"The dreamer absconds with his dream,props his stone bride beside a stream,
where he washes, bathes, and gathers daisies.
These she refuses. He cannot please.
He runs, scampers, leaps and weeps,
He recites his verses; she keeps
her pure silence, her chaste repose. “What
do you want ?” he screams. “That
which you will not grant: to be, not seem
to be, to be the dreamer, not the dream.”
* * *
Altitudes
“And then, of course,”
she was saying,
“we have grown so great
that now we dream
only of the possible.”
* * *
Grass Blade
As the first blade bends,
Grass Blade murmurs,
"I bend, but do not break."
Foot
keeps coming down.
Passionate Grass Blade
mounts a campaign:
Grass blades henceforth
to be made of glass.
Feet henceforth
to travel shoeless.
People walk away —
Why get hurt?
Oak Tree observes,
"Feet are not relevant."
* * *
"Saying that this was what it felt like to put
the right foot forward, and then the left, saying
that this was the taste of morning porridge,
that of milk, and this other of a niggling
but persistent pain, saying —
that, I suppose, was what was distinctive —
being unable to keep my mouth shut,
my mind from working. But a poet lives
like any other creature, talks perhaps
more than is normal, her doom no brighter,
nor her death less dismal than any other."
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário