John Thompson, Ghazal I


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

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