A partially dimmed sunlight
flows through the open window
and spreads across the desk
where I labor over THE BOOK OF THE SUN
by Marsilio Ficino, whose subtle
orphic thought finds welcome
residence in my mind. Outside
a lone woodpecker pounds
the hard bark of his occasional
home. I imagine him totally engaged,
never weighing advantage against
disadvantage, feeling neither stress
nor joy. He simply acts
in his natural way, simply inhabits
a circle of activity defined by
the same sun which summoned him
from sleep... When silence ensues,
I suppose he has departed
for another tree, and I turn
the page and enter the last stage
of Marsilio's argument. His words
have coalesced in my mind to a fulfillment
of thought. Is this not the benign result
of my labors? The earlier presage
of rain will soon be realized.
An early darkness will descend
on this June day. I am ready
for whatever degree of darkness
will shroud me: having both Marsilio's
thought and the bird's industry
residing in my mind, two flights
having come to rest within me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The relationship between Nature and literature is a strong one. Literature gets sustenance from nature. A poet gets strength from both these sources. Here the poet is able to merge both within him, so he is ready to face any kind of darkness.