A metaphor for poetry: the poet who lives in seclusion but remains there aware of all that agitates the mundane world, converting it to words is like a spider lying in wait in the center of its web.


Spider. An obscure proceeding. A point. A well
Where my whole horizon, quartered by my hunting,
Is made up of waiting -vibration and watching.
Is this skill an echo causing to dawn and swell
A faint light? Is it music or void? The farthest
Point where boundaries, centre, summit reverse?
A snare to trap myself and the whole universe?
Or else the night that sleeps in the hole of my fist?

Spider weaving my self and thinking out my fate.
Akin to the abyss in which flutters my mind,
Cry that became the keep in which I am confined.
I shall beyond cunning, get back, dispassionate,
To my safe centre where my storms of silence wait.


Aragne. Cheminement obscur. Puits. Point.
Tout mon horizon que ma chasse écartèle
Est attente, vibration -guet- mais est-elle
Echo cette science où se lève et point
Une aube, musique ou néant, atteinte extrême
Où s'abolissent confins, centre, cime,
Piège où je prends l'univers et moi-même?
Ou cette nuit qui dort au creux de mon poing?

Aragne qui me tisse et me pense,
Soeur du gouffre où tourne mon être, cri
Devenu tour où ma limite s'inscrit,
Je rejoins par delà calcul et transe
Mon centre sûr, mon orage de silence.

Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 1378 times
Written on 2007-11-06 at 15:44

Tags Galiana  Individuality  Poetry 

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