A sapling stood,
blowing in the storm,
while a poet,
buffeted by a thunder of questions,
cut fingertips in crevices
edging along solid stone.
What’s your poetry like? What do you write about? What do your poems mean?
Are you published?
The composer stumbled
from stage to topsoil,
sand, silt, and clay,
strewn on limestone.
I am a translator.
You ask me What’s your sapling like? How does it stand in storm and flood? What does your frail growth eat for breakfast? How taste’s your sap?
– in a few words we’ll understand.
“And what’s more, tell us the story of your conception: What magic pollinated and fertilised you? Who gave you seeds to throw, and drew you towards the sun? Where have you bloomed? What has attracted you
to such a timely death?
O Sleep, my lovely boy, that sucks all fragments
from stellar gas, and swallows time from where
the galaxy resounds, and thereby draws the stuff
of dreams in bondage deep to sweet mem’ry;
If Universe awards your constant love
of generating eyes that move beyond
the Pale of slumb’ring lids, I shall
open the stars you win as prize by night.
She watches all that moves in hearts sublime
and even chews the devil’s grandest scheme.
No matter how flat she lies waiting here,
she may abstain from tales of light, and song.
Her orbit, though retreating, will awake
your smile, and transport you for goodness sake.