Saturday, April 07, 2007

Crow's Loss





















Crow's Fall

When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.

He got his strength up flush and in full glitter.
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun's centre.

He laughed himself to the centre of himself

And attacked.

At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.

But the sun brightened—
It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.

He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.

"Up there," he managed,
"Where white is black and black is white, I won."

Ted Hughes






Stop All The Clocks, Cut Off The Telephone

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


W.H Auden


          


















Invocation



If all this true, that at the night,
When the living men are sleeping,
And from a sky, a pale moonlight

To stones of graveyards are slipping,
If true, that under cover, black,
The dead ones leave their coffins, quiet,
I call the shade of my beloved:
To me, my friend, come back, come back! Appear! Oh, beloved shade,
Such as you were at last partition,
Such pale and cold, as winter, late,
With face deformed by last infliction.
Come, like a star from distant track,
Like puff of wind or sound's fiction,
Or like the awful apparition,
It's same to me: come back, come back!
I call you not because I tend
A hurt to men, whose fierce hatred
Had killed my dear gentle friend,
Or to cognize the Coffin, sacred,
And not because the doubts break
Sometimes my heart -- but only here,
To say that, yet, I love, my dear,
That, yet, I'm yours: come back, come back!


ALEKSANDR
PUSHKIN
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January, 2000
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, August, 2000


Crow does not know what he has lost

He is alone in his thoughts

His flight takes him away

No comments: