One Day we shall have
both hands full of light –
the strophes of night, the moving
waters meeting the banks
again, the rough eyeless
sleep of beasts in the reeds
after the embrace – then
we shall stand against the slope,
outside, against the white
sky which comes cold
over the hill, the cascade of radiance,
and is frozen, ice,
as if fallen from stars.
I want to rest for that
little while upon your brow,
forgetful, letting,
my blood wander silent
through your heart.
That time of lilac-colour
when birds hung in the moving
sky, in the vanishing
light; the sky
stood still,
halted above the barn roof,
silent, drew in the shadows.
Light, falling
with the curve
of the burdock-leaf, the line of light –
Wind, the glassy wing
stirs on the bank.
Come and go and come again,
come and stay, a house,
a house of mist, stands before the forest,
roofs of smoke,
towers of birdcalls,
birch-branches secure the door at evening.
Darkness, whoever lives here
speaks with the bird’s voice.
Lanterns have glided
above the forests.
No breath has moved them.
I found a nice copy of the Larousse Encyclopedia of Astronomy by Lucien Rudaux, circa 1959. Leafing through the pages in search of all the images I usually find so wondrous – ones that show the principle of the pendulum, the procession of the equinoxes, celestial lanterns, planetary abstractions, and solar prominences – I found myself looking more and more at some breathtakingly mysterious photographs (many taken by Rudaux) of moon and star-lit townscapes, shadowy rooftops, and dusky seashores. Was I more interested in wandering through these landscapes, nesting among those darkened lanes, to stare up at the astronomical twilight from an earthly alcove? Most definitely…
{Poems by Johannes Bobrowski and beautifully translated by the Meads, Shadow Lands, New Directions, 1984. Last three poems are excerpts from "Sanctuary," "Shadow Land" and "Winterlight."}
