Poem
Gabriel Rosenstock
LIKE AN OWL
The streamlined feathers of the owlensure the silence of its approach,
a silent glide between
one unknown and another
and the woodland mice and insects
are filled with terror
before this beak, this claw of the night.
Like an owl you come to me
spectrally
nightly
tearing at me –
I waken, abruptly
and there is nothing
nothing at all staring at me
only the confused memory
of a kiss
gliding into obscurity
on the wind.
© Translation: 2006, Paddy Bushe
From: Rosenstock – selected poems
From: Rosenstock – selected poems
Mar Ulchabhán
Mar Ulchabhán
De dheasca na gcleití snáithíneacha aigení chloistear an ceann cait ar a thriall
ní fios cad as dá sheol
ní heol cá bhfuil a chuairt
is líontar le huamhan iad
feithidí is lucha na coillearnaí
roimh ghob, roimh chrobh seo na hoíche
Mar ulchabhán do thriall chugam
go taibhseach
gach oíche
ag piocadh asam –
dúisím de phreib
is ní bhíonn aon ní ann
aon ní in aon chor ag stánadh orm
ach iarracht de chuimhne éiginnte
ar bhlas póige
a éagann ar eite
ar an ngaoth
© 2006, Gabriel Rosenstock
From: Rogha Dánta
Publisher: Clò Iar-Chonnachta Galway,
From: Rogha Dánta
Publisher: Clò Iar-Chonnachta Galway,
Poems
Poems of Gabriel Rosenstock
Close
LIKE AN OWL
The streamlined feathers of the owlensure the silence of its approach,
a silent glide between
one unknown and another
and the woodland mice and insects
are filled with terror
before this beak, this claw of the night.
Like an owl you come to me
spectrally
nightly
tearing at me –
I waken, abruptly
and there is nothing
nothing at all staring at me
only the confused memory
of a kiss
gliding into obscurity
on the wind.
© 2006, Paddy Bushe
From: Rosenstock – selected poems
From: Rosenstock – selected poems
LIKE AN OWL
The streamlined feathers of the owlensure the silence of its approach,
a silent glide between
one unknown and another
and the woodland mice and insects
are filled with terror
before this beak, this claw of the night.
Like an owl you come to me
spectrally
nightly
tearing at me –
I waken, abruptly
and there is nothing
nothing at all staring at me
only the confused memory
of a kiss
gliding into obscurity
on the wind.
© 2006, Paddy Bushe
From: Rosenstock – selected poems
From: Rosenstock – selected poems
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