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Poesie : in lingua inglese

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Italian eclogues (for Joseph Brodsky)

On the bright road to Rome, beyond Mantua,
there were reeds of rice, and I heard, in the wind's elation,
the brown dogs of Latin panting alongside the car,
their shadows sliding on the verge in smooth translation,
past fields fenced by poplars, stone farms in character,
nouns from a schoolboy's text, Virgilian, Horatian,
phrases from Ovid passing in a green blur,
heading towards perspectives of noiseless busts,
open-mouthed ruins, and roofless corridors
of Caesars whose second mantle is now dust's,
and this voice that rustles out of the reeds is yours.
To every line there is a time and a season.
You refreshed forms and stanzas; these cropped fields are
your stubble grating my cheeks with departure,
grey irises, your corn-wisps of hair blowing away
say you haven't vanished, you're still in Italy.
Yeah. Very still. God. Still as the turning fields
of Lombardy, still as the white wastes of that prison
like pages erased by a regime. Though his landscape heals
the exile you shared with Naso, poetry is still treason
because it is truth. Your poplars spin in the sun.

Derek Walcott

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Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Sylvia Plath

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Ariel

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.

Sylvia Plath

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Conrad Siever

Not in that wasted garden
Where bodies are drawn into grass
That feeds no flocks, and into evergreens
That bear no fruit —
There where along the shaded walks
Vain sighs are heard,
And vainer dreams are dreamed
Of dose communion with departed souls —
But here under the apple tree
I loved and watched and pruned
With gnarled hands
In the long, long years;
Here under the roots of this northern-spy
To move in the chemic change and circle of life,
Into the soil and into the flesh of the tree,
And into the living epitaphs
Of redder apples!

Edgar Lee Masters

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Love came to us in time gone by (Chamber Music XXX)

Love came to us in time gone by
When one at twilight shyly played
And one in fear was standing nigh -
For love at first is all afraid.

We were grave lovers, Love is past
That had his sweet hours many a one.
Welcome to us now at the last
The ways that we shall go upon.

James Joyce

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