A new poem added.
The mockingbird, knowing well how to sing,
Can't stop the echoes lingering behind
The source he imitates. The noises ring,
If not for all, then for the sick of mind.
The echoes take no interest in his choice.
A cuckoo's fine; so is a nightingale.
Skylark? For sure. But how can you rejoice,
Should he pick drippings from a splattered tail?
Can you, beneath delightful music winging
By you, discern a whimper out there too?
The mockingbird won't stop himself from singing,
Whether or not his reason is to coo
After a mate's call, tweet for pap to rise
Like retch, or crack when flashes fill the skies.
Moralizing on the Gift of a Clock
Every tick of the clock sounds like a trickle
Of blood; they gather in a soundless ocean
(Remember what is said about a mickle),
Which rages high as life lowers its commotion;
Or like a hammering that nails another
Inch of thickness to the towering nought
To immure me away from you and smother
The failing echoes of the darkening thought.
But I know how to hear in it a knock
That annually reminds my door of the season:
I must remember to rewind the clock
And think of you. This gives me every reason
To put off the cessation of its ticking,
Hearing behind me doors to past shut clicking.
Il engage un domestique si bête,
Que son frère audacieux a ramené
De la forêt du temps pas visitée
D'une aventure en besoin qui se jette
Dans aucun danger réel et tangible,
Qu'il, ce domestique-ci, ne sait point
S'apprivoiser, mais prend extrême soin
D'engraisser son employeur insensible,
De sorte que celui-là satisfasse
Son caprice, n'éprouvant pas de faim
En suçant la chair et le sang du maître,
Qui ne peut même lever une tasse
Sans assistance, donc chaque matin
Lui demande d'ouvrir les fenêtres.
It quite surpasses my imagination;
How can one go on when deprived of sight,
Surrounded by sheer darkness without light?
Lovers will lose their cause for admiration;
Scholars their tools of learned observation;
Boxers the rivals with whom they will fight;
Painters their skill to put black paint for night;
Thinkers their wonted seeds of cogitation.
But the blind poet had not lost his eyes:
A comprehensive sight he had retained
To hold a history from the first rise
Of the bright sun down to when Satan waned
Before the splendor of the Son. The wise
Blindness saw Paradise lost then regained.
Anemone, magnolia, lily, stock,
Narcissus, marigold, mimosa, freesia,
Orchid, carnation, dahlia, hollyhock,
Snowdrop, poinsettia, hyacinth, nemesia,
Erica, cockscomb, snapdragon, camellia,
Gentian, hibiscus, phlox, chrysanthemum,
Amaryllis, veronica, lobelia,
Yarrow, ranunculus, geranium,
Foxglove, impatiens, poppy, peony,
Oleander, delphinium, heliotrope,
Rose, rhododendron, iris, honesty—
You are enamored of them all, I hope?
O! Stomachache, O! Stupor! What a dense
Untiring, unrelenting influence!
Not knowing why, I'm on my knees to pray;
To whom I'm praying really doesn't matter.
Chill is the rain that spoils my promised day.
The dawning darkly told that I must stay:
Against the windowpane the rain did spatter.
Not knowing why, I'm on my knees to pray.
Puddles and raindrops find themselves in play
Where yesterday saw children silence shatter.
Chill is the rain that spoils my promised day.
I see a red unbrella bounce and sway
Which shelters man and woman's hearty chatter.
Not knowing why, I'm on my knees to pray.
High are the waves that roll around the bay.
Thunderclaps strolling people outside scatter.
Chill is the rain that spoils my promised day.
What, to defend my coldness, shall I say?
Rain, I remember, made my teeth co clatter.
Not knowing why, I'm on my knees to pray.
Chill is the rain that spoils my promised day.
In this thick fog it's no use running fast.
They told me this was the right way to take.
My mind reels. How long is this meant to last?
Where am I? All I know is it's so vast,
This wood or island or desert or lake.
In this thick fog it's no use running fast.
Was that a man? It seems that I went past
A voice. I'm hungry for a house of cake.
My mind reels. How long is this meant to last?
It would be easier if I had mast
And sail. My right foot has begun to ache.
In this thick fog it's no use running fast.
How did all this come about? I'm aghast
At the very idea I'm awake.
My mind reels. How long is this meant to last?
All is dark wherever my eyes are cast.
I must, first of all, wait for light to break.
In this thick fog it's no use running fast.
My mind reels. How long is this meant to last?
On the Difficulty of Not Being a Poet
Deny estrangement under your faint smile,
And say that I'm deceived in this impression.
But since you didn't show me any proof
Despite my effort to elicit one--
I'm guilty of vain words and senseless topics--
I was afraid you would depart from me
Before our love could take a proper form.
I must admit I didn't say exactly
How I felt for you either, and I was
Too foolish to believe you'd understand.
But announcement is as disturbing as
Silence: a word establishes unspoken
Promises one is no more bound to than
A poet's declaration that he'll build
A space that's free from every kind of pain.
Then, why are poets licenced to disclaim
Responsibilities for their deceit,
While we must suffer shame in our failed pledges
Which we have never thought of making at all?
If I must risk my fortune either with
Words or with silence, I should opt perhaps
For words, because for better or for worse
They'll mean a change. The hardest thing is to
Perpetuate the present uncertainty
Without a hope for some enlightenment.
And if my words prove empty in spite of
My good intention, I'll accept right off
That it's my fault, not words', but that's a fresh
Start of a useful definition of our
As yet fortuitous relationship.
Am I beginning to sound like a poet?
Maybe. But who can help it being human?