The horizon garrottes the twilight's throat. I sleepwalk
through slash and over deadfall. My arms, white canes,
antenna me through copses; touching tree-trunks,
legs of huge tenebrios, whose abdomens
are canopies of darkness under elytra,
I walk. Winds whisper mantra after mantra.
Now branches frieze the sky—wrought-iron frost-work
Cistines the darkling beetles' undersides.
I see an Agincourt arrow, a kingfisher, flash-track,
grey, but fletched with blurs of blues and reds,
through ribs of fallen trees that cage a reach
where swans' necks question whether day will break.
A bull-elk rears. His forelegs scissor the moon-rays.
He splashes down, legs thrashing the water, then dips
his head in the glister, raises his rack like a sunrise,
shakes it, smithereening his crown, then grasps
the horizon's rope in his antlers; with a swing and a sling,
throws bolas at darkness's legs and unstrangles the sun.
your poetry is too technical for an ordinary natural Canadien poet like me but your lonesome adventures intrigue me what nights of loneliness though forests I can see I walked in the jungles of Vietnam stark naked ripped clothes actually so I can imagine your plight and which has resulted in such a delight Hope you will scan some of mine the first top ones moms smiles o Canadien poet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Woah extraordinary impressive diction employed to relate the episode, but I found the imagery, sights and sounds very interesting and poetic the way you describe them. Kudos. pleez do comment/review my newest poem too, titled, Dream Holiday places