• Bowl

    Empty, for winter is harsh,
    it searches while it waits
    for grape seeds, the light... more »

  • Fisherman and Son with Landing Net

    First thing in the morning I wade into the river
    all alone. No-one accompanies, awaits me,
    beyond the unfailing current carrying me
    towards another river, another day, to the same
    smell of a cloth for holding trout: ‘Here!'
    The same hands, but they're tiny, tightly
    grip the black handle of the landing net.
    I hear my little spool rewind,
    bend patiently over the water,
    on a flat rock with trees around,
    early evening, silence, mosquitoes,
    I see, rising from the river, my
    father's broad back, pulling in,
    slowly stretching out his arm,
    throwing, pulling in again,
    wearing a cap and big green boots,
    the same boots with which warily
    I test the river's bed, the stones,
    slippery detritus of the years,
    then turn, lift on the line a trout
    that flaps relentlessly, and move
    upstream, letting the hook lodge, till
    I reach, father, the flat rock where
    I'm waiting for you, hand-net ready.

    Translated by Christopher Whyte... more »

  • Heritage

    The green of the wind among the leaves,
    the hour's shadow upon the wall,
    the movement she makes, as she takes off her clothes,... more »

  • Let it be always September

    Let it be always September, and winter
    wait for us in vain.
    Let every downpour,... more »

  • Metempsychosis

    It is night I can see,
    no need for car headlights.
    Among the trees a hundred different greens,
    pile of mute forms
    I try to get my hands on:
    my fingers rain on every leaf,
    I snake along the crowns,
    nurture the roots.
    Of course there are voices, too,
    and I remember a time
    when I was part of this.
    Now I want to write and am
    only a faint soughing through the trees.

    Translated by Christopher Whyte... more »

  • My brother dog

    If death or illness in another
    creature is also our own
    death or illness,
    then this sharp blow, shrill yelp... more »

  • Remains

    I hear it in our embrace.
    Maybe she doesn't yet know. But there are her eyes,
    there are her eyes, so close to mine I can't see them,
    and her other hand, the consenting hand,... more »

  • Through immersion

    I plunged my two hands
    into the fish-tank of days
    and the water slipped away from me
    as though it were an animal,... more »

  • Traffic Signal

    I summon up your memory
    from the dried wine-stain on the marble
    worktop of the kitchen.... more »