Читать книгу The Poetry of Frank O'Hara - Frank O’Hara - Страница 27
Poem in January
ОглавлениеMarch, the fierce! like a wind of garters
it's calm kept secret, as if eaten!
and sipped at the source tainted, taut.
Vagrants, crushed by such effulgence,
wrap their mild twigs and bruises in straws
and touch themselves tightly, like buttered bess,
for the sun is cold, there, as an eyeglass
playing with its freshly running sinuses,
swampy, and of a molasses sweetnes on the cheek.
Turn, oh turn! your pure divining rod
for the sake of infantile suns and their railing
and storming at the deplorably pale cheeks
and the hemlocks not yet hung up.
Do we live in old, sane, sensible cries?
The guards stand up and down like a waltz
and its strains are stolen by fauns
with their wounded feet nevertheless dashing
away through the woods, for the iris! for autumn!
Oh pure blue of a footstep, have you stolen
March? and, with your cupiditous baton
struck agog? do you feel that you have, blue?
Ah, March! you have not decided whom you train.
Or what traitors are waiting for you to be born,
of March!
or what it will mean in terms of diet.
Take my clear big eyes into your heart, and then
pump my clear big eyes through your bloodstream, and!
stick my clear big eyes on your feet, it is cold,
I am all over snowshoes and turning round
and round. There's trail of blood through
the wood and a few shreds of faun-colored hair.
I am troubled as I salute the crocus.
There shall be no more reclining on the powdered roads,
your veins are using up the redness of the world.
