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Pastimes : Calling all SI Poets
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To: epicure who wrote (8)3/7/1997 3:09:00 PM
From: Ignacio Mosqueira   of 2095
 
I had not intended to imply research in the clammy shape of
Poe's vultures whose wings are dull realities (and yet how
vultures soar!) but as an emotional map that makes poems into
vibrant landmarks alive and pregnant. Alexa! often it is
a monstrosity to pluck even the desert flower. This is not
to say that a desert bloom is everlasting, rather only to suggest
that to appreciate such flowers one must be attuned to their rythms
and visit the desert hoping for rain, and wait patiently after
it does in the sweet anticipation of what you now deserve to
witness. Now is the time to visit the desert Alexa -- will you
come along?

But it is true that once in a while a poem does come along that
seems written expressly for you, and you sense that bittersweet
tide of one who encounters something beautiful so much an
expression of yourself that you can not help it but be sad that
it was not you who created it. Here is just such a poem in my
own case.

This virgin, beautiful and lively day
Will it tear with a stroke of its drunken wing
The harsh, forgotten lake which haunts 'neath the frost
The transparent glacier of flights unflown!

A swan of past days recalls it is he
Magnificent but without hope who is freed
For not having sung the realm where to dwell
When sterile winter's ennui has shone forth.

All his neck will shake off this white agony
By lightness inflicted on the bird who denies it,
But not the mess of the soil where his plumage is caught

Fantom that to this place his brightness assigns him,
He is stilled in the icy dream of contempt
Which clothes in his useless exile the Swan.

(Stephane Mallarme)
I have taken the perhaps barbarous liberty of changing a
couple of words that I much prefer. Yet I defend my vile actions
by pointing out that my intentions are truthful and I have
only pillaged the words of a translator.
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