clear water

In her splendor islanded
This woman burning like a charm of jewels
An army terrifying and asleep
This woman lying within the night
Like clear water lying on closed eyes
In a tree's shadow
A waterfall halted halfway in its flight
A rapid narrow river suddenly frozen
At the foot of a great and seamless rock
At the foot of a mountain
She is lake-water in April as she lies
In her depth binding poplar and eucalyptus
Fishes or stars burning between her thighs
Shadow of birds scarcely hiding her sex
Her breasts two still villages under a peaceful sky
This woman lying here like a white stone
Like water in the moon in a dead crater
Not a sound in the night not moss nor sand
Only the slow budding of my words
At the ear of water at the ear of flesh
Unhurried running
And clear memorial
Here is the moment burning and returned
Drowning itself in itself and never consumed

—Octavio Paz (1914-1998), "In Her Splendor Islanded," translated by Muriel Rukeyser (1913-1980); translation published in Poetry, June 1958.

through their empty names

While in Mexico (which I am this week—and the last time I was in Mexico during poetry month was 2008, which is sort of weird and fascinating), I want to post some Mexican poets. Here's a little Octavio Paz. 

A Roger Caillois

El agua horada la piedra,

el viento dispersa el agua,

la piedra detiene al viento.

Agua, viento, piedra.

El viento esculpe la piedra,

la piedra es copa del agua,

el agua escapa y es viento.

Piedra, viento, agua.

El viento en sus giros canta,

el agua al andar murmura,

la piedra inmóvil se calla.

Viento, agua, piedra.

Uno es otro y es ninguno:

entre sus nombres vacíos

pasan y se desvanecen

agua, piedra, viento.

for Roger Caillois

Water hollows stone,

wind scatters water,

stone stops the wind.

Water, wind, stone.

Wind carves stone,

stone's a cup of water,

water escapes and is wind.

Stone, wind, water.

Wind sings in its whirling,

water murmurs going by,

unmoving stone keeps still.

Wind, water, stone.

Each is another and no other:

crossing and vanishing

through their empty names:

water, stone, wind.

—Octavio Paz (1914-1998), "Wind, Water, Stone," translated by Eliot Weinberger, and in this case from The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz, 1957-1987 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1987). 

(I really like this poem, but I've definitely seen too many BTS videos at this point, because I keep trying to read the poem in the rhythm of BTS doing rock paper scissors, which isn't...EXACTLY wrong.)