Jorge Luis Borges
That One
Oh days devoted to the useless burden Of putting out of mind the biography Of a minor poet of the Southem Hemisphere, To whom the fates or perhaps the stars have given A body
Instants
If I could live again my life, In the next – I’ll try, – to make more mistakes, I won’t try to be so perfect, I’ll be more relaxed, I’ll be more full –
Susana Soca
With lingering love she gazed at the dispersed Colors of dusk. It pleased her utterly To lose herself in the complex melody Or in the cunous life to be found in verse. Lt was
Limits
Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset, There must be one (which, I am not sure) That I by now have walked for the last time Without guessing it, the pawn
History Of The Night
Throughout the course of the generations Men constructed the night. At first she was blindness; Thorns raking bare feet, Fear of wolves. We shall never know who forged the word For the interval of
The Art Of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water And remember Time is another river. To know we stray like a river And our faces vanish like water. To feel that waking is
We are the time. We are the famous
We are the time. We are the famous Metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure. We are the water, not the hard diamond, The one that is lost, not the one that stands still. We are
Remorse For Any Death
Free of memory and of hope, Limitless, abstract, almost future, The dead man is not a dead man: he is death. Like the God of the mystics, Of Whom anything that could be said
The Other Tiger
A tiger comes to mind. The twilight here Exalts the vast and busy Library And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom; Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek It wanders through its forest and its
To A Cat
Mirrors are not more silent Nor the creeping dawn more secretive; In the moonlight, you are that panther We catch sight of from afar. By the inexplicable workings of a divine law, We look
Browning Decides To Be A Poet
in these red labyrinths of London I find that I have chosen The strangest of all callings, Save that, in its way, any calling is strange. Like the alchemist Who sought the philosopher’s stone
Elegy
Oh destiny of Borges To have sailed across the diverse seas of the world Or across that single and solitary sea of diverse Names, To have been a part of Edinburgh, of Zurich, of
Adam Cast Forth
Was there a Garden or was the Garden a dream? Amid the fleeting light, I have slowed myself and queried, Almost for consolation, if the bygone period Over which this Adam, wretched now, once
Shinto
When sorrow lays us low For a second we are saved By humble windfalls Of the mindfulness or memory: The taste of a fruit, the taste of water, That face given back to us