The Ides of March

I RISE WITH AN EFFORT
—Philippe Jaccottet

I rise with an effort and look out
at three different kinds of light—
that of the sky, that which from up there
pours into me and vanishes,
and that whose shadow my hand draws on the page.

The ink might be mistaken for shadow.

The sky descending takes me by surprise.

One would like to believe we suffer
to describe the light from above;
but pain is stronger than flight
and pity drowns everything, shining
with as many tears as the night.

____________________

SWIFTS
—Philippe Jaccottet

At the stormy moment of dawn
at the apprehensive time
these sickles in the corn

Everything suddenly cries higher
than any ear can climb

____________________

THESE WOOD-SHADOWS
—Philippe Jaccottet

These wood-shadows, timid, patient,
lighter even than the grass
that survived the winter,
are the discreet, faithful,

barely perceptible shadows of death

Always in the daytime
circling our bodies
Always in the open field
these tombstones of blue slate

______________________

RIGHT AT THE END OF NIGHT
—Philippe Jaccottet

Right at the end of night
the wind rises
and the candle goes out

Who is there to keep watch
before the first birds?
The river-cold wind knows

A flame, an inverted tear:
a coin for the ferryman

______________________

WEIGHT OF STONES
—Philippe Jaccottet

Weight of stones, of thought

Uneven balance
of mountain and dream

We still live in another world
perhaps the interval

_____________________

Philippe Jaccottet, critic, essayist, editor, translator and poet, was born in Switzerland in 1925. These poems were translated from the French by Derek Mahon, and appear in The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, ed. by J.D. McClatchy (Random House, Inc., 1996).

Be sure to pop over to South Natomas Library tonight to hear Urban Voices Jim Cardwell (an Oroville poet whose work will appear in the next Snake) and Sacramento poet/publisher Crawdad Nelson. Festivities last from 6:30-8 pm.

DISTANCES
—Philippe Laccottet

Swifts turn in the heights of the air;
higher still turn the invisible stars.
When day withdraws to the ends of the earth
their fires shine on a dark expanse of sand.

We live in a world of motion and distance.
The heart flies from tree to bird,
from bird to distant star,
from star to love; and love grows
in the quiet house, turning and working
servant of thought, a lamp held in one hand.

_____________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)