In observance of Brigit, a poem (actually, part of a poem because this is a very long poem):
Piedra del sol (Sunstone) by Octavio Paz
I want to go on, to go further, and cannot:
as each moment was dropping into another
I dreamt the dreams of dreamless stones,
and there at the end of the years like stones
I heard my blood, singing in its prison,
and the sea sang with a murmur of light,
one by one the walls gave way,
all of the doors were broken down,
and the sun came bursting through my forehead,
it tore apart my closed lids,
cut loose my being from its wrappers,
and pulled me out of myself to wake me
from this animal sleep and its centuries of stone,
and the sun’s magic of mirrors revived
a crystal willow, a poplar of water,
a tall fountain the wind arches over,
a tree deep-rooted yet dancing still,
a course of a river that turns, moves on,
doubles back, and comes full circle,
forever arriving:
New sweater just in time for spring!
[...] It’s Imbolc or Brigid’s Day and Brigid was, among so many other things–saint or goddess, depending on who you ask–a patron of poets. I love poetry so very much! My future sister-in-law just finished a master’s degree in English Lit and for her thesis studied Elizabeth Bishop. So I have been reading Bishop of late. I am tickled that Bishop translated a bunch of Octavio Paz, of whom I am a big fan. In fact, last year at this time I posted an excerpt from his seminal work, “Sunstone.” [...]