afieldnotebook

from Strophes

I

Like a glass whose imprint
leaves a circular crown
on the tablecloth of the ocean
which canít be shouted down,
the sun has gone to another
hemisphere where none
but the fish in the water
are ever left alone.

VI

Only space spots self-interest
in a finger pointing afar,
and light has its swiftness
in an empty atmosphere.
So eyes receive their damage,
from how far one looks.
More than they do from old age
or from reading books.

VIII

The bleaker things are, for some reason.
the simpler. No more do you
crave for an intermission
like a fiery youth.
The light on the boards, in the stage wings,
grows dim. You walk out right
into the leaves' soft clapping,
into the U.S. night.


IX

Life's a freewheeling vendor:
occiput, penis, knee.
And geography blended
with time equals destiny.
Its power is learned of faster
if the stick drives it in.
You bow to the Fatal Sister
who simply loves to spin.

XI

Dearest, there are no unfortunates,
no living and no dead.
All's just a match of consonants,
on crooked legs, instead.
The swineherd exaggerated,
obviously, his role;
his pearl, however unheeded,
will outlast us all.

XIV

These lines are a doomed endeavor
to save something, to trace,
to turn around. But you never
lie in the same bed twice.
Not even if the chambermaid
forgets to change the sheets
this isn't Saturn, you won't
land from its ring on your feet.

XIX

These things will merge together
in the eyes of the crew
peering from their flying saucer
at the motley scene below.
So whatever their mission
is, I suppose it's best
we're apart and their vision
won't be put to the test.

XXIV

Here our perspective ends. A pity
that it's so. What extends
is just the winding plenty
of time, of redundant days;
gallops in blinkers of cities,
etc., to the finish in view;
piling up needless words of which
none is about you.

-Joseph Brodsky, 1978