If only there were a renegade angel
whose task it were to gather lists
of love letters un-sent, kisses un-spent,
wisps of longing tightly spooled,
who'd transcribe onto his sleeve
in fluorescent calligraphy
a calculation of human heart-ache,
until, utterly forlorn, be compelled
to reconcile these heavy accounts,
to swoop unseen over a people provoked,
and sprinkle snowflakes of quiet comfort,
to transform armaments into bread,
and turn rows of ready-made coffins into beds,
undoing the deeds of one with another's intent,
I'd hold vigil at my window until he passed by,
and beg him to relieve me of my burdens,
letting his celestial caprice be my sole delight.
In absence of angel, I turn to this page.
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...
popular on this site
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
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...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...