The Ten Poems Of Solitude II

Poem By Hugues C. Pernath

As a relative, I have hope in common with no one
With no one the choice of love
With which I live alone, with which I stagger
Moving but subdued by the boundless landscape
In which death gleans the corn
All we're left with is time and not fleeing
And all that moves on the earth,
All we're left with is the last journey of two weary people
Taking their leave of the womb at term.

Forever,
As everyone saw it, as everyone heard it
And as will happen to everyone
Depending on the distance from the distance, the glow
Through the shadow play of my shadow.
As a relative I turn to stone with the scent of the woman
And the convulsion of the beetles on the deadly moss.

While truth engenders horror,
Becomes a wild cloud, and worms arbitrarily
Gnaw through the first beam in our house,
I come to you and finger your clothes
I kiss you, bent over, crouching, torn in two.
Again we grow older and smaller
And more reckless in the steady rain,
In which we wear mourning for the many past bonds
Onward through the lowlands of depression.

Translation Paul Vincent

Comments about The Ten Poems Of Solitude II

Very thoughtful and revealing of the psychology of man-woman relationships which turn out to be turbulent and painful. the poem probes the subject and makes an in-depth study in a unique way. I turn to stone with the scent of the woman ....mourning for the many past bonds.... through...depression.


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Other poems of PERNATH

I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me

I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me,
No body will ever be able to feel mine
No other ear my confusion, my unease
In the speechless torment of language.

I no longer belong but control the trembling

I no longer belong but control the trembling
Ablaze and senile, sleepless in the past
In the things that have happened, the things
Of the days, I conjugate the pledges of pain

I dwelt in the corridors of come and go

I dwelt in the corridors of come and go
In the boundless dismay of tacky colours
Nothing's still true, no sun splits open.
No son will ever speak in this handful of life

In the loveless landscape of my solitude

In the loveless landscape of my solitude
No movement prevails that calms me, no rest
That consoles or dispatches me like a firstborn.
Proudly my blood translates the signs,

As a relative, I have hope in common with no one

As a relative, I have hope in common with no one
With no one the choice of love
With which I live alone, with which I stagger
Moving but subdued by the boundless landscape

In my strange sorrow I suspect petrifaction

In my strange sorrow I suspect petrifaction
Of many lives, sometimes the foulness of the source
The lily or the shady foliage.
Sometimes I suspect the trembling of your hands