Perhaps,
in the exaggerated grace
of his weight
settling,
the wings
raised, held in
strike-or-embrace
position,
I recognized
something more
than swan, I can't say.
There was just
this barely defined
shoulder, whose feathers
came away in my hands,
and the bit of world
left beyond it, coming down
to the heat-crippled field,
ravens the precise color of
sorrow in good light, neither
black nor blue, like fallen
stitches upon it,
and the hour forever,
it seemed, half-stepping
its way elsewhere--
then
everything, I
remember, began
happening more quickly.
GREAT POEM, did you put out a book of poems called, THE REST OF LOVE?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Excellent. Evocative of Yeats as a man & the Swan as a God. Zeus. The happening quickly rings so often. The molt of feathers suggesting self-awareness for the young reader, a position of truth & assessment honest for the one aware of his & her history. Black & white as the raven is blue too. Yes, so true, so very accurate, acute (not cute) but an acute eye & especially the ear. Van Gogh. Sunflowers. No Fear. ABH-TJr.