Thursday Poem

///
Translating Apollinaire
bpNichol

Icharrus winging up
Simon the Magician      from Judea    high in a tree,
everyone reaching for the sun

                       great towers of stone
built by the Aztecs, tearing their hearts out
to offer them, wet and beating

                        mountains,
cold wind, Macchu Piccu hiding in the sun
unfound for centuries

cars whizzing by, sun
thru trees passing, a dozen
new wave films, flickering
on drivers' glasses

flat on their backs in the grass
a dozen bodies slowly turning brown

sun glares off the pages, "soleil
cou coupé", rolls in my window
flat on my back on the floor
becoming aware of it
for an instant



Nichol's series: Translating Tranlating Apollinair

//