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From early dawn the thirtieth of April
And caught in trying on the festive necklace,By dusk it only just is settling down.Like heaps of squashy berries under muslinThe town emerges out of crimson gauze.Along the streets the boulevards are draggingTheir twilight with them, like a rank of dwarves.The evening world is always eve and blossom,But this one with a sprouting of its…
Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears,
Full moon. The musicians are picking their wayTo the theatre. More and more people assemble.Puddles on stone. Like a throat overfilledWith tears are the roses, deep with wet scaldingDiamonds. Showers of gladness thrill,Eyelashes, stormclouds, and roses enfolding.The moon for the first time is casting in plasterAn epic poem uncast till today:The cordons, the flutter of…
Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 3, 2010
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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I am finished, but you live on.
rocks the house and the clearing,not each pine alone,but all the trees together,with the vast distance, whole,like the hulls of vessels,moored in a bay, storm-blown.And it shakes them not from mischief,and not with an aimless tone,but to find, for you, from its grief,the words of a cradle-song.
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The exceptional thing about him was
his vast sexual experienceand the fact that usuallyhis attitude matched his age,in spite of this there were moments-extremely rare, of course- when he gave the impressionthat his flesh was almost virginal.His twenty-nine-year-old beauty,so used by pleasure,would sometimes strangely remind oneof a boy who, somewhat awkwardly, giveshis pure body to love for the first time.
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He had planned to read. Two or three books lie open,
But he read for barely ten minutes,then gave it up, falling half-asleep on the sofa.He’s completely devoted to books –but he’s twenty-three, and very good-looking;and this afternoon Eros penetratedhis ideal flesh, his lips,an erotic warmth penetratedhis lovely flesh-with no ridiculous shame about the form the pleasure took….
Engulfed by fear and suspicion,
we try desperately to invent ways out,plan how to avoidthe obvious danger that threatens us so terribly.Yet we’re mistaken, that’s not the danger ahead:the news was wrong(or we didn’t hear it, or didn’t get it right).Another disaster, one we never imagined,suddenly, violently, descends upon us,and finding us unprepared -there’s no time now-sweeps us away.
On this wine bowl—pure silver,
where good taste is the rule—notice these graceful flowers, the streams, the thyme.In the center I put this beautiful young man,naked, erotic, one leg still danglingin the water. O memory, I beggedfor you to help me most in makingthe young face I loved appear the way it was.This proved very difficult becausesome fifteen years have…