Now you have burned your books : you’ll go
with nothing but your blind, stupefied heart.
On the hook, big trout lie like stone :
terror, and they fiercely whip their heads, unmoved.
Kitchens, women, and fire : can you
do without these, your blood in your mouth ?
Rough wool, oil-tanned leather, prime northern goose down,
a hard, hard eye.
Think of your house : as you speak, it falls,
fond, foolish man. And your wife.
They call it the thing of things, essence
Of essences : great northern snowy owl ; whiteness.
John Thompson
Texte publié dans le No 35. Encrages et recollages
Excerpt from Stilt Jack (House of Anansi, 1978)
Translated and reproduced with permission from the Estate of John Thompson
