Saturday, December 08, 2012

what I couldn't write / swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship / and drifted away


Shouting giraffe. Howrah bike path, Howrah. November 2012.

We're off to some long forgotten beach today to test the fellas out with yet another treck around some cliffs. Ezra doesn't know it yet, but I'm preparing him for a couple of decent hikes in January up and down some of Tasmania's finest East Coast National Parks...

Meanwhile, enjoy a poem.

To Friends behind a Frontier, Tomas Transtromer

I
I wrote so meagrely to you. But what I couldn't write
swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship
and drifted away at last through the night sky.

II
The letter is now at the censor's. He lights his lamp.
In the glare my words fly up like monkeys on a grille,
rattle it, become still, and bare their teeth.

III
Read between the lines. We'll meet in 200 years
when the microphones in the hotel's walls are forgotten
and can at last sleep, become trilobites.

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