Название: Continued
Автор: Piotr Sommer
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Поэзия
Серия: Wesleyan Poetry Series
isbn: 9780819569752
isbn:
August Kleinzahler
San Francisco August 2004
Morning on Earth
Morning on earth, light snow, and just when
it was so warm, practically spring.
But the thermometer in the kitchen window
says seven degrees,
and pretty sunny.
Here’s
the electric company guy I like,
and no sign of the gas guy
I can’t stand.
And all of a sudden two Misters M. —
one I’ve fallen for, the other
a bit of a hotshot —
coming back, both nine years old,
just passing the jasmine bush,
a huge bouquet of sticks.
Behind the door
the dog’s excited, nothing’s
at odds with anything.
Yesterday
Autumn on small plots ringing the houses —
except for the few jasmines still
clothed and sparrows
hopping from one lilac bush
to another — does it really make for such a naked
moral? such a come-down? a message
of leaves behind the rusted fence
protecting us so nicely
from the eyes of the passer-by and of the neighbor
who long long ago worked in the passport office,
and from the headlights chasing leaves
like the wind, only faster faster and
maybe it’s because of this momentum
you quicken your pace
Visibility
We ride the ridge, by track and tunnel,
then after a while
descend, but first
there are brooks and bridgelets, because
how can they call them bridges,
yesterday Smithy, before that Hebden,
and now Sowerby and purple foxgloves
on the embankment. And still
I haven’t figured out who
I’m saying this to, or even who
would care that through the leaves
you can see Halifax
and someone’s life, June being so transparent,
though yesterday it rained and clouds came out.
Municipal Services
On the second anniversary, oddly, there wasn’t time,
just snow, which amounts to the same thing.
I was moving in water up to my mouth,
though the streets were cleared faster
than the snow could fall.
I was waving my arms about, I was gathering air,
I went back to my rented home
but I couldn’t concentrate on sleeping.
I got the order confused, and the new one
seemed to me more beautiful.
If you have any plans of coming back,
at most I’ll miss my stop, I’ll overshoot
a continent, I’ll open my mouth and won’t reply
to the question I have no answer for.
Continued
Nothing will be the same as it was,
even enjoying the same things
won’t be the same. Our sorrows
will differ one from the other and we
will differ one from the other in our worries.
And nothing will be the same as it was,
nothing at all. Simple thoughts will sound
different, newer, since they’ll be more simply, more newly
spoken. The heart will know how to open up and love
won’t be love anymore. Everything will change.
Nothing will be the same as it was
and that too will be new somehow, since after all,
before, things could be similar: morning,
the rest of the day, evening and night, but not now.
i.m. Milton Hindus 1916–1998
And later just to look into their papers,
half-read in their lifetime, letters —
if there were a place to keep them
and they hadn’t been chewed up by mice in the attic
or soiled by the marten
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