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)
- 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…”
- 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.
- 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
