Espionne. Poem by Michael Walker
Espionne.
Elle marcha toute seule, comme tous les matins.
Le trottoir etroit la sienne, le lampadaire corrode.
Des alouettes passionaient l'air d'abricot. Des crucifixes a barbes
Contre le ciel, des aureoles de brume autour des reverberes-
Elles lui rappelaient Jesus sur un autel dore
Et maman d'un tablier bleu, en priant.
Ou etaient les minuits gras de la depravation?
Une femme bien aiguisee, blonde aux aisselles sombres-
Ou etait-elle mais toujours entrant du froid?
- 'Spy'. Rita Dove. From ' Selected Poems', p.47.
The poem is a faithful record of the delights of walking alone, which may seem ordinary, but can be made extraordinary. The poem seems to combine the extremes of religious sensibility with nights of sensual delight, not an uncommon situation, I think.
There is an echo of John Le Carre's great novel ' The Spy Who Came in From the Cold', in the last line.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/26/2024 4:01:38 AM # 1.0.0.1119
