Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Scandinavian poetry, part nine.

Rolf Jacobsen

Within every day there is a small heart
and an open hand.
Perhaps each day is a life in itself.
The morning has it's law and so does the evening
and at night there is a crown of fire above our house
that no one can reach.

The summer brook's little white brow
is full of thoughts it can't hold onto
and belongs in another world, crystal pure
but more fleeting, always music.

The spruce cone falls like the stroke of a gong
and some nights are full of bronzelike light.
The trout wanders in it's river like a trail
of fertility deep in the heart, it has
a mouth that gapes and swollows without drinking.

To this world too belong women's small delights:
a cat in the lap, soft words to children
and everything that grows, the threads on a loom,
three finger-tracks on the window in the evening
they are too small to name but they are
perhaps the low grass in our life,
the green wave that washes around stones on the beach
and the brook with the white brow,
unthinking, full of music.

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