PRO VITA SUA
soon we come to road’s end—
Failure, our two-dimensional
side-kick, flat dream-light,
Won’t jump-start or burn us in,
insidious in its constellations of part-charred cross
out in a dread profusion,
Nowhere to go but up, nowhere to turn,
gone and done it
sap-crippled, arthritic, winter-weathered, myth limb,
are my mother’s hair.
a lever of
Or here, and step back,
Heave, and a light, a little
light, will nimbus your going forth:
dew bead, terminal bead, opens
a great radiance,
Sun’s square on magnolia leaf
among us will step forward,
Under his feet, plum branches under his feet,
white sky, white
bells like monk’s mouths tonguing the hymn?
—Discredited form, discredited
I tried to resuscitate both, breath and
them whole again
language, strict attention—
mi fe’, disfecemi Verona, the song
I’ve hummed it, I’ve bridged the break
The year begins beyond words,
Beyond myself and the image of
Moon’s ice and summer’s thunder. All that.
meat of the sacrament is invisible meat and a
any visible thing,
I’m always attracted downward, and soon to be
of life, it’s said, vessel of life, brought to naught,
gathered back to what’s visible.
That’s it, fragrance of
spring like lust in the blossom-starred orchard,
shapeless shape of darkness starting to seep through
seen world starting to tilt,
Where I sit the still, unwavering
that world’s waves.
like the past the clouds are,
Building and disappearing along the
their shadows under our feet
us to cross over on.
Out of their insides fire falls, ice
What we remember that still remembers us, earth and air
however, can resurrect or redeem us,
Moving, as both must, ever
away toward opposite corners.
Neither has been where we’re
of an attitude.
and Pharaoh ring,
set against witchcraft,
Lightening and hailstorm,
birthstone, savior from drunkenness.
color of insight, clear sight,
that’s for remembering,
Star-crystals scattered across the
penumbra, hard stars.
can distinguish darkness from the dark, light from light,
matter from story line,
part from the whole
When whole is part of the part and part is all
Morandi, Cézanne, it’s all about lonesomeness.
Separation from what heals
painting, beyond art.
and paint, black notes, white notes.
Music and landscape; music,
landscape and sentences.
Gestures for which there is no balm, no
tone fields, horizon a line between abysses,
Rothko could choose either
one to disappear into. And did.
non spero di tornar giammai, ballatetta, in Toscana,
Not as we
were the first
as we’ll ever be again.
Such snowflakes of memory, they fall
nowhere but there.
in remembering, we cannot remember—
Exile’s anthem, O stiff
Thingless we came into the world and thingless we leave.
important act is
slip from the right way,
To fail, still accomplishes
Even a good thing remembered, however, is not as good
is the source of all good,
entropy and decay,
Time the destroyer, our only-begetter and
instance, my fingernail,
pink, so amplified,
In the half-dark, for instance,
force-fed dogwood blossoms, green-leafed,
on their long branches.
Stone, say a little prayer for me,
and jay in the black gum,
Drowse of the peony head,
globes luminous in the last light, more work to
. . .
is forgetfulness in me which makes me descend
Into a great
And makes me to walk in mud, though what I remember
of the things I have forgotten:
Who the Illuminator is, and what
Who will have pity on what needs have pity on it.
I remember redeems
me and brings me to rest.
An end to what has began,
to what is about to be ended.
are the determining moments of our
do we know them?
Are they ends of things or beginnings?
more or less of ourselves once they’ve come and gone?
think this is one of mine tonight,
The Turkish moon and its one
as a new flag
Over my hometown street with its dark trash cans
this must be one. And what of me afterwards
When the moon and her
Have slipped the horizon? What will become of me
names are everywhere—they are above and they are below,
concealed and they are revealed.
We call them wise, for the wisdom
of death is called the little
my name? And your name?
will we find them, in what pocket?
Wherever it is, better
to keep them there not known—
Words speak for themselves,
anonymity speaks for itself.
Unknown Master of the Pure Poem walks nightly among
very garden his son laid out.
Every so often he sits down. Every
so often he stands back up . . .
heavy, heavy hangs over our heads. June heat.
How many lives does
it take to fabricate this one?
Aluminum pie pan bird
and feints in a desultory breeze
the road, vegetable garden mojo, evil eye.
That’s one life I
know for sure.
Others, like insects in
golden and lurking and hidden from us.
in the shade, humidity huge and inseparable,
Noon sun like a laser
The grackle waddles forth in his suit of
crucifixion on his back.
Devotion’s detail, the sum of all our
Bright imprint our lives unshadow on.
enough to say that now, the hush of late spring
Hung like an
enough, perhaps, but still true,
Honeysuckle and poison ivy
jumbling out of the hedge,
Magnolia beak and white tongue,
landscape’s off-load, love’s lisp.
Charles Wright es traducido por:
- Jeannette L. Clariond