Poets
If poets die young
they bequeath two thirds of their life to the critics
to graze and grow fat in
visionary grass.
If poets die in old age
they live their own lives
they write their own poems
they are their own might-have-been.
Young dead poets are prized comets.
The critics queue with their empty wagons ready for hitching.
Old living poets
stay faithfully camouflaged in their own sky.
It may even be forgotten they have been shining for so long.
The reminder comes upon their falling
extinguished into the earth.
The sky is empty, the sun and moon have gone away,
there are not enough street bulbs, glow-worms, fireflies to give light
and for a time it seems there will be no more stars.
Janet Frame, New Zealand
.
.
.
The wasp that knocks on your windowpane
represented conscience for a younger man –
now it demonstrates partial knowledge,
the limits of will. It is also a wasp
being a wasp.
The wasp never expected to be born
either. When you open
the window it does not come
in, redoubling its efforts to crack
the mystery of what’s clear.
David Howard, ?
Just because I don't think I will bother to write any more today/
Sest ma ei usu, et ma viitsiks täna rohkem kirjutada.
Tuesday Poemi blogist (vt kõrvalt blogide alt)
tegin eilseks ettekannet, mida ette ei kandnud,
aga peale endale vajaliku kirjaniku lugesin niisama luuletusi ka.
Mis on alati tore, kuigi hingele eriti midagi ei leidnud
Nüüd edasi analüüs naisõiguslusest! Vive le mercredi!
(ei, see ei ole iroonia, kirjutada ongi tore, kui ainult ei peaks lisaks ka inglise keele jaoks umbluuteemast kõnet kirjutama)
If poets die young
they bequeath two thirds of their life to the critics
to graze and grow fat in
visionary grass.
If poets die in old age
they live their own lives
they write their own poems
they are their own might-have-been.
Young dead poets are prized comets.
The critics queue with their empty wagons ready for hitching.
Old living poets
stay faithfully camouflaged in their own sky.
It may even be forgotten they have been shining for so long.
The reminder comes upon their falling
extinguished into the earth.
The sky is empty, the sun and moon have gone away,
there are not enough street bulbs, glow-worms, fireflies to give light
and for a time it seems there will be no more stars.
Janet Frame, New Zealand
.
.
.
The wasp that knocks on your windowpane
represented conscience for a younger man –
now it demonstrates partial knowledge,
the limits of will. It is also a wasp
being a wasp.
The wasp never expected to be born
either. When you open
the window it does not come
in, redoubling its efforts to crack
the mystery of what’s clear.
David Howard, ?
Just because I don't think I will bother to write any more today/
Sest ma ei usu, et ma viitsiks täna rohkem kirjutada.
Tuesday Poemi blogist (vt kõrvalt blogide alt)
tegin eilseks ettekannet, mida ette ei kandnud,
aga peale endale vajaliku kirjaniku lugesin niisama luuletusi ka.
Mis on alati tore, kuigi hingele eriti midagi ei leidnud
Nüüd edasi analüüs naisõiguslusest! Vive le mercredi!
(ei, see ei ole iroonia, kirjutada ongi tore, kui ainult ei peaks lisaks ka inglise keele jaoks umbluuteemast kõnet kirjutama)
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