Manrique. Sor Juana kicks ass.