April8,2005
"I do not need that anyone should tell me
Most real goes secret, sunken, nigh-submerged"
- Abbie Huston Evans
There are always poems
like icebergs waiting to be
explored, waiting for someone
to plot them on the graph,
the bulk of them submerged,
waiting for someone to listen
to sounds ofbreaking apart
in deep, dark Arctic waters.
Will it be you, or you, or you—
any one of you readers who
will listen to chafing sounds,
rumbling ice-slide sounds,
sounds ofsecrets cracking,
creaking deep deep down.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Poem like an iceberg! Love this idea!
In John Donne's The Flea, the flea's bites commingle the blood of two lovers, and, therefore, according to the poem's speaker, makes their marriage bed. Here are the opening lines of the poem: Mark but this flea, and mark in this, / How little that which thou deniest me is; / It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, / And in this flea our two bloods mingled be... Pretty good, I think.