From the place that I now stand, I can only say,
that I have turned my soul’s muse away
from the devices of modern poetry.
For stories told that bring neither meaning
nor the slow unfold of the rose pronouncing itself to spring,
are definite and calculated, bead-by-bead, on the slow,
dreadful abacus of the angst of our contemporary being.
The continuity of the symbol and the metaphysical
is a flow born of the winter’s packed snow, down a watershed,
to the seas of seven continents, to rise to streaming gases,
and back to rain, to once again, flow across the river’s of circling time—
this as if our thoughts were born and born once more
but in certainty never born at all. Truth is wolf and a paradox.
It howls at the flirting moon and seldom is what is seems.
In the new world it is rare, but wonderful,
that poets, be they soft or masculine,
can transcend their reflection and their fears—
to confess the life sublime
and seek the infinite,
to confess the life sublime
and seek the infinite.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great! That's the single word to describe this piece. The sculpting process of poetry. The transforming qualities of nature. This speaks from many places including the heart.