Susa literatura - Poesia kaiera

It is a winter’s tale / That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes / And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales, / Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes, / The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail, // And the stars falling cold, / And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl / Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold / Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl / In the river wended vales where the tale was told. // Once when the world turned old / On a star of faith pure as the drifting bread, / As the food and flames of the snow, a man unrolled / The scrolls of fire that burned in his heart and head, / Torn and alone in a farm house in a fold // Of fields. And burning then / In his firelit island ringed by the winged snow / And the dung hills white as wool and the hen / Roosts sleeping chill till the flame of the cock crow / Combs through the mantled yards and the morning men // Stumble out with their spades, / The cattle stirring, the mousing cat stepping shy, / The puffed birds hopping and hunting, the milkmaids / Gentle in their clogs over the fallen sky, / And all the woken farm at its white trades, // He knelt, he wept, he prayed, / By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light / And the cup and the cut bread in the dancing shade, / In the muffled house, in the quick of night, / At the point of love, forsaken and afraid. // He knelt on the cold stones, / He wept form the crest of grief, he prayed to the veiled sky / May his hunger go howling on bare white bones / Past the statues of the stables and the sky roofed sties / And the duck pond glass and the blinding byres alone // Into the home of prayers / And fires where he should prowl down the cloud / Of his snow blind love and rush in the white lairs. / His naked need struck him howling and bowed / Though no sound flowed down the hand folded air // But only the wind strung / Hunger of birds in the fields of the bread of water, tossed / In high corn and the harvest melting on their tongues. / And his nameless need bound him burning and lost / When cold as snow he should run the wended vales among // The rivers mouthed in night, / And drown in the drifts of his need, and lie curled caught / In the always desiring centre of the white / Inhuman cradle and the bride bed forever sought / By the believer lost and the hurled outcast of light. // Deliver him, he cried, / By losing him all in love, and cast his need / Alone and naked in the engulfing bride, / Never to flourish in the fields of the white seed / Or flower under the time dying flesh astride. // Listen. The minstrels sing / In the departed villages. The nightingale, / Dust in the buried wood, flies on the grains of her wings / And spells on the winds of the dead his winter’s tale. / The voice of the dust of water from the withered spring // Is telling. The wizened / Stream with bells and baying water bounds. The dew rings / On the gristed leaves and the long gone glistening / Parish of snow. The carved mouths in the rock are wind swept strings. / Time sings through the intricately dead snow drop. Listen. // It was a hand or sound / In the long ago land that glided the dark door wide / And there outside on the bread of the ground / A she bird rose and rayed like a burning bride. / A she bird dawned, and her breast with snow and scarlet downed. // Look. And the dancers move / On the departed, snow bushed green, wanton in moon light / As a dust of pigeons. Exulting, the grave hooved / Horses, centaur dead, turn and tread the drenched white / Paddocks in the farms of birds. The dead oak walks for love. // The carved limbs in the rock / Leap, as to trumpets. Calligraphy of the old / Leaves is dancing. Lines of age on the stones weave in a flock. / And the harp shaped voice of the water’s dust plucks in a fold / Of fields. For love, the long ago she bird rises. Look. // And the wild wings were raised / Above her folded head, and the soft feathered voice / Was flying through the house as though the she bird praised / And all the elements of the slow fall rejoiced / That a man knelt alone in the cup of the vales, // In the mantle and calm, / By the spit and the black pot in the log bright light. / And the sky of birds in the plumed voice charmed / Him up and he ran like a wind after the kindling flight / Past the blind barns and byres of the windless farm. // In the poles of the year / When black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row / And over the cloth of counties the far hills rode near, / Under the one leaved trees ran a scarecrow of snow / And fast through the drifts of the thickets antlered like deer, // Rags and prayers down the knee- / Deep hillocks and loud on the numbed lakes, / All night lost and long wading in the wake of the she- / Bird through the times and lands and tribes of the slow flakes. / Listen and look where she sails the goose plucked sea, // The sky, the bird, the bride, / The cloud, the need, the planted stars, the joy beyond / The fields of seed and the time dying flesh astride, / The heavens, the heaven, the grave, the burning font. / In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide, // And the bird descended. / On a bread white hill over the cupped farm / And the lakes and floating fields and the river wended / Vales where he prayed to come to the last harm / And the home of prayers and fires, the tale ended. // The dancing perishes / On the white, no longer growing green, and, minstrel dead, / The singing breaks in the snow shoed villages of wishes / That once cut the figures of birds on the deep bread / And over the glazed lakes skated the shapes of fishes // Flying. The rite is shorn / Of nightingale and centaur dead horse. The springs wither / Back. Lines of age sleep on the stones till trumpeting dawn. / Exultation lies down. Time buries the spring weather / That belled and bounded with the fossil and the dew reborn. // For the bird lay bedded / In a choir of wings, as though she slept or died, / And the wings glided wide and he was hymned and wedded, / And through the thighs of the engulfing bride, / The woman breasted and the heaven headed // Bird, he was brought low, / Burning in the bride bed of love, in the whirl- / Pool at the wanting centre, in the folds / Of paradise, in the spun bud of the world. / And she rose with him flowering in her melting snow.