An Unwritten Poem

/, Blesok no. 77-79/An Unwritten Poem

An Unwritten Poem

There Are Some Ordinary Lives, but All Loves Are Extraordinary
Some Poets Write As They Live
Tonight, My Love, Fire Walks Through the City
An Unwritten Poem
Question Mark
The Invisible, My Love, Overflows with Meaning
We Have Nothing Left, My Love, Except Love
When You Are Not With Me in Tomai
The Window Was Blind
It Happened In Broad Daylight

I dreamt a poem: beautiful and whole.
A finely polished crystal ball. An open
cage filled with the golden autumnal Karst
light. Empty inside, with a music box
at the heart. The rustle of a dead bird’s wing,
and the subterranean river whose path
is revealed by a strand of fog winding
among the vineyards and solitary pines…
I took a pencil that I always keep
at my bedside and gripped it,
like a man drowning
I reached out for a slim, nonexistent straw.
In the morning I awoke, pencil in hand.
With a tiny beam of sunlight shed
on the lines of living and dying
that cross each other in my palm. With the canopy
of a giant walnut tree washed clean by the night rain
in my sight. With the cooing of doves in my ear…
The dream I could not remember.
It was but another of my unwritten
poems. A poem which has been, like many
people in the city where I was born,
swallowed by night.

Translated by Mia Dintinjana

2018-08-21T17:22:51+00:00 August 1st, 2011|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 77-79|0 Comments