The lines in the hands of old people
gradually curve over and will point soon toward earth.
They take with them their secret language,
cloud-words and wind-letters,
all the signs the heart gathers up in the lean year.
Sorrow bleaches out and turns to face the stars
but memories of horses, women’s feet, children
flow from old people’s faces down to the grass kingdom.
In huge trees we can often see
images of the peace in the sides of animals,
and the wind sketches in the grass, if you are happy,
running children and horses.
translated by Robert Bly
I take it this is about Native American memories. Really interesting.
No, he is a Norwegian poet writing about life there, though it is, of course, similar in the sense that it is about nature.
Way off the mark ! Still the poem is really interesting.
Just by a continent but not by the subject matter.
As you so often do, Rolf says much in few words. Intriguing imagery.
I am enjoying rereading these Bly translations.