This poem is taken from PN Review 24, Volume 8 Number 4, March - April 1982.
HilltopSkimming brown puddles wreathed with chilly mist,
I grope over ranges and stages and seem to rest
in a city, a bed, a body.
A piece of arm, a sunlit
slice of sycamore,
brightly reflected, dance
between a pair of mirrors.
Yellow wall and shadowed dark of arch,
blue sky and pigeons and Sephardic chants:
looking out the window I remember
why every sunny morning means Morocco.
The first month here is over.
As too transplanted flowers finally root,
so things have found their places.
The earth has turned a little, trees
deepened to aquamarine.
I've seen it. Let me leave
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 284 issues containing over 11,400 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 284 issues containing over 11,400 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?