You are the daughter of the sea,|oregano’s first cousin.|Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;|cook, your blood is quick as the soil.|Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.||Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise;|your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell;|you know the deep essence of water and the earth,|conjoined in you like a formula for clay.||Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,|they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.|This is how you become everything that lives.||And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms|that push back the shadows so that you can rest -|vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,|or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.|I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,|in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
Returned me, oh sun,|to my wild destiny,|rain of the ancient wood,|bringing me back to the aroma of swords|that fall from the sky,|the solitary peace of pasture and rock,|the damp at the river-margins,|the smell of the larch tree,|the wind alive like a heart|beating in the crowded restlessness|of the towering araucaria.|Earth, give me back your pure gifts,|the towers of silence which rose|from the solemnity of their roots.|I want to go back to being what I have not been,|and learn to go back from such deeps|that amongst all natural things|I could live or not live; it does not matter|to be one stone more, the dark stone,|the pure stone which the river bears away.
A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don’t slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices.
Topics: Reading, Books, Books, Reading
The word|was born in the blood,|grew in the dark body, beating,|and took flight through the lips and the mouth.|Farther away and nearer|still, still it came|from dead fathers and from wondering races,|from lands which had turned to stone,|lands weary of their poor tribes,|for when grief took to the roads|the people set out and arrived|and married new land and water|to grow their words again.|And so this is the inheritance;|this is the wavelength which connects us|with dead men and the dawning|of new beings not yet come to light.
They can cut all the flowers, but they cannot stop the coming of spring.
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
Topics: Rain, Authors & Writing
- Carlos P. Romulo Philippine Diplomat
- Henry Kissinger American Diplomat
- Pierre Beaumarchais French Inventor
- Romain Gary French Diplomat
- Madeleine Albright Czech-born American Diplomat
- R. James Woolsey, Jr. American Diplomat
- Adlai Stevenson American Diplomat
- Bertolt Brecht German Poet
- Geoffrey Chaucer English Poet
- James Russell Lowell American Poet