Be still

(via autan.) Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred… Continue reading →

Peter Huchel

The autumnal flourish of poplars. And villages walled in By howling dogs, At the gate The bolt wedged fast, The gold hidden In the rusty iron pot. Late the last farmstead. Shot to… Continue reading →

In the crow-driving mist

Der Trek, by Peter Huchel. East German poetry, late one evening.

Upon his brow he felt their breath

(listen) The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle’s wreck Shone round him o’er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood,… Continue reading →

Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw

‘So careful of the type?’ but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, `A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. ‘Thou makest thine appeal to me:… Continue reading →