Yves Bonnefoy: French Poet
I have been reading these poems for a while, tasting them slowly, going back to them as if they would change in the context of a changed season. It is a lovely thing to read of the quiet of snow, its white blanketing, during a summer so hot and dry just lived through. It is like a yen and yang thing, to approach the snowy tundra in imagination while it is parched outside and we are on drought rations of water for the gardens.
Here is one small sample of Yves Bonnefoy's poetry.
THE GARDEN
It is snowing Beneath the flakes the door Opens finally onto the garden that is more than the world. * I walk on. But my scarf Catches on a rusted Fence, and the fabric of dreams tears within me. * * * * * What are you reading right now? What would you like to read? Is it poetry, fiction, fact, or is it just photos you are reading over and over, imagining? Is it that you are creating your own text, your own world, writing a book, or drawing a new style, or inventing a new berry jam? Or reading the woods as you hike, ride, talk to the owls who come at night hooting as if, this late in the evening, you believe yourself and their calling soulful voices are the only two listening souls awake. Today, the crows off in the tall trees made such a fuss, they were meeting in a loud self proclamation of We Exist, screeching at something. It sounded like they were ordering take out at a broken drive thru mike... or they were fussing vociferously about the problem with global warming, did or did they not need to fly south and at what point? They might think it is still July 30 for all the heat and sunlight flashing up into their feathered eyes. Who knows. But for now, in those same trees is a spirit of peace and sun that can't yet filter through the thick swell of leaf. In Mansuetude, this is my Tumbleword. Read the world as majesty, as grace, as promise of bounty. In Peace.
