Nowhere, Santa Clara | Yves Olade

Friday, 16 June 2017 19:06
northlands: (red light district)
[personal profile] northlands posting in [community profile] poetry
I crawled out through the hotel window,
and lay slaughtered on the roof, thinking:

Nothing is beautiful here: even the thousand
suns struggle to provoke a light of healing
rather than scorching. I felt the gold cut
through me and cauterise the wound. half-
finished and aching, I was a dangerous thing
—an injured animal still hunting. Birds
flinched from my hands and flowers
withered into kindling. My own blood
refused to run through my fingers. I was
incessant, perpetual—running barefoot
through the woods towards the creaking
heart of my body. Only rain came out to
greet me as it struck the undergrowth
with an open palm. I ran like a bush fire
was chasing. Salt settled into the ground
behind me, and the pulse of the earth
stuttered and was slowing.

About

Warning: contents contain line-breaks.

As language practice, I was translating classical Japanese poetry -- most recently, book 11 (love part 1) of the Kokinshu anthology. This project is, however, on hiatus. Past translations are archived here. Suggestions, corrections, and questions always welcome.

There's also original pomes in the journal archives.

December 2014

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