252nd Virtual Poetry Circle

Welcome to the 252nd Virtual Poetry Circle!

Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.

Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s book suggested.

Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.

Also, sign up for the 2014 Dive Into Poetry Reading Challenge because there are several levels of participation for your comfort level.

Today’s poem is from The Eight Stages of Translation by Robert Bly:

Old Winter by Salvatore Quasimodo,
translated by Robert Bly (pg. 76-7)

Desire of your hands I see through
in the darkness around the candle flame:
the had the odor of oak and of roses;
odor of death. Old winter.

The birds were looking for millet seeds
and suddenly they turned to snow;
words are like that:
a glimpse of sun, an instant of an angel,
and then the fog; and the trees
and us turned to air by morning.

Antico Inverno by Salvatore Quasimodo

Desiderio delle tue mani chiare
nella penombra della fiamma:
sapevano di rovere e di rose;
di morte. Antico inverno.

Cercavano il miglio gli uccelli
ed erano subito di neve;
cosi le parole:
un po' di sole, una raggiera d'angelo,
e poi la nebbia; e gli ableri,
e noi fatti d'aria al mattino.

What do you think?