Poetry is a sort of Mechanics... Poem by Bartomeu Fiol

To my wife

Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes.
T.S. Eliot, East Coker

Poetry is a sort of mechanics
of words, echoes, songs,
blend of silence
and at the same time
a pithy dance of myths,
words and myths hand in hand
as for a very suitable sacrament.

Feet up, feet down,
in a deadly fight against bustle,
like balls which,
whether in the cold or in the heat,
must rebound precisely
not as the master of the ball wishes
but with the greater rigour imposed by music.

Original and hardly, without wanting to put a feather in his cap,
over the mud or over dust traps,
over the ashes of innumerable knucklebones
still full of the urge to crack loudly,
be the weather good or bad,
be the weather cruel or faithful.

As for a happy marriage
a little peace and
leisure time are needed, as well as a bit of luck at dice,
a pinch of salt and a sprinkle of art,
to dance this dance well,
counting the steps, measuring the gesture,
the one and the other are requested: female and male,
reproducers when together, sterile if separate.

The rest is but intrigue.
Neither the sea nor the strait will be able
to make laughter theirs, if plural.

Translated by Estelle Henry-Bossonney