Слободкина Ольга
How could I love again, ever?
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© Copyright
Слободкина Ольга
(
olga_slobodkina@mail.ru
)
Размещен: 09/01/2007, изменен: 28/01/2024. 8k.
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HOW COULD I LOVE AGAIN
,
EVER?
"So we were together
though I did not think of you
for ten years;
it is more than ten years
and the long time after;
I was with you in Calipso's cave?"
"how could I love again, ever?
repetition, repetition, Achilles, Paris, Menelaus?
but you are right, you are right,
there is something left over,
the first unsatisfied desire -
the first time, that first kiss,
the rough stones of a wall,
the fragrance of honey-flowers, the bees,
and how I would have fallen but for a voice..."
H.D.
from
"Winter Love"
Sweet Mother of God!
Please, show me the face of the child
who is due to the world.
Oh, no, no... It's too premature.
I don't want to see him before the time,
even before he is conceived.
He must be too wonderful, too gorgeous,
too divine.
Dear sweet Mother of God!
Please, forgive me for what I've done to my feelings
and therefore - all the atrocities of my mind,
which caused so much disaster.
How can I pay for it?
Love, how could I love again, ever?
You mustn't laugh at love.
It's too serious.
Even more so when you're forty eight.
And even more so when you're sixty.
Oh, that man who is over sixty now,
who I had to reject... for he was not my man,
has never been.
He'd loved me for over seventeen years
and only came clean at sixty.
What could I do? He's never been my man,
although a real one and a good one.
Maybe that's why he's always lingered.
I know he's loved me all that time.
You mustn't laugh at love.
I was disgusting, obnoxious
being ironic about love,
about men.
Back then I thought
I was so close to God
that I could afford
to look down at men,
at all the people,
to destroy them, insects,
in the pride of my mind.
That was when the Devil
was my Father, not the God.
What can I do?
I realize it only now,
only now
that I'm in love.
But not with that man
who is over sixty now.
With another one...
A young one,
a gorgeous one...
How could I love again, ever?
Repetition, repetition, Achilles, Paris, Menelaus.
You're right, you're right.
Yes, there is something left over -
the first unsatisfied desire -
the first time, the first kiss.
The smell of the church,
the smell of white wash,
the fragrance of inscence,
of honey candles,
the Mother of God blessing my love,
showing me perfect boys.
Three of them
could be like my son.
But no, he's even more perfect.
Please, don't show me his face.
It's too premature.
This virus of love
has always lived inside me,
in my blood,
although I made a huge effort
to purify my spirit.
But men who can always smell real women,
infected with the virus of love,
women who had had Ewich Weiblich
installed in them
even before
they were conceived for the current incarnation...
These men will show you
they know.
How could I love again, ever?
There is something left over,
the first unsatisfied desire -
the first time, that first kiss...
I've been tortured severely.
What am I - a wife? A lover?
Then the Mother of God
dispersed all my trepidations and I realized -
I'm neither.
I am LOVE.
"So we were together
though I did not think of you
for ten years;
it is more than ten years
and the long time after;
I was with you in Calipso's cave?
no, no - I had never heard of her,
but I remember the curve of the honey flower
on an old wall, I recall
the honey flower as I saw it
or seemed to see it
for the first time,
its horn was longer,
whiter -
what do I mean?
"bite clear the stem
and suck the honey out,"
a child companion or old grandam
taught me to suck honey
from the honey flower;
what is Calipso's cave?
that is your grotto, your adventure;
how could I love again, ever?
repetition, repetition, Achilles, Paris, Menelaus?
but you are right, you are right,
there is something left over,
the first unsatisfied desire -
the first time, that first kiss,
the rough stones of a wall,
the fragrance of honey-flowers, the bees,
and how I would have fallen but for a voice..."
H.D.
from
"Winter Love"
_____________________________________________________________________________
* H.D. (born Hilda Doolittle) 1886-1961. American poet and novelist. Born in
Pensilvania; later lived in London (where she was associated with Pound and the
Imagists and briefly married to Richard Aldington) and in Switzerland. Her many
volumes of poetry include:
Collected poems 1912-1944,
Carcanet Press, 1984;
Helen in Egypt,
New Directions, 1961;
Hermetic Definition,
New
Directions, 1972.
the winter of 2007
© Copyright
Слободкина Ольга
(
olga_slobodkina@mail.ru
)
Обновлено: 28/01/2024. 8k.
Статистика.
Стихотворение
:
Поэзия
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