Was there a face in the whirling wood
or a knot in the wick of a weeping candle?
To whom did the words belong, to the clinging bush,
or to the wind, its adversary?
When I leapt down the hill like mountain goat,
were the kinnikinnick berries full of eyes?
Did you sense me searching for you,
up-ending lichen-scarred rocks?
When I sank into sleep,
I awoke to autumn's flicker-dance.
Was it the thought of your shadow
that brought me back to breath?
That plunge into a snow-melt summit lake,
the flat-bottom smooth stones and burning gasp,
were they decreed, so my skin might unfold,
like a curl of birch bark, to caress your hand?
Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...
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There is a song clinging like a drowsy bat to the dingy ceiling of a dungeon, deep within the labyrinthine palace of my memories, a melody...
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...