unmarked, then silence

10:17 PM Posted by James Owens

not to take the curve of things

11:59 PM Posted by James Owens



Être mort

Quel effort pour ne pas prendre la courbe des choses
Pour ne pas épouser la forme de son ombre

L’angoisse sue aux portes de la nuit
Le vent charrie des oiseaux taciturnes
Mêlés de rires
Et l’eau se berce aux bras de ses noyés

Quel effort pour ne pas
Prendre la courbe du temps

Quand l’astre dit minuit
Et l’horloge est silence
Et l’heure est prisonnière
De son déroulement

Libre captée
Visage d’agonie
Visage spolié

Quel effort pour ne pas être mort


André Brochu












Being dead

Such effort not to take the curve of things
Not to marry the shape of one’s shadow

Anguish sweats at the doors of night
Wind carries away taciturn birds
Mixed with laughter
And the water rocks itself in the arms of its victims

Such effort not
To take the curve of time

When the star says midnight
And the clock is silence
And the hour is prisoner
Of its own unrolling

Freed captive
Face of agony
Stripped face

Such effort not to be dead

.

11:37 AM Posted by James Owens




MERRY CHRISTMAS!

the sweet silence of now

9:34 PM Posted by James Owens




A review of Anthony Abbott's
New & Selected Poems, 1989 - 2009,
in The Pedestal Magazine








The Man Who Feels The Sleeves Of The Snow

On the day after the snow
he takes his usual walk.
The trees
reach out to him.
Their silver sleeves
have no history
no memory of grief.
Their long white fingers know only
the sweet silence
of now.

--Anthony Abbott

.

12:41 PM Posted by James Owens

naiad dreams in winter

--these are for the water girls--
































Sunday afternoon

2:31 PM Posted by James Owens

Two pictures today, to celebrate the end of the series.

walkway in the local park




lily pads and ice



train station window, snow

12:00 PM Posted by James Owens


silly but harmless

3:50 PM Posted by James Owens

Par exemple

--pour R

On écrit. La machine-à-l’art s’engage---
Le marteau de la rime,
Descendant du sublime
Avec les coups
D’un son qui réverbère,
Tape les bouts de vers
Comme des clous
Qui fixent la poésie sur la page.

.

cloudy afternoon

12:52 PM Posted by James Owens


dock, ice

1:00 PM Posted by James Owens

already here and there in the meadows

11:09 PM Posted by James Owens

A translation from Rilke's French, Autumn's Hammer,
in Language and Culture

.

sunny but cold

1:22 PM Posted by James Owens


blue house, -4 C, wind

1:19 PM Posted by James Owens


tracks at noon

3:14 PM Posted by James Owens


Today is Monday. I am going to walk through my neighborhood every day this week and take a picture. This is the world.
.

10:51 PM Posted by James Owens




Far

so hard now
not to be scattered
among the shadows

and the memory of voices
a light
that calls him back
or a light
that calls him away

broken the air broken into snow
or weeping now and
hands heavy with broken

sunlight like

hands full of shards

.