Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.


Translated by Robert Bly
...

She woke me up at dawn,
her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels.

I sat up and looked out the window
at the snow falling in the stand of blackjack trees.

A bus ticket in her hand.

Then she brought something black up to her mouth,
a plum I thought, but it was an asthma inhaler.

...

'Home'
.
For what 'living in luxurious life
When everyday you face the knife.
I rather live in bamboo's home'
With a peaceful mind, I feel athome.
Singing birds, I love to hear'
Flashing waters Soo white and Clear.
How beautiful life it could be'
Living peacefull, with harmony.

...

If I had only loved your flesh
And careless damned your soul to Hell,
I might have laughed and loved afresh,
And loved as lightly and as well,
And little more to tell.

But since to clasp your soul I strove,
(That mountebank, that fugitive)
Anrl poured the river of my love
Through meshes that, like Danae's sieve,
Drained all I had to give,

Now nightly by the tamarisks
I pace, and watch the risen moon
Litter the sea with silver disks;
And pray of night one only boon:
Let my release be soon.
...

Say not of beauty she is good,
Or aught but beautiful,
Or sleek to doves' wings of the wood
Her wild wings of a gull.

Call her not wicked; that word's touch
Consumes her like a curse;
But love her not too much, too much,
For that is even worse.


...

'L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes.'
FRIENDSHIP, as some sage poet sings,
Is chasten'd Love, depriv'd of wings,
Without all wish or power to wander;
Less volatile, but not less tender:
Yet says the proverbs­'Sly and slow
'Love creeps, even where he cannot go;'
To clip his pinions then is vain,
His old propensities remain;

And she, who years beyond fifteen,
Has counted twenty, may have seen
How rarely unplum'd Love will stay;
He flies not­but he coolly walks away.
...

Come to me when grief is over,
When the tired eyes,
Seek thy cloudy wings to cover
Close their burning skies.

Come to me when tears have dwindled
Into drops of dew,
When the sighs like sobs re-kindled
Are but deep and few.


...

Eat my eyes and eat my brain
‎Devour my soul for I am gone
‎This numbness I am feeling, when will it be gone? I ask myself while staring, I have no answer; none.

‎I feel like floating, in the darkness there
‎I stay in reverie as it eats me there
‎I have not noticed but then I see, I am alone in this darkness and there I bleed
‎And then I plead for bliss once more
‎But I am alone so I shroud myself with me
‎

...