To you it’s the cold of the night
The thought fox, sniffing, coming and going
Sets neat prints on the snow, starless, the clock
Ticks. For me it’s the tenth muse, jagged
Be-printed, colored, a wild snowstorm, a sleepless
Night. A steed with wings, wearing ‘Her’ face.
It’s a Jaguar, a hawk, that comes out
A walk, a chest holding wearisome apparel.
It is magic, a Cirencester square
A nomad’s flute, a blood bath, a pond of irises
A contained universe in the vault of head
Ocean of holy water contained in heart.
A human drowning, dancing bird
Of blue feathers. Libidinous energy settling
In the cage of bones, wild inking white
Imagined silence of a huge vacuum, where things
Have no shapes. A fire, fueled, blown
Eating up, devouring, and the gasping soul
Holding out to the straw, afloat for rescue.
All I consume, is in ‘The Path’
All stones beaten, all journeys sacred, all times
Mine. All else matters nothing, all presence is ‘Present’.
My all ways have been
Either the curl, either the curve, a straightened hair.
Either mole on the chin, a restraint, held back
A lament, an impossibility, a nothingness alas!
A self devoid, a beauty imagined, a deity, a nature worshiped.
-On reading The Thought Fox- poem by Ted Hughes
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
September 6,2013.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem