Le altre lingue: Canada (le aree anglofone) – Anne Campbell

Terzo capitolo della rubrica “Le altre lingue” dedicata al Canada anglofono. Il poeta selezionato da Antonio D’Alfonso è Anne Campbell. Buona lettura.


Anne Campbell (3)

Anne Campbell is the author of five collections of poetry, and the forthcoming The Fabric of Day, selected and new work, as well as award winning nonfiction.  With composer, Tom Schudel, her work has been published and performed internationally. A museum worker and library administrator, Anne is a long-time arts advocate.

 

Photograph by DON hall.

 

Time and Being

 

 

Here alone:

there being nothing else to be     I am

here    alone     reading     and reading     negation

 

Heidegger, being German, has    on his own

hit upon

what Buddhists – not to mention farmers in their fields –

call detachment,   that fortunate space one may be given,    not

knowing

answers,      or even questions,

 

that moment             (alone)

 

when warm air strikes your face, that’s the warm air

created by the earth           going round and round

nowhere   but

 

nonetheless   turning     in earnest     turning and asking

 has    someone removed the rail

                                                            I was meant to ride upon?

 

the earth   turning and turning,   until

one thing after another,

                                                       all things wear out,  

once in awhile    seeing an opportunity    the earth

                                                      shifts 

 

just for a moment

and stepping back

 

every  

                                         thing

falls

cells lie quiet

 

all we know is at rest

and in this

 

empty                                                                              

 

(Heidegger calls negation)        all   springs forth

 

*

HOW WE MAY TOUCH

(after A)

 

Emerging high   out of cold

prairie winter, one grand  maple tree;

relieved of snow   this tree umbrellas    one sprawling berry bush.

 

Framing   these precursors of spring,   fiercely pruned,

two  smaller   barren   maple  trees

 

 

More than once (when I pass) in this north (land where we live)

I worry these trees; will the season last enough for them to grow? I worry

pruning,

too much cutting  back of rot,

will make their growing  slow

 

But bit by bit

in early summer, in one moment to the naked eye,

a flush of  green    sudden  leaves    in a breeze    waving

 

this writing now should wrap a scene of leaves

around the tall maple tree,  sprawling berry bush, include   

                              

the two maple trees blossomed late

 

but these smaller  trees    do not reach across the sky;

 

held apart as they are   by the others

 

they do not touch,      but  simply sway

*

GIFT Of Breath

 

I breathe    in

 

breathe

 

in-

hale

 

this  gift

 

beyond

my body

 

 

gracious as ever

 

*

Trees Take Account of the Air

(after St. Peter’s Abbey)

 

  1. Walking early morning across the monastery yard

air  breathing     breeze

ruffling  dark   poplar trees,      already

 

I’ve walked  our country  road,

eaten eggs coddled for  breakfast,

found a monk who’s found a tape recorder,

my new song waiting to be sung,

 

“Light works as an anointing material,

works its way, works its way   into my  body…”

 

 

  1. the day barely begun     but alive I  hear

leaves        almost name

the  feeling    on my face   they are trying

to say:    listen,    you are  happy.  This rustle I take to mean

content.

 

 

  1. Trees do not let you down,     oh their leaves bend,         and

daily      they shake out their grief ,       but

only the rarest tornado can fell one,       pruned  well   they  withstand

even

this;

trees  I  think  of  as   answers,     love

in     solitary  monastery     air.

 

*

The Grass and Me in the Morning

(after St. Michael’s)

 

Walking again, I always start the words

walking,

grass is tall, by the side of the road,      tall

by the side of the road that makes its way up the hill to where Franciscans live

and writers retreat     inside bodies      and     roads

lead everywhere,

 

but back

to the tall green grass     beside me as I walk:

 

do the blades, each, as I do,

think to themselves seeing me beside their prairie nest, on a hill,

does grass think:       does it not

 

make sense  to think

 

we, the grass (speaking for itself) and (me) the woman walking

are in love,

breathing in and out of one another    this morning

a marriage    with the prairie    grass at ease

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