I’m Not Carmen Mola, but I Have “For the Music of Love I Walk,” in Italian, sort of ?


    I’m not Carmen Mola that everyone until now thought was a married female professor, living in Madrid, and who won the Planeta Prize. It turns out that the writer is three men. (New York Times, Sunday, October 31, 2021, Vol. CLXXI, No. 59,228, page 4.)
    Don’t fuss too much. Look here, just like in a supernatural story, a spirit can manifest itself and write a novel or other written work. There have been Twilight Zone episodes where Shakespeare is brought back to life etc., and other similar devices. The “conceit” is sometimes necessary to write a fictional character in first-person.
    So, indulge me. I have escaped from the blog-novel “The Blog That Would Destroy the World,” in order to write poetry. So has my friend Diane. I am the temporary High Priestess, an ordinary female Dictator.
    This is just a friendly reminder that the narrator of a poem is not necessarily the same as the author, just like the characters in a play are not the same as the actors. It is said by my followers that “She is a fair Dictator, and a great poetess, but we don’t like her foreign name, “Zawmb’yee,” because it is hard to pronounce, and she doesn’t say it outloud herself.”

Well so, to make things worse, I’ve taken one of my poems and attempted to translate it into Italian. It’s probably a travesty.

Lei, l’Alta Sacerdotessa, scrive una poesia in italiano

Camminando Con La musica Dell’amore Che Canto
    “Zawmb’yee Nuje”

Da lontano ho sentito il suo
basso profondo

Gli alberi erano pieni di soprani aviari
e dal svolazzando
i fiori di ciliegio sono caduti su di me
ha reso il mio cuore roseo a
soprano coloratura

camminai
nello scalpiccio della canzone andante,
un uccello aveva un verme nel suo conto
al dente in ondeggiamento
un trillo per la colazione

Ho canticchiato allegretto
ho sentito la risata del mio amante, e
un cardinale sollevò il suo
coda a ventaglio a me
quelle canzoni cinguettanti
canzoncina cinguettante
non per caso di notte
o sciocca canzone daffodil gialla
un’aria per me
il frivolo me,
Ho saltato un passo

Si voltò e mi vide
dal punto di incontro

Più vicino, ma non
abbastanza vicino
Ho fatto un entrechat

Alzò le braccia
il suo sorriso

Più allegro
Ho fatto un salto

Presto, ho corso
e saltò tra le sue braccia,
percussioni e bacio
—————–
(The English directly below is a literal translation. The original I put after this version)
Walking With The Music Of Love I Sing

From a distance I felt his
deep bass

The trees were full of avian sopranos
and by fluttering
cherry blossoms have fallen on me
made my heart pink a
soprano coloring

I walked
in the patter of the going song,
a bird had a worm in its account
al dente in sway
a trill for breakfast

I hummed allegretto
I heard the laugh of my lover, and
a cardinal raised his
fan tail to me
those chirping songs
twittering song
not by chance at night
or silly yellow daffodil song
an Aria for me
the frivolous me,
I skipped a step

He turned and saw me
from the meeting point

Closer, but not
close enough
I did an entrechat

He raised his arms
his smile

Most cheerful
I jumped

Soon, I ran
and jumped into his arms,
percussion and kiss
… … … …

** For the Music of Love I Walk **

From afar I heard his
basso profundo

The trees were full of avian sopranos
and from the flitting
cherry blossoms fell on me
made my rosy heart a
coloratura soprano

I walked
in the patter of andante song,
a bird had a worm in his bill
al dente in wiggle
a breakfast trill

I hummed allegretto
heard my lover’s laugh, and
a cardinal lifted its
fan tail at me
those chirpy songs
a twitty ditty
not whippoorwill of night
or silly yellow daffodil song
a dilly to me
dilly I,
I skipped a beat

He turned and saw me
from the rendezvous point

Closer, but not
near enough
I did an entrechat

He lifted his arms
his smile

Più allegro
I leaped

Presto, I ran
and jumped into his arms,
percussion and kiss

I’m Not Carmen Mola & I haven’t Won a Prize

    I’m not Carmen Mola that everyone until now thought was a married female professor, living in Madrid, and who won the Planeta Prize. It turns out that the writer is three men. (New York Times, Sunday, October 31, 2021, Vol. CLXXI, No. 59,228, page 4.)
    Don’t fuss too much. Look here, just like in a supernatural story, a spirit can manifest itself and write a novel or other written work. There have been Twilight Zone episodes where Shakespeare is brought back to life etc., and other similar devices. The “conceit” is sometimes necessary to write a fictional character in first-person.
    So, indulge me. I have escaped from the blog-novel “The Blog That Would Destroy the World,” in order to write poetry. So has my friend Diane. I am the temporary High Priestess, an ordinary female Dictator.
    This is just a friendly reminder that the narrator of a poem is not necessarily the same as the author, just like the characters in a play are not the same as the actors. It is said by my followers that “She is a fair Dictator, and a great poetess, but we don’t like her foreign name, “Zawmb’yee,” because it is hard to pronounce, and she doesn’t say it out loud herself.”

The Frizz of My Hair
    By Zawmb’yee Nuje

There has been
a maple syrup rain in my dreams
a downpour of sweet premises
a thick and sticky bane

I am soaked by the night,
but my day is dry
with dissertations and speeches

Applause is due me
but I sob in the morning dew

I try to never sleep, but
I see a baby in her arms.
She loves him as do I, and
he drowns in maple syrup rain.

I proclaim the sweetness of the faith
that all must obey, but

he has been my lover
a rebel
her baby
my baby
a blasphemer.

He’s been executed for
the sweetness of the faith.

I am soaked in downpours of blood
frazzled by the night and
I scream

cut like a maple tree
used and drained for sweetness

Sometimes I Escape From a Fictional Novel


    Don’t fuss too much. Look here, just like in a supernatural story, a spirit can manifest itself and write a novel or other written work. There have been Twilight Zone episodes where Shakespeare is brought back to live etc., and other similar devices. The “conceit” is sometimes necessary to write a fictional character in first-person.
    So, indulge me. I have escaped from the blog-novel “The Blog That Would Destroy the World,” in order to write poetry. So has my friend Diane. I am the temporary High Priestess, an ordinary female Dictator.
    This is just a friendly reminder that the narrator of a poem is not necessarily the same as the author, just like the characters in a play are not the same as the actors. It is said by my followers that “She is a fair Dictator, and a great poetess, but we don’t like her foreign name, “Zawmb’yee,” because it is hard to pronounce, and she doesn’t say it outloud herself.”

Walking With Doug
by “Zawmb’yee Nuje”

On a sunny sign day across the street
the sign said WALK ye
carefully, and we did
across the street into honking,
dodging the cars that trapped themselves
in intersections at change of light, we
swirling about a hot dog stand line, and
pushing our way where
pedestrian streams flowed
our way towards the park

I think we passed the building
with trees on every terrace, and
the buses faced us at every stop
their unloading commotions, their
boarding confused hordes
looking for cards and change

But mostly I didn’t notice if
there were gems in the din, or
new fashions in the store windows, no, mostly,
I listened to the music of Doug’s chatter because
I love the sound of his voice

it comforts me when I hear as I laugh
the song of his voice turning tender, and
I know he loves to be with me

when my word of acknowledgment
makes him smile and pause, I
know he loves me like the humming bird
loves the flower however fast the flutter of his wings
(but I would tell him he’s like a lion), and
I think perhaps I dress to be his nectar
Doug has seen my paint box and asks:
Could this be a Phtalocyanine Blue sky?

‘Huh what’ I wonder, an odd fact
could break a romantic spell
oh well, I laugh

He says, I mean:
it seems like a god has
lent you his brushes, and
you’ve painted my sky. Is it you
who paints my world?

No, I say, it is you who
shines on my tears, penetrates
the rainbow of my feelings and I show you
the canvas of the world as I see it. I look
in your eyes and pray they will see
every color that makes you happy and
if I would be on your palette, brush me

His hand brushed my cheek and touched my lips, but
we collided with a passerby who said, “Idiots!”
But we are not fools to be in love
flowing and in tune with a romantic moment

Doug kissed my hand and
we crashed into a hot dog stand

Doug said we’ll take two with sauerkraut.
Yes, two to go with the day.
Delicious.

Pussy Cat

Pussy Cat

Why does he know when the snow overwhelms me.
Why does he know I plead for his whisker, and
the wick of a flame,
oh yes come brush me
with your fur
and I remember how you
gave me the fur coat of your chest
the tickle of your beard, and i
didn’t mind if you would
brush me with your hair
and I could smell you like you
were my lion, and I
were your pussy cat

— Zawmb’yee Nuje

Lei, l’Alta Sacerdotessa, scrive una poesia in italiano

Camminando Con La musica Dell’amore Che Canto
    “Zawmb’yee Nuje”

Da lontano ho sentito il suo
basso profondo

Gli alberi erano pieni di soprani aviari
e dal svolazzando
i fiori di ciliegio sono caduti su di me
ha reso il mio cuore roseo a
soprano coloratura

camminai
nello scalpiccio della canzone andante,
un uccello aveva un verme nel suo conto
al dente in ondeggiamento
un trillo per la colazione

Ho canticchiato allegretto
ho sentito la risata del mio amante, e
un cardinale sollevò il suo
coda a ventaglio a me
quelle canzoni cinguettanti
canzoncina cinguettante
non per caso di notte
o sciocca canzone daffodil gialla
un’aria per me
il frivolo me,
Ho saltato un passo

Si voltò e mi vide
dal punto di incontro

Più vicino, ma non
abbastanza vicino
Ho fatto un entrechat

Alzò le braccia
il suo sorriso

Più allegro
Ho fatto un salto

Presto, ho corso
e saltò tra le sue braccia,
percussioni e bacio
—————–
(The English directly below is a literal translation. The original I put after this version)
Walking With The Music Of Love I Sing

From a distance I felt his
deep bass

The trees were full of avian sopranos
and by fluttering
cherry blossoms have fallen on me
made my heart pink a
soprano coloring

I walked
in the patter of the going song,
a bird had a worm in its account
al dente in sway
a trill for breakfast

I hummed allegretto
I heard the laugh of my lover, and
a cardinal raised his
fan tail to me
those chirping songs
twittering song
not by chance at night
or silly yellow daffodil song
an Aria for me
the frivolous me,
I skipped a step

He turned and saw me
from the meeting point

Closer, but not
close enough
I did an entrechat

He raised his arms
his smile

Most cheerful
I jumped

Soon, I ran
and jumped into his arms,
percussion and kiss
=======
From afar I heard his
basso profundo

The trees were full of avian sopranos
and from the flitting
cherry blossoms fell on me
made my rosy heart a
coloratura soprano

I walked
in the patter of andante song,
a bird had a worm in his bill
al dente in wiggle
a breakfast trill

I hummed allegretto
heard my lover’s laugh, and
a cardinal lifted its
fan tail at me
those chirpy songs
a twitty ditty
not whippoorwill of night
or silly yellow daffodil song
a dilly to me
dilly I,
I skipped a beat

He turned and saw me
from the rendezvous point

Closer, but not
near enough
I did an entrechat

He lifted his arms
his smile

Più allegro
I leaped

Presto, I ran
and jumped into his arms,
percussion and kiss

“My Intimate Diary — Loving Doug” by Her Majesty Zawmb’yee Nuje

I am the temporary High Priestess of the Ut’ishsih people. I’ve been trying to keep extempore a complete day-to-day diary but it’s hard to write quickly and immediately after an event. Sometimes I fall behind. I’ve been sharing on the unofficial blog we’ve been maintaining outside the palace intranet.

Zawmb’yee continues the blog

     … Doug came back with all my stuff. He was sweating. I said, “Take off your shirt, and look at my deer sketch.”
     Doug walked down the hallway. “It’s a good start… Y’know, I haven’t heard much about the deer this year…”
     “Yeah. I noticed that. Every year they do stories about how the deer are eating people’s gardens and one group wants to hire hunters and another has some birth control scheme. With all the protest marches, nothing gets done, the population explodes and they starve.”
     Doug said, “We’ve always just ate them. It doesn’t seem like such a problem.”
     “Yeah. I don’t know — city people only eat cattle, I guess. But anyway, this year there are no stories.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “The deer have disappeared,” I said.
     “Oh? Well, we have plenty in storage. Next time we’re in the cave I’ll try out a new recipe for some 20,000-year-old venison.”
     “Yeah. I like your venison… And walk along and look at my tree sketch…” While Doug stood in front of the drawing, I gazed at his back. He has a thick ribbon of twisted hair down the center of his back that looks like a double-helix. The hair on the sides of his back has a horizontal growing pattern from the side towards the center. It was disrupted, so I took a comb out of my purse, combed his back hair from each side towards the center, and then softly brushed it in the same way with my hands. Doug turned and I combed his chest hair downward. His hair is soft: some blond, some brown, and some gray, although the ribbon down his stomach is all dark brown. I petted his chest with my hands and when I rested my hand over his heart, it was beating so hard I thought my hand would be bruised. When I asked how my sketch was, Doug couldn’t speak, and when I reached into his pants I knew why. I pushed him against the wall. I said, “I have an idea for a drawing. Stay here.” I unbuckled his belt…

    MORE…

Nightmares


The Frizz of My Hair
    By Her Majesty Zawmb’yee Nuje, the High Priestess

There has been
a maple syrup rain in my dreams
a downpour of sweet premises
a thick and sticky bane

I am soaked by the night,
but my day is dry
with dissertations and speeches

Applause is due me
but I sob in the morning dew

I try to never sleep, but
I see a baby in her arms.
She loves him as do I, and
he drowns in maple syrup rain.

I proclaim the sweetness of the faith
that all must obey, but

he has been my lover
a rebel
her baby
my baby
a blasphemer.

He’s been executed for
the sweetness of the faith.

I am soaked in downpours of blood
frazzled by the night and
I scream

cut like a maple tree
used and drained for sweetness

Succulent Pie

Succulent Pie

    by Her Majesty, “Zawmbyee”

I taste the cherries
new and succulent
like you when I
had you for a salad
of me, and there were
many things to lunch on

Succulent days I remember
when you came to my table

There was a lust
to your musk
while you served me pie
desire

I remember
succulent you

I tasted the cherries
you brought me

I tasted you, and

what will you
bring me now?

I wait for succulent you.

If I Would Kiss Your Day

If I Would Kiss Your Day

by Her Majesty “Zawmb’yee”

If you would let me
make kisses, and
seize the rhythm
of your smile
of your daily compassion
to the streets of us
when you wander, then
I’d comfort you
in my wonder, but
when your face changes
for me, carefully

I watch you watch me, and I
make kisses on your thoughts
where you love the world and me.

I want to think of you only, because
you have me, and
I have you.