酷我-北美枫

[LavenderSwing]

Rivers to the Sea
From rain to underground springs, from springs
to fountains, freshets, and rivers,
from rivers to the sea, or the winter snow.
But the wind, the wind bloweth where it listeth,
like those disjunct souls drifting and alighting,
always distant - spaceships, or glowing teacups,
most often seen at dusk, on the long straight stretches.
What message? Just that no one any longer
means to do you any harm, or good,
though the dog and then the cat come in,
each able to grant a single wish in exchange for which
each would be the star of the household.
Now the seasons are merely vestigial,
though what shrivels the leaves still fattens the eels,
autumn too – cluttering the playground with extra fins and tails
after everyone's gone home to tomato soup and toast.
Lost in the wood like Hindemith. Whosoever's children
are not practicing now will never learn their instruments –
But gentle as the Thursday rain
or the winged sound of traffic as the bakeries are closing
toward four p.m. and there never was, nor can be,
any other form of waking life: now,
goes the ancient advice, is the time for practising
the character for courage. But what if the strokes
are hesitantly drawn, a lost direction,
yellow bedstraw or cloth of gold,
in the nether months, in the nether weeks of the year?
What then are the obligations? Torrens, Patawalonga,
Onkaparinga. Little Para, Torrens. Early or late
along the river road. The leaves are streaked with brilliantine,
the pelicans to their estuaries, the coots to their
twigs and bottle. What are the obligations?
From springs to fountains, fountains to rivers, rivers to the sea.
Button grass or couch grass in the fallen yellow light.
Black silk pool, mirror of no thoughts –
Black silk mirror, river of no thoughts.
To set off, instead, on a May morning,
as convention dictates, whether south or north,
autumn or spring, the commentaries decline to tell us.
But the line bends as the river bends, the cherries of that
other time are pink and dark and sweet, an allegorical painting
standing in for the world in the level light of dawn,
morning along the river, growing warm. Who lives here?
Herons standing sentry, bees in the bee tree at noon.
To live to tell old news, without the disgust the dead must feel
toward portraiture, or music – harmonics that depend,
as always, on previous conditions. Anyway,
to change pitch continuously
might be one aim.
From Short Journey Upriver Towards Oishida, by Roo Borson
Copyright © 2004







My Shoes
Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice nests.
My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
Toward their incomprehensible innocence.
What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The Gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?
I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.
Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.
From Selected Poems: 1963-2003, by Charles Simic
Copyright © 2004

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Rivers to the Sea
From rain to underground springs, from springs
to fountains, freshets, and rivers,
from rivers to the sea, or the winter snow.
But the wind, the wind bloweth where it listeth,
like those disjunct souls drifting and alighting,
always distant - spaceships, or glowing teacups,
most often seen at dusk, on the long straight stretches.
What message? Just that no one any longer
means to do you any harm, or good,
though the dog and then the cat come in,
each able to grant a single wish in exchange for which
each would be the star of the household.
Now the seasons are merely vestigial,
though what shrivels the leaves still fattens the eels,
autumn too – cluttering the playground with extra fins and tails
after everyone's gone home to tomato soup and toast.
Lost in the wood like Hindemith. Whosoever's children
are not practicing now will never learn their instruments –
But gentle as the Thursday rain
or the winged sound of traffic as the bakeries are closing
toward four p.m. and there never was, nor can be,
any other form of waking life: now,
goes the ancient advice, is the time for practising
the character for courage. But what if the strokes
are hesitantly drawn, a lost direction,
yellow bedstraw or cloth of gold,
in the nether months, in the nether weeks of the year?
What then are the obligations? Torrens, Patawalonga,
Onkaparinga. Little Para, Torrens. Early or late
along the river road. The leaves are streaked with brilliantine,
the pelicans to their estuaries, the coots to their
twigs and bottle. What are the obligations?
From springs to fountains, fountains to rivers, rivers to the sea.
Button grass or couch grass in the fallen yellow light.
Black silk pool, mirror of no thoughts –
Black silk mirror, river of no thoughts.
To set off, instead, on a May morning,
as convention dictates, whether south or north,
autumn or spring, the commentaries decline to tell us.
But the line bends as the river bends, the cherries of that
other time are pink and dark and sweet, an allegorical painting
standing in for the world in the level light of dawn,
morning along the river, growing warm. Who lives here?
Herons standing sentry, bees in the bee tree at noon.
To live to tell old news, without the disgust the dead must feel
toward portraiture, or music – harmonics that depend,
as always, on previous conditions. Anyway,
to change pitch continuously
might be one aim.
From Short Journey Upriver Towards Oishida, by Roo Borson
Copyright © 2004







My Shoes
Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice nests.
My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
Toward their incomprehensible innocence.
What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The Gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?
I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.
Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.
From Selected Poems: 1963-2003, by Charles Simic
Copyright © 2004