Wednesday, 11 November 2009

Anneke Brassinga


... I finger over the embroidery work, the chaste
blushing I adore, timidly rustling
the red garments like near-dead vine leaves
round her, a manger is she my oat bin,
my brazier of sugaring, the sweet-talking stalwart,
a shrub of fragility, I have laid my hand on
this bun – the nosegay, roses of her flushed
cheeks, she is the naked fruit bared to me,
brushwood of the devoted, wonderful unfolding
in courtly inclination, oh pious ruskie,
butter patter, flame of dreamy repose and
rosy hands, cream-dozy whiteness hiding
under incarnate corn-sheaf of the peerless
bride, and I golden man love solely this
one day forfeited to death, this shimmering dove.

(with thanks to Pierre Kemp)

Anneke Brassinga

To see the original poem go to here.
(Fourth poem, left-hand column)

For translations of 13 of Brassinga's poems go to here.

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