Poetry is made in bed like love
Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in a forest
She has
the space which she needs
Not this one but the other
She has
all of time ahead of her
The embrace of poetry like the embrace of the
naked body
Protects while it lasts
Against all
access by the misery of the world
André Breton, from Poèmes (1948), trans.
Charles Simic and Michael Benedikt
No comments:
Post a Comment