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Best Famous Jonas Mekas Poems

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by Jonas Mekas | |

From THE TALK OF FLOWERS

 I do not know, whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.
I listened to the rustling of spring rain, washing the reddish buds of chestnut-trees, – and a tiny spring ran down into the valley from the hill – and I was missing the whiteness and the snow.
And in the yards, and on the slopes red-cheeked village maidens hung up the washings blown over by the wind and, leaning, stared a long while at the yellow tufts of sallow: For love is like the wind, And love is like the water – it warms up with the spring, and freezes over – in the autumn.
But to me, I don't know why, whether the sun accomplished it, the rain or wind – but I was missing so the whiteness and the snow.
I know – the wind will blow and blow the washings, and the rain will wash and wash the chestnut-trees, – but love, which melted with the snow – will not return.
Deep below the snow sleep words and feelings: for today, watching the dance of rain between the door – the rain of spring! – I saw another: she walked by in the rain, and beautiful she was, and smiled: For love is like the wind, and love is like the water – it warms up with the spring and freezes over – in the autumn, though to me, I don't know why, whether the sun accomplished it, the rain or wind – but I was missing so the whiteness and the snow.
Translated by Clark Mills


by Jonas Mekas | |

Villages and Plains the Streams Flow Through

 You too return, along with days gone,
and flow again, my blue rivers,

to carry on the songs of washerwomen,
fishermen's nets and grey wooden bridges.
Clear blue nights, smelling warm, streams of thin mist off the meadow drift in with distinct hoof-stomps from a fettered horse.
To carry off rioting spring thaws, willows torn loose and yellow lily cups, with children's shrill riots.
The summer heat, its midday simmer: lillypads crowd, where a riverbed's narrowed, while mud in the heat smells of fish and rock-studded shallows.
And even at the peak, when the heat locked in with no wind appears to shiver and burn, and barn siding cracks in the sun, even then this water touches shade, down in the reeds, so you can feel the pull and crawl, one cool blue current through your fingers, and bending over its clear blue flow make out field smells, shimmering meadows, other villages passed on the way here, remote unfamiliar homesteads, the heavy oakwood tables heaped with bread, meat, and a soup of cold greens, the women waiting for the reapers to return.
Translated by Vyt Bakaitis