21 January 2015
7 January 2015
6 January 2015
2 January 2015
The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears,
and returns to its source, unconsumed.
From: Pablo Neruda, ‘Canto General’
31 December 2014
26 December 2014
Night on the Great River
Moored in island mist,
as the sun sets, a traveler's grief arises.
Beyond the great plain, the sky closes on trees.
On this gentle river, the moon arrives.
[translated by Sam Hamil]
Steering my little boat towards a misty islet,
I watch the sun descend while my sorrows grow:
In the vast night the sky hangs lower than the treetops,
But in the blue lake the moon is coming close.
[translated by William Carlos Williams]
We anchor the boat alongside a hazy island.
As the sun sets I am overwhelmed with nostalgia.
The plain stretches away without limit.
The sky is just above the tree tops.
The river flows quietly by.
The moon comes down amongst men.
[translated by Kenneth Rexroth]