Pat Christiano

If Artists Ran the Country	Sometimes Tired	Three Days	The First Time	Watermelon Summer

If Artists Ran the Country

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten

If artists ran the country
the Withe House would be mauve,
chatreuse, forest green,
electric orange, hot pink,
anything but withe.

If artists ran the country
the Pentagon would implode.

If artists ran the country
the Dollar would drop or the market
because it isn´t very pretty.
The automation of humans
would be punishable by a fire.

People would dream in color again
and remember their dreams.

If artists ran the country
full moons
would be celebrated, banks
and federal offices would be closed.
And poets could become their poems.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
wäre das weisse Haus malvenfarben,
chartreusegrün, waldgrün,
neon orange, schrill pink
alles nur nicht weiss.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
würde das Pentagon implodieren.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
fiele der Dollar oder der Markt
da es nicht sehr schön ist.

Die Automatisierung der Menschheit
würde strafbar durch ein Feuer.

Die Menschen träumten wieder
in Farben
und sie erinnerten sich ihrer Träume.

Wenn Künstler das Land regierten
würde der Vollmond gefeiert, Banken
und öffentliche Gebäude würden geschlossen
und Dichter verwandelten sich
in ihre Gedichte.

Sometimes Tired

Sometimes tired of the struggle
and the light,
I have hid my eyes
and the hours of my day
and all my waking powers
in the strategy of sleep,
hoping to duck this fight
in some blind alley;
and so I sleep
and step into what seems
a cozy dream
that, turning nightmare
turns on me,
picks me up
and shakes me like a rag
until I fall
flat out and wide awake
sweating, yet relieved
that ever my dark
holds stars and schemes
to make oblivion luminous.

Three Days

Three days on the mountain,
Three sunsets and three dawns,
We descend on a town
With our backpacks still on,
Enter a fancy restaurant
For breakfast,
We wear only silly grins
And some clothes
We´ve been sleeping in.
I wait for your order
while you devour mine.
When pancake come
They taste and act
Like wine.
Then you read me a poem
Of Li Po´s:
As good a meal as any
To go with the hot coffee!

The First Time

It was your first time.
Perched on the edge of the bed
as if for flight, you were
so nervous, your eyes
followed me everywhere
like the eyes of a trick picture.
Your looks were legal,
your jokes were technical.
You even said my cigarette
looked phallic.
I had to sit on you
and tickle you
until you relaxed.
Then, laughing, you traced
my freckles with your fingers
and named them for a minor
constellation.
You said the sky
is very fire tonight.
I said I would marry your hands.

Watermelon Summer	Wassermelonen-Sommer
The watermelon, whole, is closed and curved and finite like space and time, like Summer. But once you halve it, any way you slice it, it gives a watermelon smile. It divides into days and there´s always another: a Watermelon Summer, so sweet you can taste its sky; and none of it is wasted: rind becomes rainbows, the flesh reddens sunsets and the seeds can be set into the softest nights, ebony teeth of the sky; Watermelon days, Watermelon nights, curved and carved and Infinite.	Die Wassermelone, ein Ganzes, ist geschlossen und gerundet und endlich wie Raum und Zeit wie Sommer. Aber wenn Du sie halbierst egal wie Du sie schneidest ergibt es ein Wassermelonen-Lächeln. Es teilt sich die Tage und da ist immer noch etwas anderes: Ein Wassermelonen-Sommer, so süß daß Du seinen Himmel schmecken kannst; und nichts davon ist verschwendet: Schale wird Regenbogen das Fleisch rötet Sonnenuntergänge die Kerne können in die sanftesten Nächte eingesät werden, Ebenholzzähne des Himmels Wassermelonen-Tage, Wassermelonen-Nächte, gerundet und geteilt und unendlich.