wondering whether I’m gone;
but, the sun on the lake,
the ancient stones, the pine-trees,
and the mad hungry birds
(in a language without words
borne to me by the breeze)
softly utter, ‘No,
on and on you must go;
this life do what you can;
eternity has no end.’
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Under swooning clouds
of a puddle after rain.And, as if in a dream,you see yourself reflectedin the wavelets, windblowing locks of hairas you reach down, though pinnedyourself against the bottom,which is heaven or hell,depending on your pointof view, or just a well.
(Szobiszowice/Petersdorf)
Stone by stonein the name of the Lord,with blood and bone,with lance and sword,the Templars buildtheir little church,while in the fieldthe Mongols lurch,and blowflies buzzabove the hillof what once wasanother kill.Two arrows wana slanted eye;a young noyanprepares to die.1945Centurieshave passed. We thankour destiniesno Soviet tankor errant roundin one hit razesit to the ground.Sunlight blazesupon its…
They come, come faithfully to behold him,
of fasting, coated in an afterlifeof sweet confection. But the star is dimin the baker’s eyes. Camels and a roanforever near the marzipan manger,and in the otherworldly glaze, dangeris as heavy as a sepulchral stone.Indeed, no mouse made of raisin can budgestill eternity to suddenly movea disfigured nostril or candied hoof.And the unborn child? How…
Behind thick bracken—I can almost see
but only in the mind. Across the lea,where sleepy heifers graze on Haw Pike’s grassor sprawl out underneath a buttermilk cloud,I see the bluebells reaching up towardsdamp haunches, ferns and forest garlic shroud-ing steep wet banks, the flowers of ripe gourds.I climb the summits of two Yorkshire hillsand see dismantled rails, the viaductburied by growth…
Without the moon or stars to guide his sight,
he rested on the foggy hill that night,and begged the heavens for a tiny glow.Despair turned into dream… a little boatwith fishermen inside in search of faith,a boat which, neither sinking nor afloat,now blindly drifted past a drowning wraith.And he among them, but incapableof seeing a reflection in the waves,which lapped against the stormy parablelike…
My little boat unmoored,
but do not see the Lord,just Artemis and Mars.Above the deep, dark lake,the moonlight’s never said:‘dawn is about to breakand heaven turn bright red.’Across the waves, an owlhas borne away its prey,and something on the prowlblasphemes the light of day.The hope a mooncalf followsis sacrifice for slaughter,and yet the wings of swallowsstill skip across the…