the house where i was born - two

summer solstice was acknowledged this morning. a slightly overcast day with a promise of thunderstorms later, summer's arrival really takes effect in this home after the school's close. it is then that we choose what and when we do things and really take stock of our weary bodies and minds.

here is the second section of yves bonnefoy's poem "the house where i was born".
caspar david friedrich monk by the sea

i woke up, it was the house where i was born,
it was night, trees were crowding
on all sides around our door,
i was alone on the doorstep in the cold wind,
no, not alone, for two huge beings
were speaking to each other above me, through me.
one, behind, an old woman, stooped, mean,
the other standing upright outside like a lamp,
beautiful, holding the cup that had been offered her,
drinking greedily to calm her thirst.
did i think to mock her, surely not,
rather i let out a cry of love
but with the strangeness of despair,
and the poison ran throughout my body,
ceres, mocked, broke the one who loved her.
thus speaks the life walled up in life today.

image from "breathtaking group"

another time.
it was still night. water slid
silently on the black ground,
and i knew that my only task would be
to remember, and i laughed,
i bent down, i took from the mud
a pile of branches and leaves,
i lifted up the whole dripping mass
in arms i held close to my heart.
what to do with this wood where
the sound of colour rose from so much absence,
it hardly mattered, i went in haste, looking for
at least some kind of shed, beneath the load
of branches that were full of
rough edges, stabbing pains, points, cries.

and voices that cast shadows on the road,
or called to me, and, my heart beating fast,
i turned around to face the empty road.

yves bonnefoy

you can read part one here.