Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SNOW POEM, by RODOLFO DI BIASIO


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SNOW POEM, by                    
First Line: I am waiting for news, let it come


I

I am waiting for news, let it come
with the melting of the snow
on this even silence

Of the facts: they grizzle in light's brief hour
are burned by an emboldened sun
distanced, scattered by a driftage
and ballasted they fall into black holes
this inner weft of earth
which actually is only earth
catching its breath, our wind

And of myself:
the gestures do not come back to me
words themselves are just barely touched
time closes and traces its circle
sorrowfully
it follows a design of its own, ambiguous,
in which the eye gets lost
rose of light spanning sea and sky
obliterating other voices as well in me
my own your own
that's why I'm waiting for news, a sign,
the spiral of smoke
the quiet noises of the house

II

The wait is linked
to the melting of the snow
in repetition of spring's ritual
it's the edge of life
when earth's colors return
yellow and white
scattered colors the eye discovers
with wonder for us now
that we know perhaps nothing
have no idea

Where the wind carries the clouds
or when the sun cuts skimming the green of oaks
how subtly the earth plots its journey

In the driftage the accumulated years
do not grasp the oracle:
by routine the Sybil
scatters overturned haphazard leaves,
meager signs persist
syllables that do not cure our ills
but only induce us to follow faint traces,
the unwavering path:
and we know not whether, guests or children,
we are destined to last

III

At this point all that remains
is to examine what's already happened:
eyelashes filiform heads?
Incunabula
as soon as the sun ends its course
and the night weds vicissitudes
the persistent weave of distant tremors

And what else still? a paltry dawn slips out
and bright sounds are scattered by light

Memory swells with waters
through a green that breaks up the crests,
shatters at once the whiteness, the snow again,
sprawling to astral dimensions:
life's umbilicus
doubt
whether we are with things
or we walk in search of what we don't know
the graffiti of the days
the quiver, the spurt of blood
that breaks down into dross


Used by permission of Story Line Press.




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