Poemas de Edward James

Poem written on a white pillar in the forest

Now through the forest springs a gale
to waft the wandering and pale
mist of midmorning. This soft kind
does – out of deep mountain gorges – steal,
brining green orgies to the neither blind
nor sleeping leaves, who in the dark can see
and drawning thus the fragrant sap aloft.
So even the most aged branch can feel
the vigor of the spring’s all virile tree
with laughing, laughing rain and drunken wind.

They then, as clouds across the senith sail;
white clouds that do their pristine petals peel;
or, like tall silver-masted ships of hail,
these glass, translucent caracols will reel
under the frozen weight of crystal, shattered soon
by the magnetic influence of the moon.
While, far below, beyond the blue wet pain
rolls yet the drunken wind and gentle rain.
where river waters coil and fall and gleam,
white lilies sigh beside the wriggling stream.

This shell

My house grows like the chamber’d nautilus;
after a strom opens a larger room
from my intenser childhood’s sleeping-place
where curled, my head to chest, I felt the grace
of the first need to grow. My house has wings
and sometimes, in the dead of night, she sings.

The shadows of the pam-leaves on the stone
have with jade evening fingers longer grown –
and now my house, by stroms of sorrow bathed,
without is washed – so that the sinking sun
makes shine her dark, wide roof of words and pearl.
deep house, your heart wants in the dusk to furl!

The deluge comes. The strom, still alter me,
thirsts for my light. It strikes to swallow up
the flame of my identity. This house
is all assuaged and waiting for that sea
whose child I am; nor, thunder, do you case;
but the high windows, drowned, break and drink peace