Dearest love, tell them
that I, a crazed poet all his days
who made woman
his ceaseless study and delight,
begged but one boon
in this world of mournful beasts
that are almost human:
to live praising your marvellous eys
mischief could make glisten
like winter pools at night
or appetite put a fine finish on.
Irving Layton, “For Musia’s Grandchildren,” The New Oxford Book of Canadian Verse in English, chosen by Margaret Atwood (Oxford University Press, 1982)
Talvolta, anche se di rado, si ha la fortuna di accorgersi che nella nostra vita è subentrato un cambiamento, si abbandona la via vecchia, s'imbocca la nuova e si prosegue dritti per la nuova rotta.
Mi accadde una cosa simile a Le Mourillon, quel giorno d'estate in cui i miei occhi si aprirono sul mare.
It’s like in your chest there’s a magnet, a magnet not for metal but for a substance not available on this planet. So that it is constantly pulling […] at something it will never draw close. Must be where they got the expression aching for something. Because it is a kind of ache. To want something and want something and. After a while you begin to feel intimate with the missing part.
Aleida Rodríguez, from “Exile,” Garden of Exile: Poems (Sarabande Books, 1999)