The Dead Poem by Don Paterson
The Dead
Our business is with fruit and leaf and bloom;
though they speak with more than just the season's tongue—
the colours that they blaze from the dark loam
all have something of the jealous tang
of the dead about them. What do we know of their part
in this, those secret brothers of the harrow,
invigorators of the soil—oiling the dirt
so liberally with their essence, their black marrow?
But here's the question. Are the flower and fruit
held out to us in love, or merely thrust
up at us, their masters, like a fist?
Or are they the lords, asleep amongst the roots,
granting to us in their great largesse
this hybrid thing—part brute force, part mute kiss?
There are several interpretations, of what we know and what we don't know.
Yep, I liked that one too, a New Age Palldas " Tell me whence comes it That thou measurest the Universe And the limits of the Earth, Thou who bearest a little body Made of a little earth? Count thyself first And know thyself, And then shalt thou Count this infinite Earth. And if thou canst not reckon Thy body's little store of clay, How canst thou know The measures of the immeasurable" Palladas (250's/260's to 331-c.350 CE)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/29/2024 7:22:17 PM # 1.0.0.1119
It is a neat personification. It is veiled in the mystery of semantics. I do not know if the hybrid pumpkin is a brute blow or the relish kiss. Thanks Paterson.