The Rav
of Northern White Russia declined,
in his youth, to learn the
language of birds, because
the extraneous did not interest him; nevertheless
when he grew old it was found
he understood them anyway, having
listened well, and as it is said, 'prayed
with the bench and the floor.' He used
what was at hand--as did
Angel Jones of Mold, whose meditations
were sewn into coats and britches.
Well, I would like to make,
thinking some line still taut between me and them,
poems direct as what the birds said,
hard as a floor, sound as a bench,
mysterious as the silence when the tailor
would pause with his needle in the air.
Oh, yes, an intelligent poet! I like being introduced to writers who see the world from a different angle, a different hope
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Mystical narrative and a fine imagery. The words come to us as magic spell: mysterious as the silence when the tailor would pause with his needle in the air.