153 | it's been a while since I talked about poetry

[straightforwardly]

Today I came across a poem that really struck me (via Contemporary East European Poetry: An Anthology).

“In the cold my voice grew hoarse,
and one day my song
had frozen solid.

I drank hot milk with honey
and recited a single prayer:
for the song to return—if only like
the mooing of cows or the humming of bees.

Then it happened: one night, when all
who tended me were gone,
from the slaughterhouse on the waterfront
cattle broke into the streets.

Thirsty, they mooed the city full. Galloping,
with their hot breaths and bodies
they melted the snow from windows and trees,
from skyscrapers and squares.

I pushed open my window—a scream
thawed my voice. From it, as from a river,
cows were drinking at noon—dipping
their warm udders in my song—

their warm udders in my song.”

— “Song” by Gunars Saliņš, translated by Laris Salinš

It’s not even my favorite that I’ve read in the anthology so far (in fact, the last two lines actually squick me, though I like the rest), but… when I read the first stanza, I just went, oh. I know that feeling. Except, I always thought about it in terms of drought, not cold— my words drying up, disappearing. My being parched and empty.

Maybe I still don’t write as much as I would like to, but it’s much better than those years where I suddenly couldn’t write anything at all. That’s a good reminder to have, I think.