It will be tough to leave the spectacular clouds here. There is supposed to be a thunderstorm tonight but it hasn't started yet. Today I packed the embroidery I brought and never did a single stitch on. It's pretty, what is done. I'm having to leave a lot of poetry books here, but I have some there, also. Of course I tend to like new friends (books) better. Unless you speak of Transtromer, who has been a favorite since 1980 or so. So tonight, one more poem from Tomas, translated from the Swedish by Robin Fulton.
PostludiumI drag like a grapnel over the world's floor--
everything catches that I don't need.
Tired indignation. Glowing resignation.
The executioners fetch stone. God writes in the sand.
The furniture stands in the moonlight, ready to fly.
I walk slowly into myself
through a forest of empty suits of armor.
Tomas Transtromer, from The Great Enigma; new collected poems, translated by Robin Fulton. New Directions, 2006, page 172.
Each line in this poem is strong enough to begin another poem. I am writing them in a notebook and will work on this as a project. Lines two and three are good for two poems apiece, one for each sentence. This is the first time I have wanted to do something like this and I just thought of it while typing this eight-line beauty.
Sleep well and dream of clouds over an autumn landscape. Good night!