Sunday 10 February 2013

Sunday Poem

The wind.—
And you’re falling
through the landscape:
the silent wave
closes around your steps, your hands.

Far off the burned-out day
tilts. The birds tear up
the sky as they come
to meet you.

Mouth that the rivers cross
—where all life is crushed, a stranger
to the wind and the night
that lift it, towards itself— 
stone carried off by the sand.
There’s no journey you return from
without your life, from its
far-off bank, coming closer. 
Arrows plunge
into the water
and the water trembles
—the wound

on the lake’s back
obscures the night
that tried to fall.

You thought you saw
some mauve, a little blue
mixed with the crumbs
the day casts  
over the world.
You open your mouth
open your hands
and everything that still held  
by a breath
topples inside you. 
Tonight, the moon
slices the lake, digs
a sheer well of silence
on the horizon.  
The world trembles
—eyes closed
you cross it. 
What shadow
undoes the dawn
hour by hour?
What fragmented  
word is it piecing back together
time after time? 
The wind.—
and the lake
stirs suddenly, the dark
herd of waves
stampedes the bank 
melts into the earth
where our faces pass
into dust.
From Seizing: Places (2012) by Hélène Dorion, translated by Patrick McGuinness.


Nyla said...

This is extraordinary--you can hear the sound of the wind moving this way and that at the lake.

Nyla said...

Meaning, in the rhythm of the lines.