By Don Paterson
During this textual content Don Paterson has used the paintings of the overdue, nice Spanish poet Antonio Machado (1875-1939) to create a religious portrait which lies someplace among translation and imitation, exhibiting Machado to have a shockingly glossy philosophical bent.
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Extra resources for The Eyes (Faber poetry)
Sample text
Right. I'm out of here. Paradoxes (i) Just as the lover's sky is bluest the poet's muse is his alone; the dead verse and its readership have lives and muses of their own. The poem we think we have made up may still turn out to be our truest. (ii) Only in our sorrows do we live within the heart of consciousness, the lie. ' Poem I want neither glory nor that, in the memory of men, my songs survive; but still ... those subtle worlds, those weightless mother-of-pearl soap-bubbles of mine ... I just love the way they set off, all tarted up in sunburst and scarlet, hover low in the blue sky, quiver, then suddenly pop Poetry In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps one spark of the planet's early fires trapped forever in its net of ice, it's not love's later heat that poetry holds, but the atom of the love that drew it forth from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's - boastful with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins; but if it yields a steadier light, he knows the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.
The rain's slacking off. Umbrella, hat, gaberdine, galoshes ... Right. I'm out of here. Paradoxes (i) Just as the lover's sky is bluest the poet's muse is his alone; the dead verse and its readership have lives and muses of their own. The poem we think we have made up may still turn out to be our truest. (ii) Only in our sorrows do we live within the heart of consciousness, the lie. ' Poem I want neither glory nor that, in the memory of men, my songs survive; but still ... those subtle worlds, those weightless mother-of-pearl soap-bubbles of mine ...
Those subtle worlds, those weightless mother-of-pearl soap-bubbles of mine ... I just love the way they set off, all tarted up in sunburst and scarlet, hover low in the blue sky, quiver, then suddenly pop Poetry In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps one spark of the planet's early fires trapped forever in its net of ice, it's not love's later heat that poetry holds, but the atom of the love that drew it forth from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's - boastful with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins; but if it yields a steadier light, he knows the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.