Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word 'woods.'
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
I do not know what the original version says in her mother tongue, but even through the loose English translation their is a tremendous beauty in this. Writing is a preservation of human minds.
Ink! ! Means, To think, Able to write! ! ! Poetry. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
An insightful creation on the intricacies of creativity....
I have never known that this poem was a translation from original polish.Most deserving Modern Poem Of The Day
A beautiful poem by the famous Nobel prize winner poetess, full of metaphors, it has become a fascinating thought-provoking poem We can read that she had enormous joy in her writing.5 Top Stars!
I love this poem and this poet. She is so creative and has a different approach. Yes, the power we have as writers gives us joy, creating our own worlds. The joy of writing - you can feel it in her poems The power of preserving - her mind is preserved in her poetry Revenge of a mortal hand - though already passed away, she’s having her revenge on mortality.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
This is not a good translation of this poem. Please find other translations..
Do you know of a better translation? Could you supply one? I would be eager to read it. Thanks!
Why do I write? To satisfy a basic need. Because I have the urge to write.... etc