September 23, 2015

Driving toward the Lac Qui Parle River

BY ROBERT BLY

I
 I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.
The stubble field catches the last growth of sun.  
The soybeans are breathing on all sides.
Old men are sitting before their houses on car seats  
In the small towns. I am happy,
The moon rising above the turkey sheds.

II
 The small world of the car
Plunges through the deep fields of the night,  
On the road from Willmar to Milan.  
This solitude covered with iron
Moves through the fields of night
Penetrated by the noise of crickets.

III
 Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,
And water kneeling in the moonlight.
In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;  
The lamplight falls on all fours on the grass.
When I reach the river, the full moon covers it.  
A few people are talking, low, in a boat.

September 16, 2015

Berlalu

Katanya kita tidak serasi.
Lalu aku berlalu pergi.
Mencari bahagiaku sendiri.

Jauh sudah aku berjalan.
Terasa dipanggil dari kejauhan.

Kau yang pinta aku berlalu,
bila menjauh, kau minta aku mendekat.


Apa yang kau mahu?
Biarkan aku.
Biarkan aku.
Kau dan aku,
katanya tidak mungkin akan bersama.

Jadi,
apa yang kau mahu?

Biarkan aku.
Biarkan aku.
Aku bahagia disini.
Aku bahagia sendiri.

September 15, 2015