[New-Poetry] A certain weariness

[Skip Fox]

Interesting in terms of  "newness" discussion. 

 

-----Original Message-----
From: new-poetry-bounces at wiz.cath.vt.edu
[mailto:new-poetry-bounces at wiz.cath.vt.edu] On Behalf Of David Graham
Sent: Wednesday, September 05, 2007 3:50 PM
To: NewPoetry & Views
Subject: [New-Poetry] A certain weariness

 

A certain weariness

 

I don't want to be tired alone,

I want you to grow tired along with me.

 

How can we not be weary

of the kind of fine ash

which falls on cities in autumn,

something which doesn't quite burn,

which collects in jackets

and little by little settles,

discolouring the heart.

 

I'm tired of the harsh sea

and the mysterious earth.

I'm tired of chickens --

we never know what they think,

and they look at us with dry eyes

as though we were unimportant.

 

Let us for once--I invite you--

be tired of so many things,

of awful aperitifs,

of a good education.

 

Tired of not going to France,

tired of at least

one or two days in the week

which have always the same names

like dishes on the table,

and of getting up--what for? --

and going to bed without glory.

 

Let us finally tell the truth:

we never thought much of

these days that are like

houseflies or camels.

 

I have seen some monuments

raised to titans,

to donkeys of industry.

They're there, motionless,

with their swords in their hands

on their gloomy horses.

I'm tired of statues.

Enough of all that stone.

 

If we go on filling up

the world with still things,

how can the living live?

 

I am tired of remembering.

 

I want men, when they're born,

to breathe in naked flowers,

fresh soil, pure fire,

not just what everyone breathes.

Leave the newborn in peace!

 

Leave room for them to live!

Don't think for them,

don't read them the same book;

let them discover the dawn

and name their own kisses.

 

I want you to be weary with me

of all that is already well done,

of all that ages us.

Of all that lies in wait

to wear out other people.

 

Let us be weary of what kills

and of what doesn't want to die.

 

 

-- Pablo Neruda. Extravagaria. Trans.  Alastair Reid. Farrar, Straus &
Giroux, 1974.

 

 

 

 

 

 

========================================

David Graham

grahamd at ripon.edu

 

Home Page:

http://web.mac.com/drjazz/iWeb/Site/About%20Me.html

 

Poetry Library:

http://web.mac.com/drjazz/iWeb/Site/DGPoLibrary.html

==========================================

 





 

-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: http://wiz.cath.vt.edu/pipermail/new-poetry/attachments/20070905/3706a98e/attachment.html