WISH ON A CRISP
(Almost a homage to Bruegel)
A frozen blackbird, male,
lying in the snow.
To think that it
could easily be me!
And this, a crisp
and sunny winter day,
could be a belated
could be the only
perfect day to die.
And this, my perished
could be the only
perfect way to die.
Shall we not wander
in the snow?
AFTER BENT’S FUNERAL
To Klaus Jensen
A land of trailers and tracksuits,
of people who don’t give a damn?
A land whose beauty is so quiet,
that you love it for being discreet?
A land where anything goes –
but never forget to say thanks!
But they do love their kids,
can be just as jealous as us
and cry when grand-dad dies.
AUTUMN COME TOO SOON
This much-too-orange moon,
too large, too bright, too cheeky,
that mocks my every movement,
my moods, my very madness…
This cannot be the moon of your
long walks on unknown beaches,
without even a dog, without us both,
the Baltic’s feathers ruffled by the early
breezes of this autumn come too soon.
Oh, no, this has to be my moon alone,
for it is coloured just like dying leaves,
appropriately enough, because this is
the designated season of farewells,
when everything that’s natural will die,
making – like our scant harvest of love –
space for the hopeful flowers of next year.
CWM NANTCOL, GWYNEDD
To the Howies of Gwyn-Fryn Farm, Llanbedr
“Ah l’uomo che se ne va sicuro,
agli altri ed a se stesso amico…”
(E. Montale, ‘Ossi di seppia’) *
Perhaps up here, where ice
and wind and rain
have cropped the trees,
have carved the very rocks,
I’ll find my peace, at last.
Up here, with buzzards
flying low, to meet me
by the wall where rabbits flock,
where sheep outnumber people,
where feet tread Roman steps.
Up here, perhaps, where
wandering I wonder
at anagrams of God.
Perhaps up here, I could
– in the long run –
even find myself.
* (Ah the man who goes forth sure-footed,
a friend to himself and others…)
DRY, DON QUIXOTE
And if one day,
old by now,
painting windmills …
field of flowers …
come to me …
if I should think
then dry a tear
may catch me
KNUDMOSEN IN NOVEMBER
I went out at dawn in search of you,
With no romantic notions in my head,
Armed with all that makes a man despair:
I had it all with me, like precious tools.
We maundered round in search
Of my perdition, of Heaven, Hell,
Or worse, what is the difference?
It’s all the same without that
Elusive main ingredient that is you.
And then over the railway bridge,
Where rubbish became mountains
And mountains are still calling,
My nimble dog’s feet crackled
When they trampled over you,
my Frosty Lady.
FULL MOON OVER THE CORNFIELDS
These endless rows of corn
line up to greet me, eagerly,
green soldiers on parade.
They stand all there so proud,
so splendidly turned out,
their golden moonlit feathers
on their tall hunting hats.
A band of willing crickets
raucously tries to accompany
this impromptu performance,
this friendly war display.
This night is so magnificent,
but where are you, my Love?
HERON BY THE THAMES
(Reflections on a pencil
drawing of a heron)
I’d like to be
like this grey heron –
Should really be
more like him –
I WENT WITH MY DOG
TO THE BUTCHER’S
(A cheerful waltz)
I went with my dog to the butcher’s,
between hail and howling winds.
No more pheasants at Guido and Hanne’s
but Roxane she plays with a stick.
The sunshine’s now coming to town,
I look to the east, towards you:
towards you, I must soon forget,
to think a bit more about me.
Two couples: two ladies, two gents,
were Hanne’s and Guido’s guests.
They came more than once every day,
and now we won’t see them again.
But to hell with pheasants and hail,
who cares about sunshine or wind?
Forget the whole shit, confounded!
I am losing The Only One – You!!
MAGIC BY THE CAMPFIRE
Will you walk with me through the cornfields,
when the sun is just fading away,
and the mist is just rising to greet us,
and the crickets’ song’s singing of hay?
Will you walk with me through the forest,
with your hand in my hand in the darkness,
till we find a mere glimmer of moonlight,
and sit still in a clearing of magic,
then lie down by a campfire of love?
I’m no slayer of dragons, but could be
the best angel to watch over you!
A PEACEFUL WINTER
The very first to travel
were my raucous frogs.
Then soon my crickets,
alas, also became silent.
I think I saw this night
a lonely, single firefly.
The swallows, hardly
any, just the lazier ones.
Soon our summer love,
too, has to migrate, depart,
for winter’s snowy days
must bring more serenity!
Copyright © 2010-2013 Guido Comin – Belluno, Italy. All rights reserved.