Black Poplars

green height on blue,
scraping, climbing the air.
Each one makes its own ascent,
hair to the wind,
its own prayer.
They emerge from the greenest mass,
articulating themselves,
wilful filaments in air.
Calm, proud,
centred on their crowns,
flickering, almost immaterial.
They tremble with fear,
each leaf, each branch
a silken mane, vertical.
God's legions, poets
of discipline or of exhaustion,
brushstrokes of blue, green jaguars,
Cut-outs of water, virtual reflections,
totems of glass.

1 Comment

1 remolinos

beautiful translation. great the way you create real poetry in english. I’m starting a translation blog of Spanish/Portuguese/English poetry. Check it out at braveangel.wordpress.com. expert advice most welcome!!

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