Words, for one thing. Household words well worn with warmth.

The Art of Poetry

For Vicente Aleixandre

A longing for the sun on flat roofs,
on the gray, pigeon-colored wall of stone
-yet it stands out so clear- and the sudden rush
of cold that comes almost with a shock.

The sweetness, the warmth of lips alone
in the middle of the street, familiar
as a big hall filling with strange people,
come together like our loved ones.

Above everything, time's endlessness,
the deep fissure that opens toward the soul,
while promises drift overhead
and break like surf against the shore.

Isn't it time we started thinking
that just being alive demands something
of us, big things maybe, or perhaps
some simple thing would be enough,

something with an earthy crust
that fingers can shape, with a little faith?
Words, for one thing.
Household words well worn with warmth.


~ Jamie Gil de Biedma (Translated by Timothy Baland. Roots & Wings: Poetry from Spain 1900-1975. Hardie St. Martin, Editor. Harper & Row. 1976. p.439)