![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/02\/pieter_bruegel_d-_c3a4-_106b.jpg\" "\\"Hunters")
<\/a><\/p>\nWISH ON A CRISP
\nWINTER MORNING<\/h3>\n
(Almost a homage to Bruegel)<\/em><\/p>\n A frozen blackbird, male, To Klaus Jensen<\/em><\/p>\n A land of trailers and tracksuits, This much-too-orange moon, Oh, no, this has to be my<\/em> moon alone, To the Howies of Gwyn-Fryn Farm, Llanbedr<\/em><\/p>\n “Ah l’uomo che se ne va sicuro, Perhaps up here, where ice <\/p>\n * (Ah the man who goes forth sure-footed, To Esta<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n And if one day, To Hanne<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n I went out at dawn in search of you, We maundered round in search And then over the railway bridge, These endless rows of corn (Reflections on a pencil I\u2019d like to be ruthless<\/em>.<\/p>\n Should really be merciless!<\/em><\/p>\n (A cheerful waltz)<\/em><\/p>\n I went with my dog to the butcher\u2019s, The sunshine\u2019s now coming to town, Two couples: two ladies, two gents, But to hell with pheasants and hail, Will you walk with me through the cornfields, The very first to travel Copyright \u00a9 2010-2013 Guido Comin – Belluno, Italy. All rights reserved.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n .<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" WISH ON A CRISP WINTER MORNING (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 Christmas present, could be the only perfect day to die. And this, my perished breakfast […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-48","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/48","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=48"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/48\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7638,"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/48\/revisions\/7638"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.poetamatusel.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=48"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nlying in the snow.
\nTo think that it
\ncould easily be me!
\nAnd this, a crisp
\nand sunny winter day,
\ncould be a belated
\nChristmas present,
\ncould be the only
\nperfect day to die.
\nAnd this, my perished
\nbreakfast guest,
\ncould be the only
\nperfect way to die.
\nShall we not wander
\nfurther, friend,
\nlike hunters
\nin the snow?<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nAFTER BENT’S FUNERAL<\/h3>\n
\nof people who don’t give a damn?
\nA land whose beauty is so quiet,
\nthat you love it for being discreet?
\nA land where anything goes \u2013
\nbut never forget to say thanks!
\nBut they do love their kids,
\ncan be just as jealous as us
\nand cry when grand-dad dies.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nAUTUMN COME TOO SOON<\/h3>\n
\ntoo large, too bright, too cheeky,
\nthat mocks my every movement,
\nmy moods, my very madness\u2026
\nThis cannot be the moon of your
\nlong walks on unknown beaches,
\nwithout even a dog, without us both,
\nthe Baltic\u2019s feathers ruffled by the early
\nbreezes of this autumn come too soon.<\/p>\n
\nfor it is coloured just like dying leaves,
\nappropriately enough, because this is
\nthe designated season of farewells,
\nwhen everything that\u2019s natural will die,
\nmaking \u2013 like our scant harvest of love \u2013
\nspace for the hopeful flowers of next year.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nCWM NANTCOL, GWYNEDD<\/h3>\n
\nagli altri ed a se stesso amico…”<\/em>
\n (E. Montale, ‘Ossi di seppia’)<\/em> *<\/p>\n
\nand wind and rain
\nhave cropped the trees,
\nhave carved the very rocks,
\nI’ll find my peace, at last.
\nUp here, with buzzards
\nflying low, to meet me
\nby the wall where rabbits flock,
\nwhere sheep outnumber people,
\nwhere feet tread Roman steps.
\nUp here, perhaps, where
\nwandering I wonder
\nat anagrams of God.
\nPerhaps up here, I could
\n\u2013 in the long run \u2013
\neven find myself.<\/p>\n
\na friend to himself and others\u2026)<\/em><\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nDRY, DON QUIXOTE<\/h3>\n
\nold by now,
\npainting windmills \u2026
\n(hand unsteady)
\nfield of flowers …
\nlucid moments
\ncome to me \u2026
\nif I should think
\nblue eyes,
\nthen dry a tear
\nmay catch me
\nunawares.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nKNUDMOSEN IN NOVEMBER<\/h3>\n
\nWith no romantic notions in my head,
\nArmed with all that makes a man despair:
\nI had it all with me, like precious tools.<\/p>\n
\nOf my perdition, of Heaven, Hell,
\nOr worse, what is the difference?
\nIt\u2019s all the same without that
\nElusive main ingredient that is you.<\/p>\n
\nWhere rubbish became mountains
\nAnd mountains are still calling,
\nMy nimble dog\u2019s feet crackled
\nWhen they trampled over you,
\nmy Frosty Lady.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nFULL MOON OVER THE CORNFIELDS<\/h3>\n
\nline up to greet me, eagerly,
\ngreen soldiers on parade.
\nThey stand all there so proud,
\nso splendidly turned out,
\ntheir golden moonlit feathers
\non their tall hunting hats.
\nA band of willing crickets
\nraucously tries to accompany
\nthis impromptu performance,
\nthis friendly war display.
\nThis night is so magnificent,
\nbut where are you, my Love?<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nHERON BY THE THAMES<\/h3>\n
\ndrawing of a heron) <\/em><\/p>\n
\nlike this grey heron \u2013
\nsilent, discreet
\nand<\/p>\n
\nmore like him \u2013
\nfocussed,
\nprecise
\nand<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nI WENT WITH MY DOG
\nTO THE BUTCHER\u2019S<\/h3>\n
\nbetween hail and howling winds.
\nNo more pheasants at Guido and Hanne\u2019s
\nbut Roxane she plays with a stick.<\/p>\n
\nI look to the east, towards you:
\ntowards you, I must soon forget,
\nto think a bit more about me.<\/p>\n
\nwere Hanne\u2019s and Guido\u2019s guests.
\nThey came more than once every day,
\nand now we won\u2019t see them again.<\/p>\n
\nwho cares about sunshine or wind?
\nForget the whole shit, confounded!
\nI am losing The Only One \u2013 You!!<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nMAGIC BY THE CAMPFIRE<\/h3>\n
\nwhen the sun is just fading away,
\nand the mist is just rising to greet us,
\nand the crickets\u2019 song\u2019s singing of hay?
\nWill you walk with me through the forest,
\nwith your hand in my hand in the darkness,
\ntill we find a mere glimmer of moonlight,
\nand sit still in a clearing of magic,
\nthen lie down by a campfire of love?
\nI\u2019m no slayer of dragons, but could<\/em> be
\nthe best angel to watch over you! <\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nPREPARING FOR
\nA PEACEFUL WINTER<\/h3>\n
\nwere my raucous frogs.
\nThen soon my crickets,
\nalas, also became silent.
\nI think I saw this night
\na lonely, single firefly.
\nThe swallows, hardly
\nany, just the lazier ones.
\nSoon our summer love,
\ntoo, has to migrate, depart,
\nfor winter\u2019s snowy days
\nmust bring more serenity!<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\n