Five poems by one of Malta’s most respected writers and a founding member of PEN Malta and its current president, who lectures in literary theory and Maltese literature at the University of Malta, translated by Ruth Ward
Kelly Against The Machine
Today I saved a flower,
I saved an ancient tree,
I saved this entire field,
I saved part of the world.
Raindrops and strong winds
strumming my ears;
in the morning’s lull
the flocking of birds.
I stood tall
to stop the machine —
pulled it up short
in the middle of a street.
I stood looking at it,
and it stood looking too,
until, staring it down, I was convinced
I had robbed it of its will.
Today I saved a flower,
I saved an ancient tree,
I saved this entire field,
I saved part of the world.
Tomorrow it shall dawn again
and I shall still be standing
to save the world,
to save myself.
Nights
1.
There are nights that come but never go;
nights of seven moons but no dawn;
nights whose silence will drive you to tears.
2.
While you collect the years in a bundle
and watch yourself gaining weight,
hair whitening
and toes losing shape,
you insist on turning off the lights before we undress.
We peel off our clothes like a
costume change between scenes,
like two children getting ready for bed.
We recall other stories, never mind
they never happened … we only think that they did.
3.
You wish to forget the light outdoors.
You wish to believe only in darkness.
Have darkness, then, display
quaint forms that might look charming,
that is, until you catch sight of all that was
before you shuttered the windows, curtains drawn.
Darkness is one big lie. Standing there
smiling, murmuring in your ear,
asking you to believe in it blindly.
4.
There’s not much from here to the other side.
The moist exhale of leaves won’t have evaporated by then.
For you a long, long night approaches
which, unwantingly, you’ll spend wide awake,
your eyes poring over the dark.
There’s not much from here to the other side.
The mist won’t have vanished from over the meadows.
Already there are silent drums beating for you
and hollow steps approaching,
escorting you wordlessly to the other side.
The First Poem Of The Year
This could be the last.
The last walk towards the last city.
The last sleep on the street.
This could be the last northeasterly windy day;
or rather the very last gust.
This could be the last full moon that won’t let you sleep.
Take a picture; the last picture.
The last morsel of bread.
The last bite of apple.
The last naked flesh —
Before you,
Exposed
To hungry eyes
And hand grab.
They are already approaching, those women who mill around boats.
Their voices already heard —
Tireless waves that enfold me.
The last row.
The last rainfall.
The last shiny pill
Next to a glass of water
On the bedside table.
The last intravenous needle.
The last window. The last glance.
This will be the last.
Tell them to climb
The highest steeple,
Or tower,
Or apartment block.
Tell them to wait … maybe
Some wind will blow from some direction
That lets me fall in a way
That my dust falls with me;
In squares, curbs, and
Crossroads.
So that my dust mingles with asphalt,
Is swept away by rain through gratings and manholes.
Is stuck to car wheels,
Splattered on walls
And across shop windows.
Remember:
This will be the last.
And perhaps, if not probably,
You will shed the first tear
And then I
Will laugh for the first time.
Mornings
You woke up thinking you were skirted by trees,
that you’d fallen asleep atop a mound of leaves
or stretched out along some riverbank to rest.
You were thinking after all these years you’d found your place.
You woke up … to find yourself flanked by nothing:
couched only in what has been from the very start.
For A Friend
Do you remember me? Sitting, waiting for you?
My face the clock always smiling at you:
mine a face of never changing numbers;
yours a countenance of constant churn.
Much as I churn, my dear,
each time I look at you like a child
who scurries up ladders and slides down snakes.
Or each time I gaze at you like an old man
who yearns, yearns but can not.
More from The Byword
Comments
*Comments will be moderated