Chronicles of a PwP
I lasted only as long as spume
the lips of waves spew onto a beach.
Born under no star into moonless gloom,
my very name was but a sputter, a screech.
From the epitaph in Père Lachaise:
Je n’aurai pas duré plus que l’écume
Aux lèvres de la vague sur le sable
Né sous aucune étoile un soir sans lune
Mon nom ne fut qu’un sanglot périssable
***
Rhyme in poetry shows how aleatory meaning is — though there is always a drift to get.
Everything blooming comes to an end
as trees when they sway comprehend.
Trees feel themselves still in breezy air.
We humans never get what barely is there.
Flowers think flower, all creatures, creature.
Clods in a field should be our teacher.
***
Everything blooming
is destined to die.
Who sees it coming
knows what is nigh.
The tree feels still
in the breezy air.
We rarely conceive
who we actually are.
Flowers think flower.
Beasts, beast.
The soil in a field
knows more than we do.
Both after Jean Gebser
Alles Blühen
meint schon den Tod.
Nur die sich mühen,
sind wirklich bedroht.
Still fühlt der Baum
den zitternden Wind.
Wir denken kaum
was wir eigentlich sind.
Blume denkt Blume,
und Tier denkt Tier.
Des Ackers Krume
ist gewisser als wir.
***