Читать книгу Apples from Shinar - Hyam Plutzik - Страница 18

JIM DESTERLAND

As I was fishing off Pondy Point

Between the tides, the sea so still—

Only a whisper against the boat—

No other sound but the scream of a gull,

I heard the voice you will never hear

Filling the crannies of the air.

The doors swung open, the little doors,

The door, the hatch within the brain,

And like the bellowing of ruin

The surf upon the thousand shores

Swept through me, and the thunder-noise

Of all the waves of all the seas.

The doors swung shut, the little doors,

The door, the hatch within the ear,

And I was fishing off Pondy Pier,

And all was as it was before,

With only the whisper of the swell

Against the boat, and the cry of a gull.

I draw a sight from tree to tree

Crossing this other from knoll to rock,

To mark the place. Into the sea

My line falls with an empty hook,

Yet fools the world. So day and night

I crouch upon the thwarts and wait.

There is a roaring in the skies

The great globes make, and there is the sound

Of all the atoms whirling round

That one can hear if one is wise—

Wiser than most—if one has heard

The doors, the little doors, swing wide.