My deep gratitude to life, to poetry, welcome the new year in with thanks and hope

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Poetry                         by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

 

photo Rose Cook

Thanks to summer

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Holiday Tuesday

 

 

Thanks for this day, which woke with sun

and rabbits in the field,

thanks for sleep and toast, surf spray, sandy towels,

children running to the sea light-footed,

my family playing in the waves,

all the people loving a wide beach,

the space, warm air,

our baby asleep in the shade.

Thanks for her hand, clenched,

for apples, pitta bread, juicy tomatoes.

Thanks for stones and shells, rock-pools,

blue umbrellas, buckets, joy.

The sand martins fly into their holes,

a plane tugs a banner along the sky.

It should say: Thanks for it all. Thanks.

 

poem and photo Rose Cook