the house where i was born - three

"red boat" jack dickerson

in the same dream
i am lying in the hollow of a boat,
my forehead and eyes against the curved planks
where i can hear the undercurrents
striking the bottom of the boat.
all at once, the prow rises up,
and i think that we’ve come to the estuary,
but i keep my eyes against the wood
that smells of tar and glue.
too vast, too luminous the images
that i have gathered in my sleep.
why rediscover, outside,
the things that words tell me of,
but without convincing me,
i desire a higher or less somber shore.

and yet i give up this ground that stirs
beneath the body waking to itself, i get up,
i go from room to room in the house,
they are endless now,
i can hear the cries of voices behind doors,
i am seized by these sorrows that knock
against the ruined casings, i hurry on,
the lingering night is too heavy for me,
frightened, i go into a room cluttered with desks,
look, i’m told, this was your classroom,
see on the walls the first images you looked at,
look, the tree, look, there, the yelping dog,
and the geography map on the yellow wall,
this fading of names and forms,
this effacing of mountains and rivers
by the whiteness that freezes language.
look, this was your only book. the isis of the plaster
on the wall of this room, which is pealing away,
never had, nor ever will have anything other
to open for you, to close on you.

"train in the snow" monet

i woke up, but I was travelling,
the train had rolled throughout the night,
it was now going toward huge clouds
that were standing, packed together, down there,
dawn rent from time to time by forks of lightning.
i watched the advent of the world
in the bushes of the embankment; and all at once
that other fire below a field
of stones and vines. the wind, the rain
blew its smoke back against the ground,
but a red flame flared up,
taking by the handful the base of the sky.
how long were you burning, wine grower’s fire,
who wanted you there, and for whom on this earth?


"the travelling companions" augustus egg

and then it was day; and the sun
cast its thousand shafts of light
on the lace that covered the blue woolen cushions
in the compartment where people slept,
their heads still nodding. i did not sleep,
i was still at the age when one is full of hope,
i dedicated my words to the low mountains
that i could see coming through the windows.
yves bonnefoy

you might like to read: "the house where i was born part two" and "the house where i was born part one".