When your face
appeared over my crumpled life
at first I understood
only the poverty of what I have.
Then its particular light
on woods, on rivers, on the sea,
became my beginning in the coloured world
in which I had not yet had my beginning.
I am so frightened, I am so frightened,
of the unexpected sunrise finishing,
of revelations
and tears and the excitement finishing.
I don't fight it, my love is this fear,
I nourish it who can nourish nothing,
love's slipshod watchman.
Fear hems me in.
I am conscious that these minutes are short
and that the colours in my eyes will vanish
when your face sets.
[For my beloved, Pooty.]
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8 comments:
I like this poem, and I cried (again...) when I read it.
This IS a great one, much worthier of tears than another you cried for, which was merely good.
Ergo said "Oh those Russians! Gotta love them!"
Yes, gotta.
That's the spirit! Right on Tyrel!
Now, would you mind saying why?
Egad, man! Yoinks! Gadzooks! Oh, the passion! I don't think I've ever hated a poem... I've certainly felt strongly indifferent, or even mildly nauseated... but...
Ah, but then again, I've never used as many exclamation points as I have just now. What does that say about me?
gotta love the passion though...
I loved this poem once. The man I was in love with, lay on his back in the woods and recited it to me. Now he is gone and so are the colours. It made me feel less alone to read what Tyrel has written above. Thank you.
I love this. Yevgeny wrote some fab novels, too. But this is my favourite poem.
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