A poem whose body was robbed from Pablo Neruda.
There in the heavens Among the roving planets, This ballista Amid the turning Spheres, An arrow That roved Now shoots before my eyes, Green. You are above Our earth’s straight rows —these stars, Constellation clutches-- Only You Are In the heavenly arches, living, The vast hall, the Darkness Like light, the brilliance Of the sky, The echoing Chorus, The sea in the sky, But nothing-- No Mars, No Venus, No sun or moon Before that celestial architecture. And so many Black dots Impelled From the mountain trails, Hollow Filled Proffering your Bright halo, Flashing, Reflecting, Perpetually intersecting, A blackness scored Like stars In the crushed earth, In the collapsing Of The Avalanche Desires, Like a tumbling stone, Wind-chime, a dull, Abraded cone. Silent Within each neighbor King released Of every river; To be White as the sprung rime Of spring antarctic To be corncake Heavy on stalk, once Infolded Cortex striving; In every face This Is the only face That contains every face Out of this Way station From nothing… It is The only but the all sheathe of the corn Amidst the shadowed stones, Its letters and words Black And leaping As if it were still A ship from the horizon, The first Kindly Creature Of the sky: tumbling, Spawning, Creating now The fields of its habitation.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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