A Village Life: Poems
Louise GlückA Village Life: Poems Gönderileri
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Ve sonra gün ağardı. Rüya görüyorduk, geceyi bekliyorduk.
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Bir lirik şairin dediği gibi :
"Dünyaya bir kez bakarız, çocuklukta. Gerisi hafızadır."
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Her şey değişimdir, dedi ve her şey birbirine bağlı.
Ayrıca her şey geri döner, ama dönen şey değil...
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Ben gençken, dedi, alacakaranlıkta bahçe yolunda yürümeyi severdim.
Ve yol yeterince uzun olsaydı, ayın doğuşunu görecektim.
Bu benim için büyük bir zevkti. Seks değil, yemek değil, dünyevi eğlence değil.
Ayın doğuşunu tercih ettim.
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"Bir Köy Hayatı: Şiirler"
The death and uncertainty that await me
as they await all men, the shadows evaluating me
because it can take time to destroy a human being,
the element of suspense
needs to be preserved
You will leave the village where you were born
and in another country you’ll become very rich, very powerful,
but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though you can’t say
what it was,
and eventually you will return to seek it.
It is not sad not to be human
nor is living entirely within the earth
demeaning or empty: it is the nature of the mind
to defend its eminence, as it is the nature of those
who walk on the surface to fear the depths—
one’s position determines one’s feelings.
So when you think of the wall, you don’t think prison.
More the opposite—you think of everything you escaped, being here.
What lives, lives underground.
What dies, dies without struggle.
Bats
There are two kinds of vision:
the seeing of things, which belongs
to the science of optics, versus
the seeing beyond things, which
results from deprivation. Man mocking the dark, rejecting worlds you do not know: though the dark
is full of obstacles, it is possible to have
intense awareness when the field is narrow
and the signals few. Night has bred in us
thought more focused than yours, if rudimentary:
man the ego, man imprisoned in the eye,
there is a path you cannot see, beyond the eye’s reach, what the philosophers have called
the via negativa: to make a place for light
the mystic shuts his eyes—illumination
of the kind he seeks destroys
creatures who depend on things.
Nothing remains of love, only estrangement and hatred.
Now he has to work all day to prove he deserves what he has. Midday: he’s tired, he’s thirsty.
But if he quits now he’ll have nothing.
You get home, that’s when you notice the mold.
Too late, in other words.
The night is an open book.
But the world beyond the night remains a mystery.