ŠUMSKA ZVEZDA

Ispleo pauk
u granja zelenom gnezdu
nežnu zvezdu.
Pesma je zatalasa,
miris zaleluja,
svetlost je niha:
Može svakoga časa
nestati nežna i tiha
šumska zvezda.

Može je na trn i kamen
oboriti rose grumen;
Može je zgoreti u noć
svica biserna rumen;
Može joj srce razneti
leptira koga krilo.

Ali svejedno, prolazi sve
kao da nije ni bilo:
Nestaje zvezda
koju sam plela nad životom,
nestaće zvezde
što lepotom večnom
vrh šuma sijaju.

Svejedno kad:
da li dogodine ili sad,
ili posle hiljadu hiljada vekova;
Svejedno zbog čega:
da li od zmije, rđavih lekova,
ili tajnog uzroka kog,
znam samo, nestaćemo
i šumski pauk, i ja, i Bog.

Desanka Maksimović

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BEING SHOT

You’ll hear it split-seconds later—the loud afterthought
Booming among tree trunks like a thunder-crack
To startle ravens
And suddenly lift moose-racks dripping with waterlilies
For miles around—unless you’re too involved.
Too strangely preoccupied
With absorbing the impact of this bullet, in sharp contrast
With your soft flesh and blood, your yielding sinew,
Your tractable bones.
If it hasn’t broken your heart or skull, this bit of metal
May strike you as a blunder, a senseless burden,
An appalling intrusion
Into your privacy, to which your body, turning, may take
Vigorous exception, but soon you’ll feel it growing
Heavy, then heavier.
And if you haven’t fallen involuntarily, you may
Volunteer now and find what ease waits here
On the forest floor,
The duff of sword fern and sorrel, of spike moss and beadruby
That takes without question whatever comes its way,
While you begin to study
At first hand now the symptoms of shock: the erratic heartbeat.
The unexpected displeasure of half-breathing,
The coming of the cold,
The tendency to forget exactly why you’re sprawling somewhere
That has slipped your mind for a moment, seeing things
In a new light
Which doesn’t come from the sky but from all loose ends
Of all your hopes, your dissolving endeavors
To keep close track
Of who you are, and where you had started from, and why
You were walking in the woods before this stranger
(Who is leaning over you
Now with a disarming smile) interfered so harshly.
Not wishing to make yourself conspicuous
By your endless absence
And having meant no harm by moving quietly, searching
Among this second growth of your own nature
For its first wildness,
You may offer him your empty hands, now red as his hat,
And he may grant mercy or, on the other hand,
Give you as gracefully
As time permits, as lack of witnesses will allow
Or your punctured integrity will stand for,
A graceful coup de grace.

David Wagoner, 1975

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LOST

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

David Wagoner, 1971

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