Poetry
Film still from "Picture Man: The Poetry of Photographer Milton Rogovin".
About Milton's Poetry
in 1998, at the encouragement of his wife Anne, Milton Rogovin wrote seventy poems, each relating to a single photograph or a set of photographs taken by Rogovin. In 2009 a new film and book were made to highlight Milton’s poetry:
Picture Man: the Poetry of Photographer Milton Rogovin
At age 89, Milton selected a number of his special images to write poems about, wanting to express in writing something more about his photographs. This 20-minute documentary allows you to hear Milton read some of these poems. "The poems themselves might be alright and my photographs, of course I love them—but together it brings it up to a higher level." The 20 min. DVD was produced by The Rogovin Collection.
Milton’s Poetry
From the Lower West Side photo series, c. 1972
Jose
What a great idea!
to record your love life –
Not on a ream of paper
like a lovesick poet
Not on canvas
like an amateur painter
No, no, none of that nonsense –
Here on his left breast –
a tattoo of Lydia
And Wanda on his right breast –
Hilda and lots of others –
nameless on arms and legs.
Perhaps if you turn around
we can see you other conquests.
Tell me, Jose
"What’ll you do when you run out of space?"
From the Appalachia photo series, 1962-1987
My Theme Boy
His land is dying
You can see it
in his eyes.
The mines are closing
This too is in his eyes
Look into his eyes
They will tell you lots -- lots more
Of mountain tops - stripped and gouged
Of streams polluted
Of fish destroyed.
Remember, America
This should be
This must be
The land of opportunity and equality
for all
Including this little boy.
Poetry Inspired by Milton Rogovin’s Photographs
From the Western Door to the Lower West Side
Artery
Poetry by Eric Gansworth
The garage's dark interior
lined high with shelves
of grease-filmed bottles
protects this man's lifeline,
a fusion of chemicals and dreams
coursing through the fuel lines,
keeping his carburetor clean.
The car and owner know the road
and the way miles add up
despite a desire to keep
those numbers from climbing.
Though he trusts the photographer
enough to stand before
his keys to both homes,
he keeps the plate numbers
protected behind his crossed legs,
because some people still believe
"the Only Good Indian
is a Dead Indian,"
and he knows he is too old
to walk from
the Lower West Side
to the Western Door,
and the only way
to ride that forty mile lifeline connecting
the two halves of his divided heart
is his faithful Buick
and those combustion dreams
he protects behind crossed arms.
From the Western Door to the Lower West Side
While Hendrix Played a Solo:
"Burning of the Midnight Lamp"
Poetry by Eric Gansworth
Above them, locked by thumbtacks
to the walls of a Lower West Side
apartment, ignoring the topless
woman pinned to the next wall,
lighting Monterey on fire with a fret
board and strings and those wondrous
fingers, Jimi filled the night
with a haze so purple it rivaled
the wampum beads these two would know
as surely as their own names,
tracing history, culture,
treaties that mostly document
violation – they knew Purple Haze
in their tissue, organs, blood.
In a chair designed for a single
body, they sat together, Skin to
Skin, she wearing Janis Joplin
glasses to see the world
through, he letting his hair grow
into history and toughening up his bare
soles, for the long haul,
testifying that they were
not like those Indians
Edward Curtis imagined through his lens,
they were not vanishing, not going
anywhere – the West Side still
within the territories
they had guarded for centuries.
The western door behind
them, they look at one
another, confident before
the photographer, that this is
the way they want to be recognized,
recorded – hand in hand, knowing
as Jimi did, that "The Star
Spangled Banner" could
bring tears to one's eyes
for a variety of reasons
and that their responsibility
was to hang on as all the other
Indians had before them
surviving to tell the tale, together
Cuba, 1981-1990
New Women
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
The equator's arrow
lost even beneath their eyelids.
At their breast, wild flowers
burned by all the saltpeter in the world.
The crowing of the rooster in the mountain.
The whistle of smoke in the city.
And their hands, that come from so far away,
from by-gone times,
kneading together the yeasty substance
that makes us live
between the sea and the shores,
between fishes and nets,
between windows and the horizon.
These women go on rising,
marching,
sewing,
hammering,
knitting,
sowing,
cleaning,
conquering,
reading,
loving.
Oh, upright new women,
upright black women,
bringing the blessed breath
of a new light
for us all.
Mujeres Nuevas
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
La flecha ecuatorial
perdida aún bajo los párpados.
Flores silvestres en el pecho,
quemadas por todos los salitres del mundo.
El trino del gallo en lamontaña.
El silbido del humo en la ciudad.
Y sus manos, que vienen de muy lejos,
desde remotas eras,
amasando la sustancia reciente
que nos hace vivir
entre el mar y las costas,
entre los peces y las redes,
entre las ventanas y el horizonte.
Estas mujeres van alzando,
marchando,
cosiendo,
martillando,
tejiendo,
sembrando,
limpiando,
conquistando,
leyendo,
amando.
Oh, simples mujeres nuevas
simples mujeres negras
dando el aliento vivo
de una luz nueva
para todos.
Cuba, 1981-1990
Homeland
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
Deep down, this rocking chair brings together
the sweet airs of the violin
and the drumming of the little chinese box,
all in all, the melody of the danzon
on late Sunday afternoons.
The fragrance of Brindis de Salas’ music
floated on that jungle, too,
trembling like the heart of my homeland.
Patria
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
Este sillón enlaza en sus adentros
los dulces aires del violín
y los compases de la cajita china,
en fin, la melodía del danzón
en los atardeceres de domingo.
El perfume de Brindis de Salas
iba flotando también en la manigua
temblando como el corazón de la patria
Cuba, 1981-1990
In Praise of Dance
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
For Leo Brouwer
The wind blows
like a child
and the breezes pant
on the jungle, on the sea.
You enter and leave
with the wind,
you blow on the cold flame:
You blow on
the veils of the moon,
and the flowers and the moss
are flapping in the wind.
And the body
at the edge of the storm,
at the edge of the wind,
in the eternal symbol of the dance.
Elogio de la Danza
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
Para Leo Brouwer
El viento sopla
como un niño
y los aires jadean
en la selva, en el mar.
Entras y sales
con el viento,
soplas la llama fría:
Velos de luna
soplas tú
y las flores y el musgo
van latiendo en el viento.
Y el cuerpo
al filo del agua,
al filo del viento,
en el eterno signo de la danza
Cuba, 1981-1990
In Moa
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
Trying to Write the Last Poem for the Miners of Moa Whose Portraits Were Taken by the Lens of My Friend Milton Rogovin
What light can these miners hope for,
these faces of miners
who extricate light from the entrails
of a strange red dustbedeviled village
that someone once decided to call Moa?
We need this light
now more than ever
at the end of a century
that lives and breathes blood
and that almost became a sophisticated lady
who might have visited the stars.
In Moa
too, the century is ending,
but not the radiance of the light
glittering in the eyes of miners,
of the miner holding in his arms a babe
whose life will never know
the clamor of bullets in the Sierra Cristal,
but who instead will hear the crowing cock
at break of day.
The miners will still search for that light hidden in the land of Moa.
And they will stop death.
These were the very miners
who listened to the sadness of my song.
En Moa
Poetry by Nancy Morejón
Intentando escribir el último poema para los mineros de Moa Que retrató el lente de mi amigo Milton Rogovin.
¿Qué luz esperan estos mineros,
estos rostros de los mineros
que sacan la luz de las entrañas
de un pueblo extraño y rojo y polvoriento
que, alguna vez, nombraron Moa?
Necesitamos esa luz
más que nunca
cuando se acaba este siglo
que transpira sangre,
y es casi una dama sofisticada
que pudo visitar las estrellas.
En Moa
también se está acabando el siglo
pero no el esplendor de la luz
esparcida en los ojos de los mineros,
del minero con una criatura en brazos
cuya existencia no conocerá
el fragor de las balas de la Sierra Cristal
pero sí el canto de los gallos
en la mañana.
Los mineros seguirán buscando esa luz oculta en la tierra de Moa.
Y detendrán la muerte.
Fueron estos mineros
los que escucharon mi triste canción.
Chile, 1967
Of time, earth and dust
(The old man)
Poetry by Carlos Trujillo
The years fell upon me like a landslide
If you look carefully
You will see a mishmash of time, earth and dust
Not just skin and bone
I have always carried my years on my back
I was born old
For since my first cry
I have shouldered
The entire history of my ancestors.
Look at me carefully, I ask you
I am the face of the earth
I am the wrinkled face of the planet
In my face run ravines and rivers
Southern winds and rolling stones
Open seas and hills
Look at me carefully, I ask you
Even my poor clothing is the face of the earth
My dusty jacket of other old yesterdays
Inhabits days and nights at the same time
With the brush of an artist
Shadow and light painting mysterious reliefs
Immense lapels that have never seen an iron
One resting against his chest like a book cover
The other peering out of the corner of its eye like a sail
A small beam of sunlight upon the heart
The slightest beam of sunlight
Upon the heart
Is all that life needs to live
Look at my face, I ask you
Look at my lips, thick on a planetary scale
Look at my solid, godly nose of dark stone
Look at my eyes, they have seen it all
And would see it all again
Look at my cheeks, raised like hills
By the pride of my people
Look at my thinned hair and the wrinkles on my forehead
Look at the beret that has lived upon my head
For as long as I can remember
Look at the thick boards of the wall behind me
Look at its years, discover its stories
Look at the tree that branches out happy
To be a southern tree, drinker of a thousand rains and thunders
Look at the white angel wings it has begun to grow.
Look at my face
And you will see the whole world.
De tiempo, tierra y polvo
(El anciano)
Poetry by Carlos Trujillo
Los años en derrumbe se me echaron encima
Si miras bien
Verás un amasijo de tiempo, tierra y polvo
No sólo carne y huesos
Siempre llevé todos mis años encima
Nací anciano
Porque desde el primer grito
Me eché encima
Toda la historia de mis antepasados.
Mírenme bien, les pido
Soy el rostro de la tierra
Soy el rostro arrugado del planeta
En mi rostro van las quebradas y los ríos
El viento del sur y las piedras que ruedan
Los mares abiertos y los cerros
Mírenme bien, les pido
Hasta mi pobre ropa es el rostro de la tierra
Mi vestón empolvado de otros viejos ayeres
Habita al mismo tiempo los días y las noches
Con su pincel de artista
Sombras y luces dibujando misteriosos relieves
Las solapas inmensas que nunca han visto plancha
Una pegada al pecho como tapa de libro
La otra mirando de reojo como vela de lancha
Un rayito de sol sobre el corazón
Un mínimo rayito de sol
Sobre el corazón
Es todo lo que necesita la vida para vivir
Mírenme el rostro, les pido
Miren mis labios gruesos de escala planetaria
Miren mi maciza nariz de dios de piedra oscura
Miren mis ojos que lo han mirado todo
Y todo lo volverían a mirar otra vez
Miren mis pómulos levantados como cerros
Por el orgullo de mi raza
Miren mi cabello enrarecido y las arrugas de mi frente
Miren mi boina que ha vivido en mi cabeza
Desde que tengo conciencia
Miren las gruesas tablas de la pared del fondo
Mírenle los años, descúbranle sus cuentos
Miren el árbol que se extiende contento
De ser árbol sureño, bebedor de mil lluvias y de truenos
Mírenle las blancas alas de ángel que le han comenzado a aparecer.
Mírenme el rostro
Y verán el mundo entero.
Chile, 1967
Neither butterflies nor apples
Poetry by Carlos Trujillo
"A child's little feet
Blue from the cold
As you see them and as they cover you, my God."
– Gabriela Mistral
"The child's foot does not yet know that it is a foot
And it wants to be a butterfly or an apple."
– Pablo Neruda
Little feet portrayed by Mistral
Recited by teachers
Blessed and wept over by mothers
Forgive us all
For remaining blue over there
As if you did not exist.
Happy and beautiful is the foot of the Nerudian child
That does not yet know that it is a foot.
These that you see here
They know it
The mourn it
And they suffer it
Ah to be incapable of dreaming
Even for just one night
That you are graceful butterflies
Or apples!
Ni mariposas ni manzanas
Poetry by Carlos Trujillo
"Piececitos de niño
azulosos de frío
cómo os ven y no os cubren, Dios mío"
– Gabriela Mistral
"El pie del niño aun no sabe que es pie
y quiere ser mariposa o manzana."
– Pablo Neruda
Piececitos retratados por la Mistral
Declamados por las maestras
Bendecidos y llorados por las madres
Perdonadnos a todos
Por seguir azulosos por allí
Como si no existiérais.
Feliz y hermoso el pie del niño nerudiano
Que aún no sabe que es pie.
Estos que veis aquí
Lo saben
Lo duelen
Y lo sufren
¡Ay no poder soñarse
Aunque fuera una noche
Gráciles mariposas
O manzanas!
The Islands and Rogovin
Pablo Neruda, Isla Negra, 1967
I did not know Milton Rogovin.
His Letter asked me an uncommon question. He wanted to photograph the truth. I suggested that he come to our Southernmost part, to the Archipeligo, to Quemchi, to Chonchi, to the sleepy shores of the South of the Americas.
He arrived quickly, well equipped and efficient: North American. He came loaded down with lenses and camera. He was too much for our simplicity. I recommended to him a good umbrella. He went ahead to the remote villages.
But he carried much more than his equipment. Patient eyes and searching. A heart sensitive to light, to rain, to the shadows.
Soon he returned and left us. He returned to Kansas, Oregon, and Mississippi. But this time he took along with him a bouquet of wonderful images; the portrait of the truth. Portrait of humble truth that is lost in the inclemency of the islands.
Walls of the humble home with their windows that open inwards, to the mythology, to the whispering, to the black clothes. Eyes, penetrating and dark with sparks buried, like forgotten embers in fireplaces where once fire had burnt so intensely.
Rogovin photographed the silence. Left intact in their mystery those insular depths of the islands which are revealed to us in simple objects, in crystalline poetry, as if the little village were living under the water with legendary belfries next to anchors of mythological vessels. The great photographer immersed himself in the poetry of simplicity and came to the surface with the net full of clear fish and flowers of profundity.
Because the earth is extremely unfaithful, it offers itself to the foreign eye and deceives our eye, our indifference, our ways.
Rogovin had come, photographer of the poor Negro, of the black liturgy, of the humiliated children of the North, so that he may uncover for us of the South, and so that he can take with him the truth of the South, with those dark eyes which looked at us and we did not see, with the poor pathetic and poetic poverty of the fatherland which we love and do not know.
The rafters in Pablo Neruda's studio.
The Names
Poetry by Pablo Neruda
I didn't write them on the roofbeams because they
were famous, but because they were companions
Rojas Giménez, the nomad, nocturnal, pierced with the grief of farewells, dead with joy pigeon breeder, madman of the shadows
Joaquín Cifruntes, whose verses rolled like stones in the river.
Fredrico, who made me laugh like no on else could and who put us all in mourning for a century.
Paul Eluard, whose forget-me-not color eyes are as sky blue as always and retain their blue strength under the earth.
Miguel Hernándes, whistling to me like a nightingale from the trees on Princesa Street until they caged my nightingale.
Nazim, noisy bard, brave gentleman, friend.
Why did they leave so soon? Their names will not slip
down from the rafters. Each one of them was a victory.
Together they were the sum of my light. Now, a small
anthology of my sorrow.
Los Nombres
Poetry by Pablo Neruda
No los escribí en la techumbre por grandiosos, sino
por companeros.
Rojas Giménez, el trashumante, el nocturno,
traspasado por los adioses, muerto de alegría, palamero, loco de la sombra.
Joaquín Giminez, cuyos tercetos rodaban como
Piedras del rio.
Federico, que me hacía reir como nadie y que nos enluto a todos por un siglo.
Paul Eluard, cuyos ojos color de nomeolvides me
Parece que siguen celestes y que guardan su fuerza azul bajo La tierra.
Miguel Hernándes, silbándome a manera de ruisenor Desde los arboles de la calle de la Princesa antes de que los Presidios atraparan a mi ruisenor.
Nazim, aeda rumoroso, caballero valiente, companero.
Por que se fueron tan pronto? Cada uno de ellos fue una victoria.
Juntos fueron para mi toda la luz. Ahora, una pequena
Antolpgia de mis dolores.