Heritage

Poem By Jaume Subirana

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,
and the air that wraps us round, swept clean
of words like a truce:
the world is full of my things.

Translated by Anna Crowe

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Other poems of SUBIRANA

Bowl

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

My brother dog

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

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,

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

Let it be always September

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