Читать книгу The Glass Constellation - Arthur Sze - Страница 45

FROM The Willow Wind

1972

Noah’s / Dove

The moon is black.

Had I a bird

it would fly,

beat the air into land.

To remain

or trust

the silver leaves of the sea?

What if

I say what is:

no bird, no land.

The sea tossing

its damp wet fish

on the bow,

their lungs exhaling

the sea, taking in

moon air

for the first time …

The Wood Whittler

Whales and fish

sailing

in the sky!

Old saws! Old saws!

Red flakes

falling off the wood

like leaves.

Fire?

The woodcutter

pares the skin

with a

knowing hand.

The blade—rude—

will carve

his / mind’s mastery

in the /

witless earth.

Li Po

Jarred.

The oars creaked in their locks.

Fish beneath the moon.

Cradled his pen

filled with wine.

A goddess stirred,

rocked the cradle of his boat,

let the silent fish know

a dreamer’s silver hands were at work.

Pegasus on a Pipe

He would ride the moon,

prod the slow seahorse with a cake of salt

and when it broke sweat,

urge it ease,

watch the wings sprout, remorseless.

Miracles

His lens misses her,

the leaves cast double reflections

on the glass. The one

is his shadow; as he leans up

he discovers a new perspective,

a range he never considered.

The leaves, shaggy edged,

twirl the light in their hands.

A new source; he must

pay his respects deftly.

They have his power.

He must acquaint them

with this peripheral vision—

the woman walking down the steps

is no longer his wife.

The Execution of Maximilian

Muskets triggered a white smoke,

and it fell like snow,

soft death to purple eyes.

I saw the clean glint of the man’s pants,

and knew what was coming,

hit the ground for the last time.

And the snow covered me like a corpse.

They mistook me for one

who had lain there a long time.

And they rushed on instead

to the crumpled body by the wall,

stuck their bayonets in

laughing, and jostled each other on the shoulder

like friends long unseen, now returned.

Sound Lag

His glazed lips

moved slower

than the

movement of words.

Overhead, black clouds

were poised

in the sky,

then moved on.

In the real sky

they had

no place to go.

The air cooled to zero.

I look again at myself

in the mirror.

The veins of the dark trees

outside

vibrate.

Their song is, at least,

mine, but

I am engaged elsewhere.

I extend my hand

through the glass

into the living world.

Sliding Away

Your hand rigid, curled into its final shape:

the rest of your body breathes.

The dark coals you pour on his grave

continue to breathe.

A snake slides through the

uneven grass

where it has cut a

name for

itself

by

sliding away.

Strawberries in Wooden Bowls

You carry flowers in a jug of green wine,

and the smell is that of the first fires in autumn

when the leaves are blown into their reds and grays.

The sunlight rains through the glass.

As you reach across the table

the fences outside disappear.

The fields are green with their rain

and the wind curls the stars in the cold air.

You stand now, silent, in the window of light

and the milk you pour is glazed.

The strawberries in the wooden bowls

are half-covered with curdled milk.

The Olive Grove

Up on the hill

the morning moon washed clean.

Thin dogs no longer

leap in the sunlight,

and I walk, easily, up the path.

The gatekeeper snores

in his rocking chair,

and only the wind

keeps him moving.

Turning now through the yard

I recall his eyes.

The leaves tinged

with inevitable grays.

With one hand

I pluck the olives

off the white lattice.

Their thick skins

rinsed in the moonshine.

A Singer with Eyes of Sand

A singer with eyes of sand they said—

the western wind

sweeps me home,

and I am carrying you, my desert,

in my hands.