Saturday, December 10, 2011

Back to the War

When she left at dawn, no one saw 
The bereaved old woman carrying a knife, 
A loaf of bread and a small straw mat 
On which they found her babbling 

At dusk on a bare knoll 
Overlooking the pockmarked, 
Snow-covered landscape, 
The bread still uncut. 


  1. A beautiful sentence. I held my breath. And then hung in the air... like that knife.

  2. A little mystery with a great mystery wrapped up in it. In the uncut loaf of bread, I think. No words for it, but all your words point in its direction. Beautiful....

  3. Thanks you two--it's no mystery that most of the time the mystery is in how the poet gets written!
    A radically different and much smaller version of this one was written in Greek some years ago and when I came upon it last week, I decided to translate it into English and in the process, it turned into an entirely different poem.


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