Sunday, September 04, 2016

Forgotten Wings

—Photo by Hubble Telescope



?POETRY
—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth

had no way

with names,

my eyes were blind,

and something started in my soul,

fever or forgotten wings,

and I made my own way,

deciphering

that fire,

and I wrote the first faint line,

faint, without substance, pure

nonsense,

pure wisdom

of someone who knows nothing,

and suddenly I saw

the heavens

unfastened

and open,

planets,

palpitating plantations,

shadow perforated,

riddled

with arrows, fire and flowers,

the winding night, the universe. 

And I, infinitesimal being,

drunk with the great starry

void,

likeness, image of

mystery,

for myself a pure part 
of the abyss,

I wheeled with the stars,

my heart broke loose on the wind.




(Translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid) 


________________________

—Medusa