Here are two more Poet-in-Residence translations of Christine Busta's wonderful poems. Almost like a magician this insightful Austrian poet delights in revealing the unexpected, even when the subject is one we all take for granted.
Push me under the pack-ice
at the North Pole.
In hundreds of years the Eskimos
will say to their grand-children:
In the centre of the white desert
there's a hollow; it hasn't frozen
for hundreds of years.
WITH CROWS' TWIGS
The whiteness of winter was as dark as death.
Trees before the windows of the sick room
bloomed morning and evening black with crying.
At night I collected the crows' twigs,
a full bouquet of the silent heart of spring.
Who shall accept it?
15th February 2009