Seven-Song of Death
Seven-Song of Death
So dawns the blue face of spring. Beneath the suckling trees
a darkness strays into evening and demise.
The blackbird’s feeble complaint is caught.
The stifled night appears, a wild bleeding,
dirge burrowing deeper into the hillside.
Flowering apple-branches sway in the damp air.
Tangles unhinge their silver,
death rattles over the night’s fluttering eyes, clatter of stars,
the whispered song from the cradle.
Down to the blackened woods the sleeper, arisen, descended,
and the blue spring, it wheezed its way through the valley,
that those bleached eyelids receded
wordlessly over his snow-covered face.
And the moon hunted the red beast
from its cave.
And sighing, it died—the bitter lament of women.
The white stranger, luminous, raised his hands
to the one star.
In silence the dead abandon their ruined tenement.
O the blasted stature of man—forged out of loveless metals,
night and horror in the sunken woods
and the crematory wilderness of beasts,
the windless eye of the soul.
On the blackish barge he embarked down the shimmering currents,
plenary of purple stars, and the branches, budding green,
sank upon him,
poppy born from a silver cloud.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Siebengesang des Todes
Bläulich dämmert der Frühling; unter saugenden Bäumen
Wandert ein Dunkles in Abend und Untergang,
Lauschend der sanften Klage der Amsel.
Schweigend erscheint die Nacht, ein blutendes Wild,
Das langsam hinsinkt am Hügel.
In feuchter Luft schwankt blühendes Apfelgezweig,
Löst silbern sich Verschlungenes,
Hinsterbend aus nächtigen Augen; fallende Sterne;
Sanfter Gesang der Kindheit.
Erscheinender stieg der Schläfer den schwarzen Wald hinab,
Und es rauschte ein blauer Quell im Grund,
Daß jener leise die bleichen Lider aufhob
Über sein schneeiges Antlitz;
Und es jagte der Mond ein rotes Tier
Aus seiner Höhle;
Und es starb in Seufzern die dunkle Klage der Frauen.
Strahlender hob die Hände zu seinem Stern
Der weiße Fremdling;
Schweigend verläßt ein Totes das verfallene Haus.
O des Menschen verweste Gestalt: gefügt aus kalten Metallen,
Nacht und Schrecken versunkener Wälder
Und der sengenden Wildnis des Tiers;
Windesstille der Seele.
Auf schwärzlichem Kahn fuhr jener schimmernde Ströme hinab,
Purpurner Sterne voll, und es sank
Friedlich das ergrünte Gezweig auf ihn,
Mohn aus silberner Wolke.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Related quotes
Hohenburg
Hohenburg
The house is empty. Fall in the room.
The moon’s lone glow
and a birth at the edge of the dawning woods.
Forever your thoughts turn to the ashen face of your people,
removed from the bedlam of time.
Over the dreamer green branches bend eagerly,
cross and evening.
With bruised arms his star envelops the Song of Songs.
Towards the unpeopled window it ascends.
Thus the stranger shudders in blackness,
as his eyelids gently recede over
the far-off one. The silver voice of the wind in the hallway.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Hohenburg
Es ist niemand im Haus. Herbst in Zimmern;
Mondeshelle Sonate
Und das Erwachen am Saum des dämmernden Walds.
Immer denkst du das weiße Antlitz des Menschen
Ferne dem Getümmel der Zeit;
Über ein Träumendes neigt sich gerne grünes Gezweig,
Kreuz und Abend;
Umfängt den Tönenden mit purpurnen Armen sein Stern,
Der zu unbewohnten Fenstern hinaufsteigt.
Also zittert im Dunkel der Fremdling,
Da er leise die Lider über ein Menschliches aufhebt,
Das ferne ist; die Silberstimme des Windes im Hausflur.
poem by Georg Trakl
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The Sun
The Sun
Each day the yellow sun rises over the hill.
The woods glow, the dark beast,
Man: hunter or shepherd.
Blood-fish surface in the teeming pond.
Under the dome of heaven
the fisherman drifts in his blue boat.
The grapes ripen slowly, the corn.
When day slumps to a close,
Good and Evil are poised.
Night falls.
The wanderer lifts his heavy eyelids.
The sun breaks from the dark ditch.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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D ie Sonne
Täglich kommt die gelbe Sonne über den Hügel.
Schön ist der Wald, das dunkle Tier,
Der Mensch; Jäger oder Hirt.
Rötlich steigt im grünen Weiher der Fisch.
Unter dem runden Himmel
Fährt der Fischer leise im blauen Kahn.
Langsam reift die Traube, das Korn.
Wenn sich stille der Tag neigt,
Ist ein Gutes und Böses bereitet.
Wenn es Nacht wird,
Hebt der Wanderer leise die schweren Lider;
Sonne aus finsterer Schlucht bricht.
poem by Georg Trakl
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In Darkness
In Darkness
In blue spring the soul falls silent.
Under dripping branches the evening
lovers bowed their foreheads and shivered.
O the corroding cross. In sunless communion
man and woman awoke to each other.
By the barren wall
the deserted one wanders with his shifting stars.
Over the moonstricken paths in the woods
the wilderness of forgotten hunts
sinks ever deeper. Your grief rises up
over the crumbling rock face in mutiny.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Im Dunkel
Es schweigt die Seele den blauen Frühling.
Unter feuchtem Abendgezweig
Sank in Schauern die Stirne den Liebenden.
O das grünende Kreuz. In dunklem Gespräch
Erkannten sich Mann und Weib.
An kahler Mauer
Wandelt in seinen Gestirnen der Einsame.
Über die mondbeglänzten Wege des Walds
Sank die Wildnis
Vergessener Jagden; Blick der Bläue
Aus verfallenen Felsen bricht.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Summer
Summer
At evening in the woods
the cuckoos withhold their misery.
The cornstalks slant deeper into themselves,
the red poppies.
The blackening sky cracks open
over the hills.
The ancient song of the cricket
dies in the harbor.
It never stirs,
the crown of the chestnut.
Up the winding stairs
your dress rustles.
The candle’s glowing silence
darkens the room.
Your silver hand
quenches it.
Tonight, no wind, no stars.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Sommer
Am Abend schweigt die Klage
Des Kuckucks im Wald.
Tiefer neigt sich das Korn,
Der rote Mohn.
Schwarzes Gewitter droht
Über dem Hügel.
Das alte Lied der Grille
Erstirbt im Feld.
Nimmer regt sich das Laub
Der Kastanie.
Auf der Wendeltreppe
Rauscht dein Kleid.
Stille leuchtet die Kerze
Im dunklen Zimmer;
Eine silberne Hand
Löschte sie aus;
Windstille, sternlose Nacht.
poem by Georg Trakl
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In the Spring
In the Spring
Your black footsteps whisper into the snow.
In the shadows of trees
your rosy eyelids flutter out of love.
Forever follow the dark calls of the mariner,
the night and the stars.
And the oars pulse faintly.
Before long the violets bloom
by the crumbling wall.
The temple of the deserted corrodes in their silence.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Im Frühling
Leise sank von dunklen Schritten der Schnee,
Im Schatten des Baums
Heben die rosigen Lider Liebende.
Immer folgt den dunklen Rufen der Schiffer
Stern und Nacht;
Und die Ruder schlagen leise im Takt.
Balde an verfallener Mauer blühen
Die Veilchen,
Ergrünt so stille die Schläfe des Einsamen.
poem by Georg Trakl
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The Fall of the Deserted
The Fall of the Deserted
The dark fall swells with fruit and abundance,
the yellowed glare of garish summer days.
A pure blueness steps from the ruined husk.
Shadows flap from the ancient myth.
The wine is pressed, benign silence
fraught with the whispered reply to murkier questions.
And here and there a cross on a barren hill.
In the red woods a flock loses itself.
The cloud wanders into the pond’s mirror.
A peasant’s stormless gesture is put to rest.
Below one’s breath the evening wings of grief stir
the dry reeds of our rooftop, the black earth.
Before long the stars will nestle in his weary brow.
In the chilled room a mute humility turns back
and angels tread softly from the blue
eyes of lovers, that more gentle ache.
Reeds hiss. A bone-ridden horror dawns.
Black dew drips from the shaven fields.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Der Herbst des Einsamen
Der dunkle Herbst kehrt ein voll Frucht und Fülle,
Vergilbter Glanz von schönen Sommertagen.
Ein reines Blau tritt aus verfallener Hülle;
Der Flug der Vögel tönt von alten Sagen.
Gekeltert ist der Wein, die milde Stille
Erfüllt von leiser Antwort dunkler Fragen.
Und hier und dort ein Kreuz auf ödem Hügel;
Im roten Wald verliert sich eine Herde.
Die Wolke wandert übern Weiherspiegel;
Es ruht des Landmanns ruhige Geberde.
Sehr leise rührt des Abends blauer Flügel
Ein Dach von dürrem Stroh, die schwarze Erde.
Bald nisten Sterne in des Müden Brauen;
In kühle Stuben kehrt ein still Bescheiden
Und Engel treten leise aus den blauen
Augen der Liebenden, die sanfter leiden.
Es rauscht das Rohr; anfällt ein knöchern Grauen,
Wenn schwarz der Tau tropft von den kahlen Weiden.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Elis
Elis
1.
The absolute stillness of this golden day.
Under ancient oak trees
you appear, Elis, a dormant seed with round eyes.
Their blueness reflects the slumber of lovers,
whose rosy sighs
die on your lips.
At evening the fishermen drew in their heavy nets.
A good shepherd
leads his herd to the edge of the woods.
O, Elis, how just are your days!
Wordlessly, by barren walls,
the blue secrecy of olive trees descends.
An old man’s dark song dies away.
One golden boat
rocks back and forth, Elis—your heart to the deserted sky.
2.
A sweet chiming ripples in Elis’s breast
at evening
when his head sinks into the black pillow.
The shadow of the hunted
bleeds in peace in the barbed thicket.
A brown tree stands cloistered there,
its blue fruit falling away.
Signs and stars
go under, breathless, in the night-pond.
Behind the hill winter has come.
By night
blue doves drink the glacial sweat
from Elis’s crystal brow.
Forever whines by the blackened walls
God’s forsaken wind.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Elis
1.
Vollkommen ist die Stille dieses goldenen Tags.
Unter alten Eichen
Erscheinst du, Elis, ein Ruhender mit runden Augen.
Ihre Bläue spiegelt den Schlummer der Liebenden.
An deinem Mund
Verstummten ihre rosigen Seufzer.
Am Abend zog der Fischer die schweren Netze ein.
Ein guter Hirt
Führt seine Herde am Waldsaum hin.
O! wie gerecht sind, Elis, alle deine Tage.
Leise sinkt
An kahlen Mauern des Ölbaums blaue Stille,
Erstirbt eines Greisen dunkler Gesang.
Ein goldener Kahn
Schaukelt, Elis, dein Herz am einsamen Himmel.
2.
Ein sanftes Glockenspiel tönt in Elis’ Brust
Am Abend,
Da sein Haupt ins schwarze Kissen sinkt.
Ein blaues Wild
Blutet leise im Dornengestrüpp.
Ein brauner Baum steht abgeschieden da;
Seine blauen Früchte fielen von ihm.
Zeichen und Sterne
Versinken leise im Abendweiher.
Hinter dem Hügel ist es Winter geworden.
Blaue Tauben
Trinken nachts den eisigen Schweiß,
Der von Elis’ kristallener Stirne rinnt.
Immer tönt
An schwarzen Mauern Gottes einsamer Wind.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Evening Song
Evening Song
At evening, when we walk on dark trails,
our bleached selves appear before us.
Thirsty
we drink from the pond’s white water,
the sweetness of our mournful childhood.
Weary, we rest beneath the elderberry
to behold the dawning gulls.
Spring clouds rise above the town’s dark thoughts—
mute, the monks’ nobler days.
As I took your tiny hands
your round eyes gently broke upon me.
This was long ago.
And yet, when darker songs descend upon the soul,
you appear—a whiteness—in your friend’s autumn landscape.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Abendlied
Am Abend, wenn wir auf dunklen Pfaden gehn,
Erscheinen unsere bleichen Gestalten vor uns.
Wenn uns dürstet,
Trinken wir die weißen Wasser des Teichs,
Die Süße unserer traurigen Kindheit.
Erstorbene ruhen wir unterm Hollundergebüsch,
Schaun den grauen Möven zu.
Frühlingsgewölke steigen über die finstere Stadt,
Die der Mönche edlere Zeiten schweigt.
Da ich deine schmalen Hände nahm
Schlugst du leise die runden Augen auf,
Dieses ist lange her.
Doch wenn dunkler Wohllaut die Seele heimsucht,
Erscheinst du Weiße in des Freundes herbstlicher Landschaft.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Downfall
Downfall
(To Karl Borromaeus Heinrich)
Over the white pond
the savage birds draw away.
At twilight an icier wind blows about our star.
The split forehead of night bends
across our graves.
Under oaks we shudder on a silver barge.
Forever ring the whitewashed walls of the city.
Under a dome of thorns
O my brother we climb—blind hour hands to midnight.
Translated by Eric Plattner & Joseph Suglia
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U ntergang
(An Karl Borromaeus Heinrich)
Über den weißen Weiher
Sind die wilden Vögel fortgezogen.
Am Abend weht von unseren Sternen ein eisiger Wind.
Über unsere Gräber
Beugt sich die zerbrochene Stirne der Nacht.
Unter Eichen schaukeln wir auf einem silbernen Kahn.
Immer klingen die weißen Mauern der Stadt.
Unter Dornenbogen
O mein Bruder klimmen wir blinde Zeiger gen Mitternacht.
poem by Georg Trakl
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At the Moor
At the Moor
Wanderer in the blackened wind. Dry reeds whisper
in the stillness of the moor. A column of savage birds
ensues in the dawning sky.
Over murky waters they cross.
Uproar. From the crumbling shack
the black wings of rot flutter up.
Crippled birches sigh in the wind.
Evening in the forsaken tavern. The way home is shrouded
by the tender sadness of the grazing herd.
Night becomes manifest: toads emerge from the silver water.
Translated by Eric Plattner & Joseph Suglia
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Am Moor
Wanderer im schwarzen Wind; leise flüstert das dürre Rohr
In der Stille des Moors. Am grauen Himmel
Ein Zug von wilden Vögeln folgt;
Quere über finsteren Wassern.
Aufruhr. In verfallener Hütte
Aufflattert mit schwarzen Flügeln die Fäulnis;
Verkrüppelte Birken seufzen im Wind.
Abend in verlassener Schenke. Den Heimweg umwittert
Die sanfte Schwermut grasender Herden,
Erscheinung der Nacht: Kröten tauchen aus silbernen Wassern.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Mankind
Mankind
Face to face with the fire-abyss,
thundering hooves, the doomed brows of warriors,
across the blood-fog bootsteps echo, the iron death knells,
surrender, black in blue brains:
here Eve’s cloud, in pursuit, the passing over and bleeding coins.
Light breaks through the malignancy, his last meal.
A swelling silence dwells in bread and wine,
and the twelve are cleaved.
All night they wail in their dreams beneath the olive branches.
Saint Thomas plunges his hand into the heart of the wound.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Menschheit
Menschheit vor Feuerschlünden aufgestellt,
Ein Trommelwirbel, dunkler Krieger Stirnen,
Schritte durch Blutnebel; schwarzes Eisen schellt,
Verzweiflung, Nacht in traurigen Gehirnen:
Hier Evas Schatten, Jagd und rotes Geld.
Gewölk, das Licht durchbricht, das Abendmahl.
Es wohnt in Brot und Wein ein sanftes Schweigen
Und jene sind versammelt zwölf an Zahl.
Nachts schrein im Schlaf sie unter Ölbaumzweigen;
Sankt Thomas taucht die Hand ins Wundenmal.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Kaspar Hauser's Song
He truly loved the purple sun, descending from the hills,
The ways through the woods, the singing blackbird
And the joys of green.
Sombre was his dwelling in the shadows of the tree
And his face undefiled.
God, a tender flame, spoke to his heart:
Oh son of man!
Silently his step turned to the city in the evening;
A mysterious complaint fell from his lips:
“I shall become a horseman.”
But bush and beast did follow his ways
To the pale people’s house and garden at dusk,
And his murderer sought after him.
Spring and summer and – oh so beautiful – the fall
Of the righteous. His silent steps
Passed by the dark rooms of the dreamers.
At night he and his star dwelled alone.
He saw the snow fall on bare branches
And in the murky doorway the assassin’s shadow.
Silvern sank the unborne’s head.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Das Lied von einer Sommernacht
Hell schien der Mond in dieser Nacht
Als meine Liebe neu erwacht
Das Blut wie Wein durch meine Adern floß
Und Pfeile in mein Herze rein schoß
Meine Seele voll verlangen barst
Ihn zu erwarten hier am Horst
Der einzige Zeuge unserer Liebe war
Die Sommernacht so hell und klar
Der Fluß sein Lied uns leise sang
Und wie Musik dann in the Ästen hang
Laß niemals enden diese Nacht
Bis blaß der Sternenhimmel in all seiner Pracht
Ich musste gehn von diesem Ort
Geblieben ist ein kleines Wort
Gemeiselt in den großen Stein
Meine Liebe ist für immer dein.
poem by Ingeborg von Finsterwalde
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Landscape
Landscape
September evening. The somber calls of the herdsmen float
across the dimming village. Molten metal sparks in the blacksmith’s.
A massive horse rears darkly back. To the fervor of its blazing nostrils
the hyacinth curls of the servant girl cling.
At the edge of the woods a faint cry stiffens the deer’s back,
and the yellow flowers of autumn
bend wordlessly over the pond’s blue countenance.
The tree was consumed in red flame. Up flutter the dark faces of bats.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Landschaft
Septemberabend; traurig tönen die dunklen Rufe der Hirten
Durch das dämmernde Dorf; Feuer sprüht in der Schmiede.
Gewaltig bäumt sich ein schwarzes Pferd; die hyazinthenen Locken der Magd
Haschen nach der Inbrunst seiner purpurnen Nüstern.
Leise erstarrt am Saum des Waldes der Schrei der Hirschkuh
Und die gelben Blumen des Herbstes
Neigen sich sprachlos über das blaue Antlitz des Teichs.
In roter Flamme verbrannte ein Baum; aufflattern mit dunklen Gesichtern die
Fledermäuse.
poem by Georg Trakl
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In Venice
In Venice
Stillness in the passing night of the room.
Seven silver branches flicker
before the whispered song
of the deserted,
the mystic flock of roses.
A swarm of flies, black as smoke,
swallows up the stony space,
and from the anguish
of golden days the head
of the homeless child gazes back.
The frozen sea fills with night.
The one star and the dark journey
have vanished in the ditch.
Child, your ailing smile
haunts me, wordless, in sleep.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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In Venedig
Stille in nächtigem Zimmer
Silbern flackert der Leuchter
Vor dem singenden Odem
Des Einsamen;
Zaubrisches Rosengewölk.
Schwärzlicher Fliegenschwarm
Verdunkelt den steinernen Raum
Und es starrt von der Qual
Des goldenen Tags das Haupt
Des Heimatlosen.
Reglos nachtet das Meer.
Stern und schwärzliche Fahrt
Entschwand am Kanal.
Kind, dein kränkliches Lächeln
Folgte mir leise im Schlaf.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Lotus Leaves
I -
There is no peace beneath the moon,-
Ah! in those meadows is there peace
Where, girdled with a silver fleece,
As a bright shepherd, strays the moon? -
Queen of the gardens of the sky,
Where stars like lilies, white and fair,
Shine through the mists of frosty air,
Oh, tarry, for the dawn is nigh! -
Oh, tarry, for the envious day
Stretches long hands to catch thy feet.
Alas! but thou art overfleet,
Alas! I know thou wilt not stay.
II -
Eastward the dawn has broken red,
The circling mists and shadows flee;
Aurora rises from the sea,
And leaves the crocus-flowered bed. -
Eastward the silver arrows fall,
Splintering the veil of holy night:
And a long wave of yellow light
Breaks silently on tower and hall. -
And speeding wide across the wold
Wakes into flight some fluttering bird;
And all the chestnut tops are stirred,
And all the branches streaked with gold.
III -
To outer senses there is peace,
A dream-like peace on either hand,
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease, -
Save for a cry that echoes shrill
From some lone bird disconsolate;
A curlew calling to its mate;
The answer from the distant hill. -
And, herald of my love to Him
Who, waiting for the dawn, doth lie,
The orbed maiden leaves the sky,
And the white firs grow more dim.
IV -
Up sprang the sun to run his race,
The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea,
But in the west I seemed to see
The likeness of a human face. -
A linnet on the hawthorn spray
Sang of the glories of the spring,
And made the flow'ring copses ring
With gladness for the new-born day. -
A lark from out the grass I trod
Flew wildly, and was lost to view
In the great seamless veil of blue
That hangs before the face of God. -
The willow whispered overhead
That death is but a newer life
And that with idle words of strife
We bring dishonour on the dead. -
I took a branch from off the tree,
And hawthorn branches drenched with dew,
I bound them with a sprig of yew,
And made a garland fair to see. -
I laid the flowers where He lies
(Warm leaves and flowers on the stones):
What joy I had to sit alone
Till evening broke on tired eyes: -
Till all the shifting clouds had spun
A robe of gold for God to wear
And into seas of purple air
Sank the bright galley of the sun.
V -
Shall I be gladdened for the day,
And let my inner heart be stirred
By murmuring tree or song of bird,
And sorrow at the wild winds' play? -
Not so, such idle dreams belong
To souls of lesser depth than mine;
I feel that I am half divine;
I that I am great and strong. -
I know that every forest tree
By labour rises from the root
I know that none shall gather fruit
By sailing on the barren sea.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Towards Evening, My Heart
Towards Evening, My Heart
The screeching of bats at evening.
Two horses lope in the meadow.
The red maple shivers.
To the wanderer, a small tavern appears in the distance.
It is good to taste young wine and nuts.
It is good: to lurch, drunken, into the dawning woods.
Tolling, through the black tangle, the dolorous bells.
Dew drops on the face.
Translated by Eric Plattner
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Zu Abend mein Herz
Am Abend hört man den Schrei der Fledermäuse.
Zwei Rappen springen auf der Wiese.
Der rote Ahorn rauscht.
Dem Wanderer erscheint die kleine Schenke am Weg.
Herrlich schmecken junger Wein und Nüsse.
Herrlich: betrunken zu taumeln in dämmernden Wald.
Durch schwarzes Geäst tönen schmerzliche Glocken.
Auf das Gesicht tropft Tau.
poem by Georg Trakl
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There Were Late Afternoons As A Child
There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam
with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,
when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.
There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,
when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky
while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.
poem by Gert Strydom
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There Were Late Afternoons
There were late afternoons when as a child
I would see the tall popular trees
making the pale blue sky seem much higher
where they grew next to the old farm dam
with there branches whispering
in the early night breeze,
with doves and finches calling
from their nests in the shelter of these trees,
when an early moon would appear
and the evening star would suddenly start twinkling
blue-white in its sheer brightness against a darker blue sky,
like a mother goose leading all of the other stars.
There were early evenings when the sun
died with its deep red glow touching
the hillocks that were covered in sugar bushes,
and red flowering aloes,
when the scent of protea flowers was sweet on the air,
when blue changed to darker black,
when darkness came suddenly
and a myriad of stars sparkled all over the sky
while in the distance fires came to life
at the rural mud huts, while jackals
and dogs started to howl at the bright yellow moon,
while I knew that mother would be home soon.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Snow On The Eyelids Of The Pinecones
Snow on the eyelids of the pine-cones.
Zen pagodas, meditating. Snow
on the withered stars of the wild rose hips
attaining the unattainable like Buddha
enlightened by what's become of Venus in the dawn.
Beauty in the truth of abject desolation.
There's a war going on somewhere
to judge from the number of amputations
the fingers, legs, arms, toes, hands,
the limbs of the dead trees
lying all over the ground as if the woods
were the collapsed tent
of an army field hospital in the Civil War.
The Fort Delaware Death Pen
if I were to take a wild guess,
or maybe Andersonville, who knows,
but I feel I'm walking more like a warden
doing his rounds through the woods at night
than a visitor among these who lie here
in this graveyard of wounded swans
glazed and broken like the handles
of old china shop teacups
butting their empty skulls
against the horns of a bull.
Not like mine. Pure crystal
from glassblowers in medieval Germany.
At least these get to thaw.
And you can see in the withered eyelids
of the leaves whose chlorophyll vision
was once poetically green,
now laced with strychnine and arsenic
when they burned like solar flares in the fall,
and the curtains caught fire
like the veils of an open window
with no one's face in it
to reveal the mystery of who she is
behind the northern lights,
the works of an entire lifetime
clacking like abandoned fortune-cookies,
the hollow carapaces of crabs across
the silver pates of the blunted snowdrifts
ground down like the Appalachian Mountains,
older than the Rockies, worn down
like molars and glaciers
grinding their teeth in their sleep
but infinitely more habitable
than the nose-bleeding heights of renown.
And yet the leaves are not wasted.
The word was spoken.
The fortune foretold
of better things to come
like pears and apples and plums.
The slow autumn dawns of poems
ripened by rising stars and falling flowers.
Snow on the eyelids of the pine-cones.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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