Candles, stars and a stack of cards

"Poetry with Blues" har vispat ny grädde efter surmjölksvecka och midsommarfirande. Måndagsklubben har bakat en tårta, garnerad med tjusiga rim.

For K.R. on her sixtieth birthday, by Richard Wilbur (f. 1921)

Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark,
Who round with grace this dusky arc
Of the grand tour which souls must take.

You who have sounded William Blake,
And the still pool, to Plato’s mark,
Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark.

Yet, for your friend’s benighted sake,
Detain your upward-flying spark;
Get us that wish, though like the lark
You whet your wings till dawn shall break:
Blow out the candles of your cake.

***

Från tårtans ljus går färden mot Vintergatan. Vår pilot är svenskättlingen May Swenson (1913-1989).

 Fire Island, by May Swenson
(First published in Poetry Magazine, november 1969.)

The Milky Way above, 
the milky waves beside, 
when the sand is night

the sea is galaxy. 
The unseparate stars 
mark a twining coast

with phosphorescent surf 
in the black sky's trough. 
Perhaps we walk on black

star ash, and watch 
the milks of light 
foam forward, swish and spill

while other watchers, out 
walking in their white, 
great swerve, gather

our low spark, 
our little Way the dark 
glitter in their sight.

***

Tom Clark, f. 1941, fördelar orden i kvällens sista giv. En tankeväckande dikt om livets prövningar. Dikten publicerades först i Paris Review 1981, ett magasin som Tom Clark var lyrikredaktör för 1963-73.

Crisis on the Savannah, by Tom Clark
(First publised in Paris Review 1981.)

“I must complain the cards are
ill-shuffled till I have a
good hand.”        —Jonathan Swift

“Believing something will happen 
        Because I don’t want it to 
And that some other thing won’t 
        Because I do—” I wailed to the dealer— 
“This is desperation.” “Yeah?” he said. But then by 
        Your graceful lines, your lioness’ mane, 
Your heat as you returned from 
        Your day in the jungle, you relieved me from 
What in myself was desperate, 
        What even now insists on wishing 
And believing. Still in the sheen of finely-breathing 
        Blond hair that covers you, 
By the flashing way you move from tree 
        To tree, and from room to room, 
Making it a bright full house, 
        I find at least the light to see the cards I am dealt.