* * *
Whenever I really want to live I cry
and if life tries to leave me
I hold on to him
I say - Life
don't leave me yet
holding his warm hand in mine
my lips whispering
in his ear
Life
- as if life were a lover
sneaking away
I throw myself on him
crying
If you leave me I'll die.
* * *
These words have always existed
in the open smile of a sunflower
on the black wing of a rook
and also
at the threshold of a slightly open door
as if there were no door
they'd exist
in the twigs of any tree
but you want
me to keep them just for myself
me to become
a rook's wing, a birch tree in summer
you want
me to sound
like a beehive open to the sun
you fool
I cannot own these words
I borrow them
from bees, from sun, from wind.
Argument pro
Eliot
is seductive with his pessimism
you can clearly see this
in anthologies of contemporary poetry
pessimism is spreading rapidly,
it takes hold of minds
like grass on the surface of soil
The rightness of this view
is strengthened by mirrors
by the surface of stagnant water,
reflecting a change of seasons
dynamism of nature
that decomposes instantly
an individual
counts no more than a leaf
swaying on a tree
it is hard to say
what her role is
she just exists for a while
feels
thinks
against immeasurable depth of water
you can see this in anthologies of contemporary poetry
and
in the eyes of people
who are just over thirty.
* * *
I still put curl papers in my hair
and kisses -- birds of passage --
still perch on my lips
before flying south.
Summer is shorter these days
and cooler.
I still smile at myself in the mirror
Take it easy - I say - fire,
I must light the fire, buy the bread,
read Plato.
One has to think of tomorrow.
The air still turns silver
whenever I smile.
A tiny cloud quivers briefly then dissolves
and nothing is left,
not a smile or a thought of tomorrow
or the touch of a living hand.
Translated by Susan Bassnett and Piotr Kuhiwczak
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