responsibility,
and though that easing wash
of home light has come down
many times since, even
past the fence of the Camp
where they took her father
and then took them, too, all
those black tunics crammed in,
mouths repetitive
their foulness towards her boyish,
though even there it fell
on her skin with the same
laundry freshness, never
has it quite assured her
of the real things of earth.
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Je n'ai pas
oublie
I can't forget the place.
It
was just out of town,
A plaster goddess holding fruit, a Venus in dull stone
Hid their worn arms and legs behind a bit
Of ragged shrubbery. The house, small, white,
Made otherwise no claims. Yet it was quiet there.
Each afternoon the sun thrust in its brazen glare
Through the window, seeming to watch us with a curious eye
And drenching with his brilliant dye
The serge curtain and rough cloth, the stoneware bowl,
While we sat a long time, not speaking, at our meal.
Translated from the French
by
Millicent Bell
