Jonas Mekas Poems

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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...Read more of this...

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...Read more of this...

Market days

 Mondays, way before dawn,
before even the first hint of blue in the windows,
we'd hear it start, off the road past our place,
over on the highway nearby,
in a clatter of market-bound traffic.

Riding the rigs packed with fruit and crated live fowl,
or on foot, with cattle hitched to tailgates slowing the pace,
or sitting up high, on raised seats
(the women all wore...Read more of this...