Above the wind

Someone above the wind washing his hands, Enveloped by blood. A road leading down Takes us to a tavern full of verdigris mouths Spreading the tang of having inhabited The ocean's capacious sea-bed. Come here. Come home, said a voice; Whom is this mouth calling? Has this mouth kissed the water? The man who was washing his hands Suddenly departs, the road has turned green And, growing, has coiled itself up Like a snail. Nobody walks it, its steps Are celestial. You know there is blood throbbing In the place where violent death harried? Come, let us eat. Come home quickly, A voice murmurs. There are many voices calling, each to the other. Some are in love, others Are gambolling briskly, and reply only To sounds too distant for you. Do you remember that trawler, the net Thrown over the trees? Two venerable men How young they were to me then Now in a rage to remember.

The soul in words

The ark has announced its arrival In the port. An uneasy birth A new life born of farewells And deadly seasons. The fragrance of poppies Cascades on the shore. Men and women In silhouette leave its deep penumbra: The cargo of souls. The shore is an upright gallows And poison drips From the leaking roof of eventide. A new ship, far away, groping for light And silence, passes majestically the bridge; Soldiers stand by, mute guardians of tranquility. It is nameless labour And nameless repose. We have forgotten why the earth Is thus wheeled around by the firmament; Forgotten are the juices Of ripe happy fruits Of daybreak tally-hos at the foot Of stone-hipped fragrant hills. Forgotten. My hands smell of oak trees And I go on waiting For docking and departure.

Blind days
Blind days, closed moments, When my unworded question Of who am I, and where am I going, If I am not here, and nothing exists. The children of midnight lie about In ditches. How they fondle the mud. Bare slimy mud blossoms: Sunflowers by another name. I am not here, nor am I yonder: I repeat this to myself For my rebellious words have been ransomed By kings, between sharp blades of the knife. My hours are spun By the mad whirring spindle And my death clambers up the ladder Of my star-studded dreams.

Second to none
Her shoulders with fair braids are graced, Lithe as the wheat-stem is her waist, Her sable apron laced with taste -She's all in all for me. When she is near, I take alarm; When she is off, I come to harm; When others take her by the arm, Priests pray to set me free! A three hours' talk and she's away, While I pretend to go, yet stay And watch her plodding on her way Till I see her no more. She is quite poor, yet on my life I'll take her for my wedded wife, Though wicked men, with love at strife, About our love feel sore! The gossips chat and disagree; My brothers all speak ill of me, And Father mighty cross is he, While, genuflecting, Mother Entreats the icons, fasts, forlorn And cries, "you's better ne'er been born! You work your will, you thing of scorn! You work your will, oh brother!" I work my will? What if I do? I'll somehow manage to pull through! And if I don't, I shall live too, A poor man in my cot. To seek my brothers' help? Not I!

I'll never share with them their pie! I'll work my will and shall not die With brooding o'er my lot! My kin would bury me alive! The fright they're asking me to wive May love me, but how could we thrive When I don't love her any? Could I enjoy her land? sow? reap? And what's the good of cows and sheep? When your own wife you hold so cheap, Then nothing's worth a penny! Or are there such as can decree That what they like is law to me? Even you, bishop, cannot be That sort, nor can you, sire! Let people gossip and make fun, My sweetheart second is to none, And ere I part with what I've won, I'll set the thorp afire!