It Is Morning Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

It is morning
The last third of September
It is chilly, not cold
But the fingers feel the chill and wrinkle
Ugly they are
I wonder if the Aphrodite and the nymphs are the same
No more the fresh skin that I l Ike to watch and to touch
I wonder if geese too, many of which I saw busy on grass
Are the same
I sit here, in the warmth of restaurant, I watch and write
Outside, in the rectangle yard of the Central Square I see
The birds, the puffed up sparrows, begging the cracks for
Seeds and left overs…they struggle…
They are ugly
Impossible to compare them with past, with their feathers
Or colors, beauty, all attractive in line, live, well-arranged
Then I think
Then I read
Translation
Ann Lauterbach’s
A poem is translation of observation into words; not easy
Hard is indeed converting one pleasure to other pleasure
Converting is translating or transforming joy of eye to eye
But, from physically alive to sensing it alive, flying, kicking
Yet, that is what a writer does; that is a capable poet’s work.