Translated by Len Krisak (February 2014)
Once, long ago, they called her old. But she
lived on, and down the same street, every day,
she came, until they had to change the way
they told her age, counting each century,
as if she were a forest. Still, she stood
there every night like some black citadel—
an ancient, rooted, burnt-out, towering shell
that never moved and never would.
Wild words, left unattended to, took flight;
flocks, multiplied inside, against her will.
Words circled her—eternally-screaming crows—
while those already back, now roosting, still,
darkened under the arches of her brows,
and waited, ready for the night.
_____________________
Len Krisak has published in The London Magazine, The Oxonian Review, PN Review, Standpoint, Agni, The Antioch Review, The Sewanee Review, The Hudson Review, The Dark Horse, Agenda, The Hopkins Review, Commonweal, Literary Imagination, The Oxford Book of Poems on Classical Mythology, and others. His latest book is Virgil’s Eclogues, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010. Forthcoming: The Carmina of Catullus, Carcanet Press, 2015, Afterimage, Measure Press, 2014, Rilke: New Poems, Boydell & Brewer, 2015 and Ovid: The Amores and The Ars Amatoria, University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014.
To comment on this poem, please click here.
To help New English Review continue to publish original translations of classic poetry such as this, please click here.
If you have enjoyed this poem and want to read more by Len Krisak, please click here.
- Like
- Digg
- Del
- Tumblr
- VKontakte
- Buffer
- Love This
- Odnoklassniki
- Meneame
- Blogger
- Amazon
- Yahoo Mail
- Gmail
- AOL
- Newsvine
- HackerNews
- Evernote
- MySpace
- Mail.ru
- Viadeo
- Line
- Comments
- Yummly
- SMS
- Viber
- Telegram
- Subscribe
- Skype
- Facebook Messenger
- Kakao
- LiveJournal
- Yammer
- Edgar
- Fintel
- Mix
- Instapaper
- Copy Link