The Cry
Inside the fortified city
whole blocks are falling into ruin
a man comes to a stop astonished
by a voice breaking
one by one in the asylum
the madwomen have to be washed
one still beautiful consents to it
though she weeps quietly.
Dogs are snarling over
scraps of flesh on bones
in vain somebody cries: enough.
Deep Down
Without making any big step
a man thinks deep down
maybe I am happy
a bird nearby
flutters without singing
darkness coming on
the woman falls silent
but speaks in her dream
on the tawny expanse
branches rustle
footsteps echo
the knife thrown in anger
rusts by a beech tree
when will wars be over
a passerby asks
wispy with white hair
it’s a good long time
since anyone answered.
Work
Work goes on in the dim light:
the work of the weaver
and of the woman who embroiders.
A brown bowl sits
on the table whose long edge
a red insect is climbing.
The beauty slowly being sculpted
is kept alive by cold
in a giant workshop
atop a cliff of everlasting plants.
--all poems trans. by Heather McHugh
.
No comments:
Post a Comment