Charles Wright — The Vale of Soul-Making

I keep on thinking.
                                     If I sit here for long enough,
A line, one true line,
Will rise like some miraculous fish to the surface,
Brilliant and lithe in the late sunlight,
And offer itself into my hands.
I keep thinking that as the weeks go by,
                                                                         and the waters never change

Charles Wright, from “21,” Littlefoot: A Poem (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)

Charles Wright — The Vale of Soul-Making

Jorge Luis Borges — The Vale of Soul-Making

Two English Poems

I

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
   corner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
   laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
   things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
   of things half given away, half withheld,
   of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
   that way, I tell you.

[…]

Jorge Luis Borges — The Vale of Soul-Making

Miklós Radnóti — The Vale of Soul-Making

But don’t leave me, delicate mind!      

Don’t let me go crazy.

Sweet wounded reason, don’t      

leave me now.   

Don’t leave me. Let me die, without fear,      

a clean lovely death, like Empedocles, who smiled as he fell      

into the crater.”

— Miklós Radnóti, “Maybe …,” Clouded Sky. ( Sheep Meadow; Revised edition August 1, 2003)

Miklós Radnóti — The Vale of Soul-Making