For Robert Lowell

This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it’s hard
to tell them from the stars—
planets, that is—the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,
or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it’s still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,
receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair
of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black—and—white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls’ nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose—flecked, head down, tail down,
and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short—eared, to our surprise.
So soft!—a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic,
and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!

  • 0
  • 1
Entrar para comentar...
Jae Rychlewski
más de 4 años



Otras obras de Elizabeth Bishop...

Necesitamos tu ayuda

A diferencia de otros sitios, no hemos exigido pagos para acceder a nuestro contenido – queremos que el acceso a la poesía sea tan abierto como sea posible. Mantener Poéticous requiere de mucho tiempo, dinero y esfuerzo, y el ingreso que obtenemos por la publicidad es casi nada. Es por eso que, cada vez más, necesitamos que nuestros lectores nos financien. Si cada persona que lee nuestras páginas y las aprecia nos ayuda a financiarlas, nuestro futuro sería mucho más seguro. Apoya Poéticous con tan poco como $1.