Poetry |

“Like A Flower in the Far Meadow,” “Not In Noah’s Flood” and “Where Are You?”

Like a Flower in the Far Meadow

(After Catullus, C11)

 

My love, you who would travel with me

to India, to the end of the world,

where the eastern waves rush to the shore

with adeep murmur;

or set out for Persia, for the far east,

to Delian, Samarkand, all the way to China,

or where the seven-mouthed Nile

colours the waves

and, in an instant, climb the high Alps to look

at Europe’s mighty monuments, the wide-

flowing Rhine, the Spaniards, the far away islands

beyond the cold seas –

wherever the Heavens would have me –

To you, who are fond of journeying

but don’t give a damn about me, I say these

harsh words:

Go there with others, flourish in your adultery!

Take on a legion if five don’t suffice,

drain them out all at once or one after another,

breaking their loins again and again;

but do not look for my love,

cut down by your faults like a flower,

which in the farthest of meadows

was shorn by a plough.

 

*     *     *     *     * 

 

Not in Noah’s Flood

 

They say, we write to remember and we read

to forget. Ignorant of either impulse, I wished I could

write to grow up, especially the letter Y.

I’d been practicing Y since I first saw it printed

 

on the covers of American picture books

arriving in U.N.R.A. parcels, safely tucked away

up in the attic. Y never failed to impress me,

looking both like girls’ legs pressed together

and the forked sprigs we broke off from the alder

trees to place our fishing rods onto when we were

going after the dace; and in my dizzier moments,

like the throats, slit open by broken bottlenecks,

 

of long coated dark men in cheery hats, who,

a few pages on, turned into corpses, floating in

booze or drowning in some other disastrous liquid,

but not, for all I could see, in Noah’s flood.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Where Are You?

 

I am sitting in the doorway

under the light; the grass is darkening,

the stream below the house

sounds clearer. I’ve been waiting

for I don’t know what, for you

to call me, for weeks. And now—

not in the house, here outside,

from over the hill, from the stream,

from the wind through the branches,

your voice sounds, soft and clear—

Where are you, what are you doing?

Moths are settling on my head.

They are drawn to what’s in there

and want to get to you.

 

Contributor
Marjan Strojan

Marjan Strojan (1949) was brought up on a small farm in Slovenia. He studied philosophy and comparative literature and worked as a baggage carrier and load-sheet-man at the local airport, a film critic in Ljubljana, and as a journalist in London. He has published eight volumes of poetry and many translations, including of Beowulf, Milton’s “Paradise Lost” and Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales.” He also edited and partly translated a Slovenian Anthology of English Poetry from Beowulf to Lavinia Greenlaw. His recent books include William Shakespeare, Songs from Plays (Pesmi iz iger, 2016), and Hills, Clouds, Greetings (Hribi, oblaki, lepe pozdrave, 2019). Strojan’s only American collection is Dells and Hollows, Autumn Hill, 2016.

 

Contributor
Sydney Lea

Sydney LeaPoet Laureate of Vermont from 2011-2015 and a former Pulitzer finalist, founded and for 13 years edited New England Review. His twentieth book, and his thirteenth collection of poems, Here, was published by Four Way Books in 2019.

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