November 9th, 2006. Poetry Thursday: "to take a snapshot of poetry"
You
9th day of nablopomo
You
In all the world, one man has been born, one man has died.
To insist otherwise is nothing more than statistics, an impossible
extension.
No less impossible than bracketing the smell of rain with your
dream of two nights ago.
That man is Ulysses, Abel, Cain, The first to make constellations
of the stars, to build the first pyramid, the man who contrived
the hexagrams of the Book of Changes, the smith who
engraved runes on the sword of Hengist, Einar Tamberskelver
the archer, Luis de Leon, the bookseller who fathered Samuel
Johnson, Voltair's gardener, Darwin aboard the Beagle, a Jew
in a death chamber, and, in time, you and I.
One man alone has died at Troy, at Metaurus, at Hastings, at
Austerlitz, at Trafalgar, at Gettysburg.
One man alone has died in hospitals, in boats, in painful
solitude, in rooms of habit and of love.
One man alone has looked on the enormity of dawn.
One man alone has felt on his tongue the fresh quenching of
water, the flavor of fruit and of flesh.
I speak of the unique, the single man, he who is always alone.
To insist otherwise is nothing more than statistics, an impossible
extension.
No less impossible than bracketing the smell of rain with your
dream of two nights ago.
That man is Ulysses, Abel, Cain, The first to make constellations
of the stars, to build the first pyramid, the man who contrived
the hexagrams of the Book of Changes, the smith who
engraved runes on the sword of Hengist, Einar Tamberskelver
the archer, Luis de Leon, the bookseller who fathered Samuel
Johnson, Voltair's gardener, Darwin aboard the Beagle, a Jew
in a death chamber, and, in time, you and I.
One man alone has died at Troy, at Metaurus, at Hastings, at
Austerlitz, at Trafalgar, at Gettysburg.
One man alone has died in hospitals, in boats, in painful
solitude, in rooms of habit and of love.
One man alone has looked on the enormity of dawn.
One man alone has felt on his tongue the fresh quenching of
water, the flavor of fruit and of flesh.
I speak of the unique, the single man, he who is always alone.
JORGE LUIS BORGES (1899-1986)
TRANSLATED BY ALASTAIR REID
TRANSLATED BY ALASTAIR REID
10 Comments:
Good job Rel! Wishing you a great day!
This was gorgeous, thank you for posting it!
Rel,
That was a perfect poem and snapshot to go with it. Thanks
I love the photo, but I love, love, LOVE Borges. thanks.
Gosh, Rel, that is one of the most beautiful poems I've ever read! Hope you're having a wonderful day mon ami!
Poetry Thursday, I like that idea!
You always find the best poems.
Lately I have been reading Emily Dickinson...I found some poems by her which I had never seen before...that is always fun,to find new poets or new poems by poets you thought you knew!
This is a wonderful poem Rel. As is happening more and more on Blogger,I couldn't leave a comment yesterday. The picture is lovely as well.
Hi Rel
Great poem. I caught up on your other posts and love the trompe l'oeil! Very clever.
Elections - hmmmm. I won't get on to that! Lol.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed your run in the rain and I also hoped you kept your patient suitably unaware!! Ouch!
Take care, my friend. Hugs
Beautiful, magical poem. Thanks for the reminder.
Fantastic. Just perfect. You lifted my afternoon.
Post a Comment
<< Home