At sunset
packing up glass
to send into the country—
an amber evening
Gedichten over het onderwerp: country
Gedichten over het onderwerp “country” op Poets.by.
Who's Keeping Count
i'm only one, inconsequential person.
one in the 7.7 billion on this earth,
one in the 327.16 million in our country,
one in the 40.02 million in our state,
one in the 994,400 in our city,
one in the 82 in your life.
so i guess i really
can't blame you
for putting others first
can i?
Borderline
Borderline is a thrilling word
Borders between countries
Evoking images of the drama at Vagha.
Borderline is ominous
The borderline between
sanity and insanity.
Borderline between friendship
and intimacy,
Bringing into focus
And blurring your vision, the line you step out
From restrained emotions to riotous expressions
of love.
To stand on the borderline
Is to hold your life in your hands
To decide to cross over or not.
Borderline is an exciting place to be -
Exile
He went
the symbol of sorrow
into that huge country
knowing neither language
nor custom
to remain
always
the stranger among strangers
to stand in his age
straight as a board
with lancers
of the non-existent army
Translations 2
when i read translation, i poke around the words,
not at them, guessing at a reality not hinted at
but encoded by some prisoner from another world—
nobody's perfect; but i relish the quest for the
peculiar nature of some original writer, un-
known to us but through his function: images
thoughts perhaps of trees cows judgings ravings—
oh i'm an impotent feeling self-important fool—
consume the country, become one with it, i say to myself!
and becoming one with it belch and forget it!
no more nervous city twisting and coiling of coffee
and smokes, no more routines, schedules or lack of them!
what the fuck!— i'm internally shaken by these
desperate thoughts, my hand sticks in my throat,
Translations
it's when reading them, I just have to imagine
the excited writing of the one author
and its openness (streams, thickets, wrestling dogs) -
that's reading - there is no right translation,
just absurd efforts to make it the same in main
respects - oh noble boring iconoclast! get
to the country, open mouthed, chew on miles of hay!
don't you know as long as you're among these
people of cities you'll smoke and burn coffee?
the air is cold! we hate radio. turn it off
and march outside at your leisure, sooner or later
you'll break that guilt, look at rooks and starlings,
stop trying to crease the grass so much in your fingers,
they are not machines! just eat, open your mouth, eat!
November 26th, 2015
She was a country girl
With a city heart
A city mind
And a city soul
She wanted nothing more than to get away
But the people around her would never understand why
The Native Country
Where is that country? The unresting mind
Like a lapwing nears and leaves it and returns.
I know those unknown hill-springs where they rise,
I know the answer of the elms to the wind
When the wind on their heaving bosom lies
And sleeps. I know the grouping pines that crown
The long green hill and fling their darkness down,
A never-dying shadow; and well I know
How in the late months the whole wide woodland burns
Unsmoking, and the earth hangs still as still.
I know the town, the hamlets and the lone
Shelterless cottage where the wind's least tone
Is magnified, and his far-flung thundering shout
Brings near the incredible end of the world. I know!
Even in sleep-walk I should linger about
Winter in the Country
Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce’s fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees’
Bare hands to touch, the sparrow’s cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,
Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!
But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city’s dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau and broom