Saturday, 28 November 2009

The Flemish poet Erik Spinoy




from a midnight flit – stooping figures of
hunters, hounds come into the field of vision.
On their shoulders lies the endless
hammock of the light. A meagre

take, a fox – only visible to one who is
observant. Only one who truly has eyes
understands. For only with averted face
do they reveal the mask of regret. Where

they have been remains a secret, what’s seen
is inexpressible. But that they know is
plain as a pikestaff. And also, that this
is a retreat, their unforeseen

arrival in a house of
penned-in open sky.

More more translations of poems by Spinoy go to here and here.
For a translation of his long poem about Hölderlin's Susette go to here.

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