That's one of the problems with air—that one when in it is exposed to other things that are in it (and one's alternative to being in it is not pleasant at all, no.) It's not so bad when it's just odors, such as that released by the skunk who of late has nightly sprayed someone or something hereabout. Odors, unless their source is persistent, soon dissipate. But heat lasts and lasts (by day at least) when July has arrived. July lasts and lasts, too, for thirty more days. July is a bitch and then there's August.
But rather than just grouse I've made iced tea and will soon go out into evening's cooling air and listen to the birds sing their evening songs. The insectoid rhythm section will be much diminished though, the crickets being going away these nights, and thus reminding me that time eventually devours summer. Summer and crickets and I have that in common. Sooner or later, everything's going to get cooled.
Over at
greatpoets a contretemps broke out following somebody posting one of the not-best translations of one of a certain surrealist poet's not-best poems. I have one of that poet's poems I think better than the not-best one in question, and in a translation I'd say was not half bad. Look!Sunday Verse
Cuckoo-Clock
by Robert Desnos
Everything was as if in a childlike picture. The moon wore an opera hat whose eight reflections bounced on the surface of the ponds, A ghost in a well-tailored shroud Smoked a cigar at the window of its apartment, On the last floor of a castle keep Where the omniscient rook told cats their fortune. There was the child in her nightgown lost in snowy paths From having searched her shoes for the silk fan and the high-heeled pumps. There was the fire on which, immense, The firemen's shadows were outlined. But, above all, there was the running thief, a big sack on his back, On the moon-bleached road, Escorted by the barking dogs in the sleeping villages And by the cackling of suddenly roused chickens. I am not rich, said the ghost shaking off the ash from his cigar, I am not rich But I'll bet you a hundred bucks He'll go far if he keeps at it. Vanity, all is vanity, replied the rook. And so's your sister! said the cats. My sister has beautiful jewels and beautiful spiders In her castle of night. A numberless crowd of servants Comes every night to carry her to bed. For breakfast she gets sweetmeats, dog-grass, and a small bugle To blow into. The moon laid its tall hat on the earth. And that made a thick night Where the ghost melted like a sugar cube in coffee. The thief kept looking for his lost way And finally fell asleep And nothing remained beyond the earth But a smoke-blue sky where the moon rubbed its forehead with a sponge And the lost child who marched into the stars. Here is your pretty fan And your dancing shoes Your grandmother's bodice And lipstick for your lips. You can dance among the stars You can dance for the beautiful ladies And cross ranges of heavenly roses From which one falls each night To reward the sleeper who had the best dream. Put your shoes on and lace up your stays Put one of these roses on your bodice And some pink on your lips And now flutter your fan So that on earth there may still be Nights to follow the days Days to follow the nights.